by Gabriel Khan
‘See you at the wedding.’
‘Okay.’ Joginder paused, not knowing how to end the conversation. Ajay knew this, and helped by hanging up himself.
Several cities away, in old Delhi, Joginder went to the rear of his house and dumped the six newspapers he held into the lane behind. Then he went back inside and spent the next few minutes checking to ensure his conversation hadn’t been overheard. His wife was fast asleep in their bedroom, and so were the fifteen others sleeping cramped in the hall of their two-room flat. Joginder tiptoed over the prostrate bodies and went out into the yard in front. In that run-down place, where everyone was absorbed in surviving from day to day, few had the time to notice a stick-thin youth picking up a couple of gunny bags and hurrying away.
Ajay knew Joginder would, in record time, get rid of everything they’d looted from the businessman in Delhi the previous evening. It had felt good too – the man was too cocky, too corrupt, and too careless. He’d been most cooperative, however, after a little P.K. Sharma bullying, and the loot was magnificent. Getting rid of it would’ve been a problem, but no need to worry there.
Sharmaji had chosen well when he’d picked out Joginder from a bunch of urchins a year or so ago. The kid had just managed to pick Ajay’s pocket cleanly, and had almost got away before he had been accosted by a thick pair of arms and lifted clean off his feet. Sharmaji and Ajay had then taken Joginder to a local sweetmeats shop, explained to him that they had watched him pick four pockets before finally getting to Ajay, and told him that they could use his talents in their own operations. Initially, Joginder was to be just the handyman, the fellow who got rid of the booty without the cops getting wind of it, but soon, they realized the boy had brains, and more importantly, an earnest, open face that belied an extraordinary aptitude for concealment. When Ajay decided to test him, Joginder, with a few pointers from Sharmaji, rendered such a convincing portrayal of a crooked cop taking a bribe that he was immediately inducted into their team.
But though Joginder was now making more money through his association with them than he had ever made in his life, he still lived in the same place, a couple of kilometres from the New Delhi railway station, in a tiny flat that housed his wife and all the homeless cousins who came to them for help and shelter. Some things are hard to change, especially if they make up who you are.
After hanging up on Joginder, Ajay looked around, picked up a pencil and a notepad, and sat down to dial a number. It was answered on the first ring. Clearly, Sharmaji had been waiting beside the telephone. Ajay could hear the shahnai in the background in an internecine auditory conflict with the cackle of voices, the determined efforts of antakshari, and all the other sounds of a Hindu wedding.
‘Ajay? Anything in the news?’
‘No. We’re safe. How’s the wedding going?’
Sharmaji sighed. ‘I’m going mad, Ajay! I don’t think it was this crazy even at my own wedding. There’s always something going wrong—’
Ajay interrupted. ‘It’s normal, Sharmaji. The father of the bride is always the most harried man at a wedding. You’re no different. And anyway, what about your first daughter’s wedding? How was that different?’
‘Ajay, I hadn’t met you then! There was no way I could arrange a lavish wedding even if I wanted to!’
‘I know, Sharmaji, I know,’ said Ajay soothingly.
‘I’m alone here. When the hell are you guys coming?’
‘Friday. Anything you need from Bombay?’
‘Nothing, nothing, Ajay. I just need you guys to get here,’ said Sharmaji. ‘Although, listen, I just thought of something. Can you just get me a few cartons of those imported cigarettes? For the in-laws, you know…’ His voice trailed off.
Ajay smiled, his pen already scratching words on the pad.
‘Sure. Anything else?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing. Just remembered it. It’s not like I have a list, you know,’ said Sharmaji. Ajay imagined his hand digging into the pocket of his sherwani, and emerging with a chit of paper.
‘Of course not, of course not. Erm, so is there anything else you… remember?’
‘Well, off the top of my head…’ There was a pause. ‘You know, I couldn’t find a good watch for the groom…’
‘I’ll find one. And…?’ Ajay was scribbling away now.
‘Maybe a VCR, and a toaster. Get the Philips one, that seems to be the best. And god alone knows what a juicer grinder is, because I have no idea. Perhaps a pair of shoes from Bata too? Size nine, without laces, that seems to be the fashion nowadays… How about a perfume or something too?’ He paused for breath.
‘I’ll get one. A car?’
‘No, thanks, I’ve booked one here. Let me know when you’re arriving, Ajay, I’ll send someone to pick you up. I guess you might have some luggage?’
Ajay looked at the list. ‘Yes, there’ll be some luggage. You should really make a list one of these days, Sharmaji. Remembering all these things…‘
‘I really should, shouldn’t I?’ said Sharmaji.
‘See you on Friday,’ said Ajay, and hung up, smiling. It was a regular charade they enacted, and try as he might, he couldn’t ever get Sharmaji to make a direct request.
The last call he made was to the henpecked Iqbal in Jaipur. As it turned out, he was being pecked at even as the call went through.
Ajay thought of the one time he had seen Malti, Iqbal’s wife. Formidable, that was the only word he could find to describe her, and it fit her perfectly. Iqbal brought in the dough, but there was no doubt who wore the pants in the family, even if said pants were long oversized nightgowns that would’ve seemed breezy to the average sumo wrestler.
It was Iqbal’s son who picked up the phone, and between the time he fetched his father, Ajay heard the stentorian voice deliver various renditions of Wash The Clothes, Hire A Maid Because Don’t You Know I Can’t Work All Day, and Where’s The Tea, You Lazy Lie-Abed. By the time Iqbal came on the line, Ajay was already feeling sorry for him.
‘Sorry man, a little work, you know…‘Iqbal’s voice petered out. There really was no way to alleviate the situation.
‘I understand. Malti at home?’
‘No, no!’ said Iqbal, a tad too quickly. ‘She’s at the doctor’s.’
‘Iqbal, are you washing clothes?’
‘What? Clo – oh no, not clothes! Just my handkerchief, you know, got a little dirty. Thought I’d get it in the water and—what are you doing here?’
The last was directed at his wife, Ajay realized. He heard her say, ‘Where’s the tea?’
Iqbal must have thought he’d covered the mouthpiece properly, but Ajay could hear the muffled voices quite clearly. ‘Stop it! It’s the head office! This is important, woman!’
‘So?’ Malti went on, unfazed. ‘Tell them to send us a maid. I can’t do everything myself!’ With that parting shot, she stampeded away.
‘Hello, Ajay?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Anything in the papers?’ said Iqbal, anxious to navigate to a safer conversation.
‘Nothing. Looks clear.’
‘Good, good. Okay then!’
Ajay couldn’t resist. ‘So when are you making us tea?’
‘Hey, man, come on!’
Ajay burst out laughing. ‘Iqbal, that’s one fairy tale you have there!’
‘Yeah, yeah. Laugh away, wise guy. We’ll see how you like it when you’re married.’
‘Sure,’ said Ajay, holding back his mirth. ‘Pack up soon. See you at the wedding.’
‘See you. And Ajay?’ Iqbal’s voice held a note of pleading now. ‘Don’t tell the others, please. They’ll rag me to death! You know what they’re like…’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ajay, chuckling. ‘They won’t hear it from me.’
‘Thanks. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ said Ajay, and hung up.
He looked at the list Sharmaji had given him. He’d already told Joginder to get rid of everything except a few items that he’d thought the older man
might need. As it turned out, his guess had been absolutely right.
9
Chase in Chandigarh
The phone on my desk rang. It was Hakim, one of my oldest informers.
‘Sir, I’ve got some news on that fellow.’
I nodded in the universal way everyone does on the phone, even though they know the person at the other end can’t see it.
‘Good. What news?’
‘He’s getting his daughter married.’
‘Which daughter?’
‘Fourth, sir.’
‘When?’
‘In a few hours.’
‘This evening? Couldn’t you have told me this earlier, you idiot?’
The man managed to sound wounded, even over the phone. ‘Sir, you wanted information, didn’t you? I got you that. I didn’t know when—’
‘All right, all right. Where?’
‘His house.’
‘Good. And the guests?’
‘I kept watch, sir. Didn’t see anything strange.’
‘Okay. Keep your eyes peeled for anything else.’
I hung up and turned to Rahul and Ranveer who were listening. ‘We need to move quickly. Sharma is getting his fourth daughter married tonight. We have to get there as soon as possible.’
Rahul jumped up. ‘I’m on it, sir,’ he said, and ran out.
Luck seemed to be smiling upon us. A rare occurrence, and something I didn’t entirely trust.
‘Ranveer, what was the name of the woman who was with you on the raid?’
‘Shanti, sir.’
‘Yes. Get in touch with Shanti. Tell her to wire as many details about the four men as she can to us. Women notice things that sometimes men don’t, they see things differently. Maybe she’ll be able to tell us if any of the others are also disgruntled ex-cops.’
‘Okay, sir.’
Rahul was back. ‘No train tickets, sir. All—’
I broke in. ‘No, Rahul, forget the train. We’ll take a flight. It’s his daughter’s wedding. Which means he’ll have invited the whole gang. They’ll all be there, till tomorrow at least. Find out if there’s a flight we can take today.’
‘Yes, sir.’
My earlier distrust of luck was soon vindicated; within minutes. Rahul returned, disappointed. ‘Sir, there are no flights till tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Damn! Are you sure?’
‘Yes, sir. I doublechecked,’ said Rahul a tad reproachfully.
‘Hmm, all right, if there are no flights today evening, we’ll drive to Chandigarh. It won’t take us more than six to eight hours. By morning, we should be at the wedding venue.’
‘What’s the rush, sir?’ Ranveer asked. He seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘It’s his daughter’s wedding, and if he’s invited the other gang members, they’ll surely stay for the next couple of days?’
It’s good to ask questions. But pointless to ask the wrong ones. I guess the kid would learn in time.
‘Ranveer, I still believe that Sharma is not the brains behind the gang. There’s someone else who’s pulling the strings. And that guy is clever. Enough to know that sooner or later, the police will be on his tail. He’d be reckless to go to the wedding at all, but he’d be a moron to stay there for longer than a day. And a moron he is not, you can take it from me.’
I left him to mull over my little impromptu speech and went out into the street, to the shack behind HQ. Looking around to make sure nobody was around, I gave vent to my only vice, and lit up. Ah, it felt good!
Often, my inspiration came from one of these solitary smoking sessions. I’d cracked many a case, after a silent, reflective smoke in this dull, sunless alley. Before quitting.
The nicotine-tinged smoke filled me with a sense of calm that I desperately needed. If things went well, we would have the entire gang under arrest by tomorrow evening. But events seldom play out the way you want them to. And it seemed too easy. A gang that had eluded the police of several states for over three years would most certainly not allow itself to be caught at a wedding.
But my happy, nicotine-filled brain told me, they all make mistakes. Given enough time, everyone screws up. You just have to be patient.
The smoke wasn’t helping very much this time. Five minutes later, I went back inside, no more enlightened and only a little calmer than when I’d stepped out.
I gave instructions to every informer in the area who was watching the wedding to keep reporting back to us every half hour. That way, we would miss nothing and also get news of any unusual incident almost immediately. After all, it would be several hours before we arrived at Sharma’s house, and the birds might very easily have flown by then. I just hoped they wouldn’t.
I summoned Rahul to my office. ‘Call the local police. Tell them that there’s going to be a heist soon. They should be ready.’
The efficient Rahul was on it instantly. A minute later, he handed me the phone.
‘Yes? Sector 17 police station,’ a voice drawled over the line. ‘What do you want?’
‘This is Waseem Khan, CBI Deputy Commissioner of Police. Who the hell is in charge?’
There was a squawk, and I could tell the man was taking a moment to readjust his standard usage voice and vocabulary. A moment later, he spoke again, his tone the perfect combination of respect and sycophancy. ‘Sir, I am the duty officer, sir,’ he gasped.
‘Listen to me very carefully, my man,’ I snapped. ‘There will be a robbery soon. Somewhere. Some men will pose as the CBI or the police or whatever, I don’t know, and raid some place. I don’t know where, but it’s going to happen, unless you keep your eyes and ears open. Get everyone ready.’
‘Now? But—but it’s just five thirty in the morning, sir!’
‘What makes you think I care?’
There was a pause, and a further readjustment. ‘Umm. I’ll call the inspector—’
‘I don’t give a fuck who you have to call. Get on your feet, get your butt moving, and get your people ready. We’ll be there this evening, so you’d better have some results. Got it?’
‘Yes SIR!’ Pause. ‘You’re coming? The CBI is coming?’
‘Yes. This evening,’ I said and hung up. I knew there’d been no need to be rude, but the harsh truth is that it gets the job done. I could always make it up later. Or maybe not.
Rahul looked at me quizzically. ‘Will that do any good, sir?’
I sighed. ‘Not really. But at least now they know what’s coming.’
Rahul just nodded sympathetically, probably accustomed to my gruff ways by now.
He also briefed me about his call to Shanti. Concise, precise, entirely devoid of anything of any use. There went another potential lead. If only more intelligent people were recruited by the police force in our country, there would be fewer crimes.
Or so I told myself.
Those hours were some of the most restless I’ve ever spent. We kept getting calls with updates, but nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Except for the fact that the wedding was a lavish affair, which was strange for a man who didn’t even appear to have an official job. Clearly, we had hit pay dirt.
Finally, we left the office and were on our way to Chandigarh. The bad roads and lack of light on the highways slowed us down. We took over nine hours to get to our destination. By the time we entered the city, I had activated my informer network.
We had a small scare by the time of the third call. One of my informers called to say that four men had left the house early in the morning in a taxi, at a time when everyone else in the house was asleep. Sharmaji was one of those who left, but the informer didn’t know who the others were. All he could tell us was that the three had arrived the previous afternoon, laden with gifts, and seemed quite ordinary.
It was them. I knew it, I felt it in my bones. It had to be them. Why else would you sneak out of a wedding party the next morning? And where could they be heading?
I’d been on many high-profile cases with Rahul in tow. We’d made many last-minute dashes
on planes from one part of the country to another. Once, we’d even flown from Delhi to Amsterdam, hot on the heels of an underworld gangster.
This was the first high-profile case that had required us to undertake such an ignominious journey: along bumpy national highways. Finally, we arrived at the Sector 17 police station, where my message had clearly been passed around, judging from the crowd of cops there to greet us.
‘Yes, yes, glad to meet you,’ I grumbled as the hundredth cop – or so it seemed – came to shake hands. I grabbed Rahul and said, ‘Find me that inspector, now.’
Within the next minute, the three of us were inside the cabin of Station House Officer Param Bir Singh.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I got your message, and I’ve personally been checking the entire area. Nobody’s reported any robberies.’
‘Then you should make sure you don’t post deaf morons as your duty officers,’ I said. I’d meant it to rankle, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Singh, his honest face screwed up in genuine incomprehension.
‘I told your man that some men would be posing as cops and raiding some place. I did not say robbery, so I fail to see what gave him that impression.’
The scathing tone didn’t have any effect. Singh scratched his head. ‘I see. Well, I’ve told everyone to keep track of everything that happens today, but so far, it’s just the usual, sir. Chain snatching, a few brawls, nothing more.’
That didn’t sound right. ‘Have you kept a watch on the house? Sharma’s house?’
Singh nodded. ‘Yes, sir, we did. Nothing happening there either, sir. Just the usual.’
It certainly didn’t sound right. Was I wrong then? I was certain that they would have been up to something, but—
The phone rang. Singh picked it up, listened for a second, and turned to me. ‘It’s for you, sir.’
‘Yeah?’
It was Mohan. ‘Sir, one of your informers called. Those four men just returned to the house in a taxi.’
‘When?’
‘They’ve just arrived, sir.’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Sir, they’re unloading some packets from the taxi.’
