Bihar Diaries

by Amit Lodha

  ‘Kaun jaat (Which caste)?’ Prasad asked.

  ‘Sir, I don’t understand,’ I stammered, totally confused.

  ‘What is your caste?’ he asked in English this time.

  I was at a total loss for words. Later, I found out that he had been looking for a groom for his daughter!

  16

  The Traitor

  The call to Vijay from ‘Netaji’ had me really worried. I found the number from Vijay’s call details and promptly put it on observation too. The SIM card was, of course, issued under a fake name and address.

  Netaji’s number was not a very busy one. Surely he was someone important and elusive. Who could it be? How did he know that I might be tracking Vijay’s mobile phone?

  I asked Ranjan about Netaji and got my answer: ‘Sir, Netaji is Vijay’s own uncle. He is the ex-MLA of Nawada and was instrumental in Vijay’s escape from Nawada Jail.’ Obviously, it would have been futile to question Netaji. Moreover, Netaji’s suspicion of my plans would have been confirmed.

  I wondered how well-connected Vijay was. I thought of booking Netaji under some law, but decided against it. It would be very difficult to prove any criminal offence against him. Just talking to a criminal was not an offence in itself.

  After a while, Vijay’s phone showed some activity again. I listened to the incoming call.

  ‘Pranaam bhai. Kaisan hain? Vijay Bhaiyya, suniye na! Do–chaar ko aur maarenge toh achcha hoga (How are you? Vijay Bhaiyya, listen! It will be good to kill some more people). This SP too will be transferred or even suspended,’ said a voice from the other side.

  I was shocked beyond words. I knew this voice very well. How could I not recognize it––this voice briefed me every morning about the situation in the district!

  It was Rajesh Charan, the town SHO. The man who was supposed to be a trusted officer had turned out to be a back-stabber! I was seething with rage; I had never been betrayed so badly. Right from day one, I had had a bad feeling about Rajesh, but never in my wildest dreams did I foresee that he would be Vijay’s mole in the police department. And he was plotting my own firing from Shekhpura!

  I called Kumar Sir and told him about Rajesh’s treachery. Calm as always, he took it in his stride. ‘Not entirely unexpected. Rajesh belongs to Vijay’s clan. And anyway, it’s each to his own today. Rajesh knows that Vijay was once powerful politically too, and that his time may come again. And of course, Vijay must be greasing Rajesh’s palms with a handsome amount.’

  I reached home and dashed to the bedroom. Tanu just put her finger on her lips and signalled for me to remain quiet. The kids were taking a nap.

  I stayed outside and kept thinking about Rajesh Charan’s treachery. I was furious and wanted to bang his head against a wall. Tanu came out and seeing that I was agitated, gave me a glass of Rooh Afza to soothe my nerves. She talked to me till I had cooled down. My wife has always been a great source of support to me, the anchor who has given me the kind of stability I needed to go from strength to strength in my career.

  As my anger simmered, I realized it was good that I had come to know about Rajesh’s character so early on. I didn’t want to imagine the damage I would have suffered if I had shared any crucial information or strategy with him.

  I vowed to teach that scoundrel a lesson. It’s because of a small percentage of black sheep like him that the police department gets a bad name.

  But there was no need to take any action against Rajesh right now. Let him not suspect anything. Maybe his conversations with Vijay would give me a clue at some point. I could not afford to let my plans go haywire. But I made a promise to myself that I would ensure that Rajesh was stripped of the police uniform the day I arrested Vijay. And I would give Ranjan the chance to wear his uniform on the same day. Thank God the number of Ranjans outnumbered the number of Rajeshs!

  For all the criticism heaped on the police––mostly unjustified, some justified––it is one department that works 24/7, 365 days a year. The Indian police is efficient and effective, considering the very meagre resources it has. The police-to-public ratio in our country is among the lowest in the world. One has to visit an average police station, particularly in the rural areas, to see the pitiable infrastructure. The station in-charge is supposed to patrol his area, raid the hideouts of criminals, escort VIPs and carry out a plethora of duties with the meagre resources available. Only Superman could perform better!

  Yet, in times of crisis, the police raise the bar and surmount any problem. Hats off to the Delhi Police for solving the Nirbhaya rape case. The most barbaric of all crimes saw country-wide demonstrations, protests and candlelight vigils. I wish the citizens had been equally forthcoming in taking Nirbhaya to the hospital. After Nirbhaya lay naked on a road for hours on a freezing cold December right, it was a PCR van of the Delhi Police that took her to the hospital. And then, in spite of no support and tremendous pressure, the police cracked a virtually blind case. Every single rapist was arrested within days of the tragic incident. All of them were tried and convicted by the highest court of the country. The case was solved only by the fierce resolve, intelligence and sheer hard work of a bunch of dedicated policemen who remain unsung. They are the heroes who always bring a glimmer of hope even in the darkest times. I am lucky to be a part of a service that has some outstanding leaders and thousands of unknown officers and constables who put duty above everything else.

  17

  Nature’s Call

  ‘Amit, I will be reaching Shekhpura tomorrow to take stock of the situation,’ boomed IG R.P. Keshav’s voice on the phone.

  ‘Sure, sir, we will prepare for your visit.’

  The visit of the IG from the Patna HQ was going to be an important event.

  Kumar Bharat had gone to Patna to meet his family and get some new clothes. He had been living out of a suitcase, braving the heat and the rats. I decided to instal a cooler in his room in the meantime.

  Back at my house, I shifted the fax machine and desktop computer to my drawing room. I decided to send all the requisitions to the Home Secretary and to the mobile service providers myself. I started writing the letters by hand as I was quite poor at typing. My staff was surprised, but I did not want to take any chances. I could not trust anyone after Rajesh’s betrayal. Least of all my PA.

  ‘Vijay, you stubborn idiot! I had told you to switch off your phone. This SP is on to something. Don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you,’ said a mysterious voice and disconnected the phone. Vijay Samrat stared at his phone. Netaji might be right, he thought. He switched off his phone.

  While this conversation was going on, I was talking to Kumar Sir and missed Vijay’s call. I saw the screen flashing Vijay’s name seconds before I could connect to his call. I cursed myself and hoped that nothing important would have been discussed. Unfortunately, as I would realize later, that one missed call proved costly for me. It would take me a lot of hard work and lady luck to locate Samrat again. I shrugged and started preparing for the IG’s visit.

  It was an unusually dark night. The fact that there were no street lights made driving on the pothole-filled road quite a difficult task. It was pouring heavily. The conditions would have made even legendary Formula One racers jittery. But it was an everyday ride for a Bihar Police driver. The bodyguard was feeling helplessly sleepy, his head bobbing up and down every now and then. The rain had made it quite cold outside. The driver and the bodyguard had covered their ears with a muretha, a scarf popular in the area. Vikram, the driver, had also switched on the heater. The heater made a buzzing sound, but it did not bother the passengers in the car. The IG, R.P. Keshav, was sitting in the back seat of the old, white Ambassador, his personal favourite. A beacon-fitted Ambassador was the ultimate symbol of power. Only the top echelons of our country were entitled to it at the time.

  R.P. Keshav commanded the driver in his baritone, ‘Driver, gaadi roko (Driver, stop the car).’ He got down to relieve himself. The unusual cold was playing havoc with his bladder. It was an
unwritten code that the driver and the bodyguard would remain at a distance in such a situation. This time, both of them chose to remain seated in the car. Who would get out of the car in such cold weather?

  The IG walked a little distance away from the car to move out of the sight of his staff. Heck, one needed privacy to answer the call of nature. It started thundering then, with the raindrops falling faster. Keshav finished his business quickly and started pulling up the zip of his pants. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Ambassador driving away. What the hell was Vikram Singh doing?

  The Ambassador picked up speed along the road, the IG’s flag fluttering in the wind. The IG’s mobile phone was lying on the back seat, in silent mode. Bhajan Ram, the bodyguard, had fallen asleep, and Vikram was concentrating on the road ahead. It was a very treacherous and bumpy journey. He had to ensure that Sahib had a comfortable ride.

  A few minutes earlier, both of them had heard a sound, and they assumed it was the IG closing the door. None of them looked back, another unwritten code when Sahib is in the car. And they drove, totally oblivious of the fact that their boss was desperately trying to stop the car, totally drenched in the rain.

  Keshav was at a loss for words. He just could not fathom why the car had left without him. He patted his pockets, desperately hoping to find his mobile phone. Keshav cursed using the choicest of Bihari swear words on realizing that he had left it in the car.

  He started walking. It was pitch-dark, and the road was wet and slippery. The car kept moving towards Shekhpura, the red beacon flashing on top.

  Keshav kept walking, his safari suit totally drenched, his ego bruised. He hadn’t felt so helpless in his entire life. A senior police officer, an IG, bereft of all his accoutrements––it was unthinkable. But worse was in store for him.

  ‘Kharaunja Police Station’ read the familiar red and blue board, typical of all police stations in India. Keshav’s eyes brightened. He was in familiar territory again. He quickened his pace and marched towards the police station, much like the way he had done during his training days two decades ago.

  A sentry was sitting in one corner, listening to some Bhojpuri songs on his mobile phone. An ASI was going through some FIRs in the light of the lantern. Two battered-looking people were crouching in the lock-up. There were sundry other things lying on top of each other, ranging from utensils, clothes and cycles to televisions, all seized during various raids.

  ‘Hey, who’s on duty?’ roared Keshav. The ASI and the constable jumped out of their chairs.

  ‘Kya baat hai, bhai? Why are you shouting? Don’t you know this is a police station?’ shouted the constable over the blaring Bhojpuri song.

  ‘I am the IG of the Police HQ,’ snapped Keshav, expecting the constable and the officer to stand at attention on his command.

  Instead, both of them looked at each other, totally confused. Suddenly, one more constable came in.

  ‘Kaun hai, bhaiyya (Who are you)?’ asked the constable.

  ‘You idiot, how many times will I tell you? I’m the IG!’ shouted Keshav, unable to control his fury.

  ‘Hum ko boodbak samjhe ho (Do you consider us fools)? Which IG would be standing drenched in a police station at midnight? Where is your car? Your staff? Do you have any I-card?’

  ‘Let’s put him in the hawalat. Nowadays, there are so many rogues masquerading as IPS or IAS officers,’ said the ASI.

  Keshav’s confidence vanished, quickly giving way to fear. The two inmates of the lock-up looked at him expectantly, hoping to have some good company inside. After all, how many times do you see a well-dressed, sophisticated man in a lock-up? So what if he was drenched from head to toe?

  At that moment, the SHO entered the police station. He had just finished his night round. Worriedly, he blurted out, ‘Jai Hind, sir. I didn’t know you were coming by.’ He was least expecting an IG in his police station. The IG is too senior an officer for lesser mortals like the SHO.

  Keshav finally heaved a huge sigh of relief. ‘Thank God, at least the SHO recognized me,’ he muttered to himself. The SHO wiped his brow, worried if everything was all right. He had worked hard to control crime in his area. Little did he know that everything that could go wrong had gone wrong just minutes before, in his own police station.

  ‘Get me a vehicle and send me to the Shekhpura circuit house. And remember, not a word of what happened today goes out!’ hissed Keshav.

  ‘Ji, huzoor,’ a perplexed SHO replied. He would come to know of the catastrophe later.

  The next morning, Keshav came out to inspect the guard of honour. Already in a foul mood, he admonished the poor guard for the most trivial of faults.

  ‘Your shoelaces are not right! Your bayonet is not aligned properly,’ yelled Keshav.

  Everyone could sense that the IG was in a nasty mood. In the corner, I saw the bodyguard and the driver of the IG trembling with fear, just like lambs waiting to be slaughtered. I was quite surprised. In the government services, particularly the police, staff like the driver and the bodyguard often behave in a very haughty and arrogant manner. An SP’s driver will behave like a super SP on the road. During those days, he would honk non-stop to clear the road and if, God forbid, any mortal tried to overtake him, then that person had had it. Similarly, the bodyguard was known to get rough with people. He would just pick you up and hoist you away. So if someone wanted to take a picture with the ‘Sahib’ he would do it at a grave risk. Of course, things have changed a lot now. Today’s young superintendents and deputy inspector generals of police don’t mind a selfie once in a while.

  Keshav’s bodyguard and driver looked like they were waiting for the guillotine. I still wonder what action the IG must have taken against them.

  But Keshav was a thorough professional. He quickly forgot about the incident and analysed the situation in Shekhpura. He left after he had heard our plan and patted us on the back. He was quite sure that Vijay’s time was limited.

  18

  Bhujia

  Avi was playing with his toys on the floor, with Tanu trying to feed him. I was quite surprised that a four-year-old child could eat a thing like lauki easily. ‘See, even he doesn’t make faces. You know, all green leafy vegetables are good for health. Sometimes I wonder if you are the kid in our home. You throw so many tantrums. And look at your unhealthy eating habits,’ Tanu chided me, pointing at the bhujia packet in my hand. I ignored her and had another spoonful. I loved the taste and put a small bit into my daughter’s mouth. She also gurgled with happiness, savouring the tangy taste.

  ‘Stop it! What are you doing?’ Tanu shouted and snatched the packet from me. Before I could seize it back, my phone screen showed ‘Horlicks Samrat calling’.

  I pressed the green button to accept the call and start listening in. It seemed that Horlicks’s call had dropped. In the ensuing melee for the bhujia packet, I pressed the green button again inadvertently.

  Horlicks picked up the phone and said in a typical Bihar tone, ‘Hallo, hallo, kaun?’

  I froze and immediately disconnected the phone.

  ‘Oh shit, what have I done?’ I cursed myself.

  By pressing the green button twice, I had redialled Horlicks’s number. Obviously, to start the parallel listening, I had to press the green button, which was akin to accepting a call. By the time I pressed the green button, Horlicks’s call had got disconnected. When I pressed the green button again, this time it dialled Horlicks’s number!

  Horlicks was equally bewildered. He called Netaji.

  ‘Arre, saala, the SP called me just now. Why would he call me?’ asked Horlicks.

  ‘I told you, switch off your mobile phone,’ said Netaji, and then the line went dead.

  Obviously, Horlicks had stored the official number of the Shekhpura SP in his phone. Almost all professional criminals have the numbers of important officers and officials, particularly the SP, DM and the local SHO. This is not surprising in the state of Bihar.

  I had no time to waste. I wanted Horlic
ks to feel that I actually wanted to talk to him. That would remove any suspicion from his mind.

  I called Horlicks again and spoke in a deep baritone, trying to act as officious as possible.

  ‘Horlicks, hum SP bol rahe hain.’

  There was a hushed silence at the other end.

  ‘Pranaam, sir,’ said Horlicks, barely believing that he was talking to the SP of Shekhpura.

  ‘Horlicks, you know the government is absolutely determined to finish Vijay and his gang. Your gang’s end is inevitable. I would suggest that you surrender. I’ll make you a government approver. You can lead a normal life. And you never know, Vijay might be killed in a shoot-out with the police too.’

  Silence again.

  I remembered that Horlicks was very keen on his son becoming a police officer.

  ‘Horlicks, if you help us and tell me the whereabouts of Vijay, I’ll help you and your family to any extent. Think of it. The government will help in your children’s education, their careers. Who knows, your son could become an inspector of police. Why only that, your son could be an IPS officer. Imagine him as the SP of a district.’

  I did my best to appeal to his emotions, hoping that he might break down. I also hoped that I had not gone overboard.

  After another pause, Horlicks spoke up.

  ‘Sir, I wish I had met you earlier. But now it is too late. Vijay is like my brother. I wouldn’t have told you his location even if I knew. I haven’t spoken to him for quite some time.’ He paused and then continued, ‘I guess this is my destiny. Shooting people and maybe one day getting shot by the police. Pranaam, sir.’

  I waited with bated breath for his next move. I hoped that Horlicks had taken the bait.

  After some time, I saw he was making another call.

  ‘Netaji, the SP called me just now,’ an excited Horlicks blurted out, barely able to conceal his excitement. ‘Arre, kya raub tha aawaaz mein (Arre, the SP had so much authority and gravitas in his voice). I hope my son, Chintoo, also becomes an SP some day.’