The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation

by Yakub Totanawala

  ‘My father broke down. All the students and parents grieved over their fate. The cops watched us carelessly.

  “Calm down, my son. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.” My father rubbed my back. He wiped his tears, and I mine.

  ‘I glanced at the staring policemen. The staff member came again and asked for attention. He repeated what he had narrated to us and concluded the matter.

  “To restore the peaceful learning environment, the authorities have ordered the Chharas’ dismissal. The police have registered cases against them. But because they are minors, have admitted their crimes and begged for pardon, they are allowing them to go free. If required, the cops will call you for the proceedings. Please take your children home. Vacate the school premises instantly,” he said.

  ‘Cursing our fate, we plodded to board the van. The monkeys rumbled from the tree. Like the cattle herds, they stuffed us inside, yet many, including me, got no place. They didn’t arrange for another vehicle and forced us to exit. As we stepped out, the gardener and his assistants splashed water to clean the premises. It had become contaminated by Chharas’ usage.

  ‘My father and I trudged home. The dismissal had doomed our future. With the education dream shattered, my father’s heart broke. He stared at the ground and breathed fast. History had repeated itself. Due to social rejection, his children must take the evil route. And pity for him, he’ll be the one to guide them on that dreadful path.

  ‘I understood my helpless father’s pain. He failed against a society, which believed in inequalities and had crushed our rights. Yet, he held me strong with the survival spirit. If living had to be only through crime, then be it. He accepted the situation and empowered us to face the devilish world. Surviving on illegal means needs guts. And you need a heart of steel, to push your children into it.

  ‘I bawled. A deep-anger burnt inside me, fatal enough to kill me or any being, but my father’s strength overpowered my disorder. The short road from the school to my home seemed unending and painful. I wouldn’t travel it again for education.

  ‘We reached Chharanagar and witnessed the chaos. Chharas had gathered in the open area to discuss the incident. The gatekeepers hopped around them. A dog began barking loudly. A pig shook its butt.

  ‘One person cursed the social system, and another blamed the parents for sending the children.

  “Haven’t you still understood society? No one cares for us,” said an elderly man.

  “Yes. Nobody will help you. They consider us cheap and low,” said another.

  “Why can’t we guide our offspring on our path? Why to step into that inhuman world and bring shame again and again?” a loud and furious voice echoed. A rooster crowed out from above the entrance wall.

  “They have no evidence. How can they dismiss our kids from school?” shouted another. A pussycat perched on the gate mewed.

  ‘The arguments were heated. My father and I stepped into our home. I leapt up into my mother‘s arms, hugged her, and cried my heart out. My father rubbed my back, and mother soothed me. Gaping at me, my brother curled up to his knees. My mother rocked me to sleep on her lap.

  ‘When I woke up, my mother asked me to change my clothes. My father held my right hand and ran his fingers through my hair.

  “Don’t worry, Vicky,” he said. I stared into his eyes. He turned his gaze to the floor and said, “Don’t be depressed. Life offers opportunities for everybody. When one door closes, many more open.”

  ‘His advice didn’t convince me because his life never offered him any. But yes, he leaned towards me, gazed into my eyes, flared his nostrils and said, “We are Chharas. If no door opens for us, we must bang it open.” It hit me right. That was my father for me. His words changed my approach to life. Thereafter, I gave life a chance to offer a door of opportunity. If it didn’t, I kicked it open myself. That is Vicky, a Chhara for you.’

  Chapter—9

  Disguised Stealing

  ‘In the evening, my father met Mr Vivek, our good-natured community leader, and discussed the school episode. He requested him to train his sons in crimes for survival. Vivek Uncle agreed. We joined the training along with his son, who was a year older. Vivek Uncle trained us in various tricks and discharged his duty. I learnt to steal wallets with a flick of two fingers. By the age of 13, I qualified as an expert wallet-thief. Once aligned, I could pull out a wallet with my right hand, remove cash, and throw the pouch away, all within two seconds.

  ‘Chharas are born performers. They distract and rob, and I too mastered the skill. I could divert my target and pluck their necklace or earrings or finger rings at the blink of an eye. During my training stage, I failed thrice in stealing and received a severe beating from the public. My family and community motivated me to concentrate on learning the art of stealing.’

  ‘Hahaha. Concentrate on the art of stealing. Hilarious,’ said Zaheer.

  ‘Yeah. Funny for you, but survival for us,’ I said. ‘The first bashing left me senseless. I cried, and my body pained for a few days. The second, though severe, scared me less. And the third was the cruellest. I flicked a bus passenger’s wallet and removed the money. But when I flung the purse away, it hit an observing passenger on his face. He caught me red-handed. The passengers hanging around the dashboard restricted my escape. They thrashed me black and blue until the next stop. Some people pulled me to the nearest police station where the cops whacked me. But I didn’t give up. Like an entrepreneur who finds an opportunity in every adverse situation, I too learnt from it. I invented a shrewd stealing method, which became famous as my signature style and a craze in my tribe.’

  ‘What is the signature style?’

  I smiled and said, “Disguised stealing.”

  ‘Describe it, please.’

  ‘I conceived, designed, practiced and mastered the technique of disguised stealing. And I own the copyrights,’ I bragged, flipping my hair and lifting my chin. ‘It is an art of provoking people to thrash you for another crime, and while they beat you, you steal their valuables. Individual robbing is time-consuming and risky, but through my method, I stole many in a single go.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I’ll share an incident,’ I said. ‘At 15, I experienced my third and cruellest bashing yet. I stayed home to recover and conceived my new strategy. Post recovery, I informed my mother to keep the massage oil ready for me, for I would return home beaten. My parents hugged me and motivated me. I requested their blessings for my new strategy’s success. With narrow eyes, they stared at me. They blessed me and cautioned me to be careful.

  ‘Our training emphasised us to wear clothes with multiple pockets. I wore a loose trouser with two pockets in the front, two at the back, and one each on the sides near my knees. A baggy shirt, tucked in, helped me slip the valuables in.

  ‘Confident, I reached the nearby bus-stop and boarded a crowded bus. A regular State Government bus contains two utilities for entry and exit. One at the front and other near the rear wheel. The driver enjoys as the womenfolk enter from the front and stay around him. And the men, no pun intended, use the rear entrance.

  ‘Once on board, I sneaked towards the jam-packed women’s section. I scanned the valuables and towered behind a young girl. I grabbed and squeezed her butt. Squashed among the travellers, she failed to move herself. I continued to squeeze her butt. I wanted to rob and not molest, but she kept mum. Idiot girl!

  ‘I planned to distract the crowd with her molestation and invite people to beat me while I flicked off their valuables. The passengers wouldn’t doubt me as they were already punishing me for another crime, and I could steal a lot. I seethed. Was she in a shock, or enjoying it? I pinched her, but nothing worked. I gritted my teeth and poked my middle finger in her anus. Phew, she finally screamed. The passengers panicked and inquired.

  “The guy behind me is molesting me. Please help,” she said.

  ‘People reacted. “Oh my God,” “What a nasty act,” “Thrash that scoundrel.”

 
“This young chap,” a lady pointed at me and slapped me.

  ‘A man beside her caught my collar and punched me. My strategy worked. A fellow from behind grabbed my neck and smacked me hard. I held his hand between my two. Poor guy, he used his left hand, and his wristwatch went into my pocket. First valuable in. Being a Chhara has an advantage. Drama runs in our blood. Fake tears rolled out of my eyes.

  “Please forgive me, please forgive me,” I said.

  ‘The womenfolk pulled the girl ahead, and a lady among them came and slapped me. A man kicked my right leg. The guy who held me by the neck loosened his grip, and I glided on the bus floor. A damsel grabbed my collar, bent, and twisted my ear. Her cleavage incited me, but I focussed on my job.

  “Haven’t your parents taught you manners? Don’t you have a mother and a sister at home?” And she hammered me too.

  ‘Hah. Bloody manners; as if the society followed any. The buxom lady wore plastic bangles and gold earrings. Her ornaments went in my pocket. The passengers shamed and thrashed me for my crime. Nobody understood the drama and became easy prey. After a few minutes, I cried and beat my chest. As part of my strategy, I had to fool people with a story and escape after the stealing. I said, “I have nobody to care for me. I stay on the footpath. Please forgive me. I’ll never repeat this mistake in my life,” and blah, blah, blah. Hah. I addressed her as sister and fell at her feet.

  ‘Though a few passengers suggested handing me over to the police, my crocodile tears won them over. They also feared the legal formalities. We avoid it in India, right? Nobody prefers to jump into the well of misery. So, they set me free. The bus stopped at the next stop. I folded my hands, begged pardon, and touched a few passenger’s feet in repentance. I disembarked, wailing.

  ‘The vehicle moved on. I gestured goodbye to passengers with tears on my cheeks. The bus disappeared. I wiped my face and patted my back, for my unique strategy of mass stealing had succeeded. The bashing pained, but I giggled and jumped up and down. The pain subsided, and my pockets bulged with my hard-earned earnings.

  ‘Nice plan,’ Zaheer said and grinned.

  ‘At home, my wounds had my parents worried. When I explained to them my new strategy, they cheered and asked me to show the earnings. I removed everything. Three wristwatches, three wallets, one gold ring, a pair of earrings, one silver chain, and one carrot... Hah. I scratched my head to recall when and how did I pull that one. My brother mocked me, saying I should have brought one for each member. My mother pulled my cheeks and joked that she wanted me to bring vegetables as per her requirements. My father gazed at me with lips curled upwards and eyes half-closed. Mother hugged me.

  ‘She applied turmeric paste on my wounds. Later, my father took me to Vivek Uncle to explain my new strategy and its successful debut. Our leader praised my efficiency. He called a gathering at night and shared my escapade. Overnight, I became famous and sought after in Chharanagar. Tribesmen appreciated and petitioned me to admit their children into my gang.

  ‘I improvised my disguised stealing technique. The method thrilled my community and we executed it as a team. We accessed crowded locations in numbers of two, four, six or eight, based on the requirement. One among us, through any disruptive means, gathered a crowd. The rest stole their valuables. Utilising our performing talents, we enacted plays in busy places and engrossed people. Then we carried out mass stealing. People offered us 25 paise to one rupee, too less for our performance. So, we recovered from them what we deserved.

  ‘Did the police never catch you?’

  ‘Hah. The police visited Chharanagar daily and arrested at least a dozen people on some charges or the other. Twenty-thousand Chharas lived on illegal activities, sparing a handful who succeeded to pursue a better life. Thus, Chhara gangs executed abundant crimes, and the department received scores of complaints. The cops blamed us for all the wrongdoings, whether or not committed by us.

  ‘Many of us partnered with the police. For stealing, the agreed share was 50 percent, and the law-protectors didn’t catch us or if they did, freed us later. Our boys deceived them in booty sharing too. For example, if they robbed valuables worth Rs. 1000, they disclosed the valuation as Rs. 800. For petty thefts, our gangs paid a weekly lump sum amount. If citizens reported theft, the policemen scolded them for carelessness and lectured them on attentiveness. “We have many jobs and cannot run around hunting for your lost belongings,” the cops argued.

  ‘However, they verified the loss with the victims to avoid cheating in booty sharing. At times, they inflated the robbery value, leading to a scuffle. But we slipped out every time.’

  ‘What about liquor? Why did the police not seize your premises and penalise you?’

  ‘My tribesmen openly produced and sold hooch. The cops helped us in trade and settled disputes. Alcohol is banned in Gujarat, but Gujaratis consume it. Then, how and where does it come from? The greedy men ensure the availability, and systematically procure liquor of all kinds, local and imported.

  ‘We traded under their guidance. If anyone produced less or nothing, the police pressured them to meet the demand. At times, when the illegal alcohol issue intensified, the cops would seize a random premise for an eyewash. And after the matter subsided, they would free them against payment. Mind it, if a tribesman delayed or failed to pay their share, the police punished him personally and legally.

  ‘We committed crimes under compulsion from others, and for our livelihood. The cops passed us potential information for robberies. Often, they guided us to vulnerable houses and escorted us back after the theft.

  ‘We as Chharanagar thieves worked in partnership with the police. Only the share division led to scuffles. For grave offences, they demanded huge payment. If unaffordable, some Chharas settled through sexual favours granted by their family.’

  ‘Oh my God. Disgraceful.’

  ‘Ha-ha. There are more, but with exceptions. We must not label an entire group for the crimes of a few. And we can’t blame the police alone. They sweated out in the scorching sun attending to the politicians. The cops paid a heavy amount to local politicians for postings at fruitful locations. Thus, they worked to recover their investment with profits. Pure business, you see.’

  ‘Long live democracy. Did the police ever arrest you?’

  ‘Ooooh. Yes, yes, yes. The jail is a second home for Chharas. Some have lived more behind bars than in their homes. They specialised in exchange and accepted people’s wrongdoings against an agreed payment. But I executed dangerous crimes. Over a hundred times, they picked me up for theft, illegal liquor supply, human trafficking, flesh trade, and whatnot. They would detain me at the Satkarnagar Police Station. My father would negotiate with the officer and inform me of the proceedings.

  “Vicky, come home tomorrow,” he’d say. ‘Meaning, spend a night in jail. By detaining a suspect, the police proved their efforts in crime control. Every time I spent a night in the lock-up, I stole.

  ‘Once I robbed a gold necklace and divided the booty with the police. The victim filed a complaint and gave my description to the sketch maker. The cops arrested and detained me. Inspector Irfan Khan, in front of the victim, pretended to scold me. He hit me and inquired about the stolen ornament. When he wrenched my left ear, I flicked and emptied his wallet and tossed it towards his desk.

  ‘Later they discharged me for lack of evidence, and I returned home. The inspector raced behind me. He kicked open my door, grabbed my collar and slapped me.

  “Give me my money,” he said.

  “You should be careful of your valuables,” I parroted their words back to them.

  ‘Irfan blushed. His face was worth watching. I reminded him of the sharing ratio. “Your wallet contained Rs 700. Fifty percent police share is Rs 350. Take it.”

  “But that is my money,” he said.

  “Not my problem,” I said.

  ‘His subordinates covered their mouth to suppress their giggles. They showed me the thumbs-up from behind him. Irfan stared at the ground,
collected half the amount, and rushed out. He’ll never forget me in his life.’

  ‘Ha-ha. That’s so daring of you,” said Zaheer.

  Chapter—10

  My Friend Guddu

  ‘My struggles prevailed. I excelled as a criminal, but life is full of thorns. As my popularity and respect scaled, Guddu Chhara envied me. He opposed my decisions, achievements, training methods and my activities. He spoke ill of me, and people responded because he was our leader’s son.

  ‘Guddu was an ill-behaved child. Disrespectful, arrogant, rude, insensitive, malicious and selfish. Since childhood, he used to consume liquor. He sought it from anybody’s house, and if denied he created a ruckus. A violent, adamant, and rigid guy, he lived life on his terms. People complained to Vivek Uncle, who counselled, chided and thrashed him. But Guddu never changed. A born dramatist, he followed a unique style of stealing. He robbed with an exceptional method every time and dodged the police. Surely, he excelled at crimes, and it mattered for a Chhara, especially for our community leader’s son. But, while he pretended to be brave like a tiger, he possessed the heart of a rabbit. And that defined a prime difference between us.

  ‘We looked similar from a distance. Both of us were six feet in height, had rough skin and a chiselled body with tennis-ball-sized biceps. Our dark hair was side swept and pushed up, a fringe covering half the right eye. We both had tattoos with our names on our right wrist. But I sported a stubble and a moustache that thinned on the edges like a snake‘s tail and dropped on the sides. Also, I had a black birthmark and a slightly fair complexion than Guddu’s deep brown skin.

  ‘We both learnt the art of crimes from his father and assisted him in community works. Until Guddu turned into a foe, we enjoyed life as best friends. His mischievous behaviour disturbed Chharanagar. Built of damaged sheets, bricks, and windows, the houses expose inside activities. Frankly, people never bothered about them. Men and women roamed careless of their apparel and exposed bodies, even bathed outdoors. Women breastfed their babies in the open. They left their breasts casually uncovered while they chatted, their infants asleep in their arms.