by Jigna Vora
‘Yes, yes,’ the man said.
He pulled the chain off and handed it over. Sapna collected the loot and stepped out of the car. The driver sped off like he had seen a ghost. Sapna laughed on her way back to the Juhu signal, waiting for another scapegoat to drive her way. About three months after that incident, the police arrested her in a pickpocketing case. She was produced at the Andheri Metropolitan Court and led into the courtroom. As her name was announced in the court, she looked up at the judge and realized it was the same bald man she had looted! The judge’s face turned white when the reality dawned upon him. Sapna cast a knowing glance at the judge, a warning that she would reveal the incident in the court. Hurriedly, the judge signed her bail order and let her go!
Back in the jail, I laughed loud until my ribs hurt. Sapna insisted that she was a thief, and a blackmailer, but not a prostitute. She had also tried reforming her life, but in spite of all her attempts, she could not get a respectable job. She stole, but only to survive and save for her daughter’s treatment. That was all she knew to do for a living.
In April 2012, Sapna was released on bail. Two years later, in 2014, when I was glancing through the newspapers, I read another article in the paper about her. She had climbed up an advertising hoarding in Byculla and caused complete chaos for four hours. It was only after police and fire brigade officials gave her the assurance that the government would help her with her daughter’s eye operation that she came down. And then I thought about how she had climbed up the wall in the barracks in jail and created the ruckus.
4
THE SAFFRON LADY
On 28 September 2008, two bombs ripped apart a tiny locality in Malegaon, where a large part of the population was Muslim. The same day, another bomb exploded in Gujarat’s Modasa town. More than half a dozen people were killed and hundreds severely injured, even as the investigators said that they were low-intensity bombs. The probe into the Malegaon blasts made a surprising and controversial revelation—involvement of the Hindu right wing. The term ‘saffron terror’ was coined, and used widely. For a country where terrorists were always Muslims, the accusation of Hindus being bombers was hard to swallow. Interestingly, at the helm of the investigation was Anti-Terrorist Squad (ATS) chief Hemant Karkare, a Hindu.1
The story about Hindu right wing’s involvement was first reported by the Indian Express. It was a big miss for crime reporters like me working in other papers. From the very next day, I began tracking the story, following as many leads as possible. The ATS had made several arrests in the case, and one of the accused was Pragya Singh Thakur, a sadhvi (lady monk).2 The sadhvi added more spectacle to the already dramatic terror probe. The investigators had found that the explosive was fitted in a motorcycle bearing the licence number MH15 P4572, which they claimed belonged to the sadhvi.
Always clad in a saffron robe, Pragya, who was picked up from a village near Surat, had taken sanyas in the 2006 Kumbh Mela at Allahabad. In the early 1990s, she had been an active leader of the Akhil Bhartiya Vidyarthi Parishad (ABVP). In her college days, she was known to fearlessly ride motorcycles and beat up men who harassed women on the roads.
As I followed the story, my interest in Pragya grew with every passing day, pushing me to prod my sources in the police and the ATS to tell more about her.
Fate brought me face to face with her at Byculla Jail.
Pragya was in the high-security cell, to the right of Barrack No. 2, where I was lodged. Hers was a solitary cell, with an attached toilet and bathroom. Her neighbour in the next solitary cell was Fahmeeda Ansari, who was facing death penalty in the 2003 case of twin bomb blasts at the Gateway of India and Zaveri Bazaar. Her case was pending for appeal in the high court, for which she had been shifted from Pune’s Yerwada Jail to Mumbai.
Pragya was off limits to other inmates for her own protection. A woman police constable guarded her cell attentively round the clock. After the inmates were locked up in the barracks post-bandi, I would observe, through the gaps between the iron rods, the constable accompanying the sanyasin for a walk within the jail compound in the evening. I had noticed that Pragya was in pain and needed support while she took her evening strolls. It was rumoured that she had been subjected to severe torture by the ATS, which had led to the deterioration of her physical condition. At the same time, she was also a matter of national debate and political importance. The jail officials undoubtedly had to take utmost care that nothing untoward happened to her. For extra caution, no inmate could even utter a word to Pragya, unless she initiated the conversation. Though she was in solitary confinement, inmates could talk with her through the iron rods. Because of her solitary confinement, she was not allowed to come out during non-bandi hours or mingle with other inmates.
By the last week of December 2011, around Christmas, I had shifted from the corner of the barrack and closer to the door. The acute stuffiness of the corner had worsened my asthma. The door allowed some ventilation, and also gave me a clear view of the cell where Pragya was lodged. One morning, around 10 a.m., Pragya, who was standing outside her cell, happened to notice me. She smiled and gestured with her hands for me to come over. I went closer to her and for the first time met the woman in the saffron robe. Her hair was cropped to a length above her neck, and a red tilak lined her forehead. She spoke polished, scholarly Hindi.
‘People told me you’re here,’ she said. ‘I have been waiting to talk to you.’
‘Me too.’
She pulled out the Hindi edition of the Navbharat Times, and pointed her finger to a headline. ‘Have you read this?’
I shook my head. I had developed an intense phobia of the newspapers. As a journalist, I always took pride in seeing my name in the bylines of the stories I had broken. If a few days passed without my byline on exclusive stories, I would feel restless. But now, I feared seeing the newspapers with reports about my case. The mere mention of my name in articles would give me jitters. The media had already branded me as a criminal. Most of what was printed against me was malicious libel. The character assassination from people who were once my fellows made things worse for me.
They wrote about how I liked visiting spas or eating momos, as if that was a crime. They wrote about love affairs I never knew existed. They wrote about fortunes I never knew I owned.
Sadhvi Pragya told me that the article was about a witness recording a statement under Section 164 of the Cr.PC (Criminal Procedure Code) against me. Such a statement recorded in the presence of a magistrate holds weight even if the witness turns hostile at a later stage of the trial, unlike a statement recorded under Section 161, which is recorded in the presence of only the police and is not admissible as evidence in the court. The article claimed that the case against me was now watertight. But I feigned indifference even as my heart beat faster due to what Pragya had told me.
‘People write a lot of things,’ I said. ‘Not all of it may be true.’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘You wrote articles about me too. But do you really know what the truth is?’
I stood still, at a loss for words. All this time, I had written about her based on what I had heard, read or investigated. Now, I was on the receiving end from the media, and the most absurd reports were being written about me. I had begun to believe in the innocence of anyone in the jail who claimed to have been framed in the crimes they were accused of. Pragya seemed to sense the unease on my face.
‘I know you haven’t committed the crime,’ she said. ‘These bad times will pass.’
I just nodded and looked through the gaps into her room. It was remarkably clean and well maintained. Some of her clothes had been hung to dry over the clothes line in the passage. Her belongings were neatly organized. The bathrooms inside the cell had no doors. There was a tubelight in the room, and an earthen pot for storing drinking water. She also had a bed to sleep in, because she was suffering from severe back pain. There was also a murti of Lord Krishna, in his childhood avatar. She told me she did puja every day. Looking at the idol,
I remembered how my grandmother too used to pray to Lord Krishna.
‘All of this has been allowed by the court,’ she said, referring to the concessions that were made available to her. ‘And don’t worry. Lord Krishna will guide you out of these troubled waters.’
The woman whom I had written against extensively was praying for my safety. I had reported every minute detail on her case, because I had a source in the team that was investigating the Malegaon blasts. Yet, she hadn’t taken it personally. I thanked her for the prayers.
In many ways, this interaction planted the first seeds of spirituality in my heart, which I have pursued even after my release from jail. I felt a kind of solidarity towards Pragya. Our destinies had indeed intertwined because there was another common denominator between us—ATS chief Hemant Karkare, who was killed in the 26/11 Mumbai terror attacks in 2008.
*
It was Wednesday, 26 November 2008, when Karkare called Megha Prasad, a reporter with Times Now, and me, to the ATS office at Nagpada. I had only known Karkare since the first press conference the ATS had conducted about the Malegaon blasts, and this was my third meeting with him. We made it just in time for the appointment at 4 p.m. Karkare was dressed in a sky-blue shirt and blue trousers. He did not operate with the flair of some of his other outspoken colleagues. He went about his business in a silent and effective manner. The alleged involvement of the right wing in the cases he was investigating had put him under considerable political pressure. Pragya had also levelled charges of extreme torture against the ATS, which had begun a political controversy.
Karkare ordered for three cups of tea as soon as we sat down.
‘Sir,’ Megha said. ‘Any new developments in the Malegaon investigations that can be shared with the media?’
‘Why are you asking me?’ he laughed. ‘Jigna should know better. I have been following Jigna’s reports. She knows what has been going on in the investigation room. I wonder who in the ATS is providing her with such minute details.’
I smiled. ‘The information seems to find its way to me, sir.’
He smiled in response—a way of telling me it was okay.
‘But, sir,’ I said, ‘I haven’t done a big story in the last two days. My editor is pushing me to get one.’
‘Well, give my regards to Mr Zaidi,’ he said. ‘But Malegaon is a political landmine. I can’t divulge more.’
As we finished drinking the tea, precisely at 4.35 p.m., he received a call from the office of R.R. Patil, the then home minister of Maharashtra. Karkare informed us that he would have to leave for the Mantralaya immediately to meet the home minister.
‘But, sir,’ I said. ‘When can we get something to write about?’
‘Meet me this Friday.’ He smiled as he stood up. ‘You’ll get some big news to break.’
He accompanied us out of his office and walked with us to the exit. He got into the back seat of his official car and was driven away. I wondered about the big news he wanted to speak about, but my thoughts were broken by Megha’s voice.
‘Jigna,’ she said. ‘A new officer has joined as the additional commissioner, south region. Should we go and introduce ourselves?’
‘Who is he?’
‘Himanshu Roy,’ she said. ‘Earlier, he was posted as the commissioner of police, Nashik.’
‘Not today,’ I said. ‘I have to report back to office.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s meet Mr Roy another day.’
Later in the day, I returned to the Asian Age office in Todi Industrial Estate at Lower Parel, and quickly filed my story for the day. I had to catch up with a friend for dinner at the Orchid Hotel in Andheri East. As I was getting ready to leave after discussing the next day’s plan and some developments on the Malegaon story with Zaidi sir, a series of messages about a shoot-out at Leopold Café in Colaba came in.
‘Don’t leave till we know what’s going on,’ Zaidi sir said. ‘It could be a gang war.’ Soon, reports started coming in about the shoot-out at the Taj Mahal Hotel, at the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST), and other places. What transpired later was the biggest terrorist strike on Mumbai. A well-planned effort to take the city hostage.
I can never forget the chaos, the news alerts and the images that flashed on the television. One of them was of Karkare putting on a bulletproof vest and headgear to counter the terrorists who had entered the state-run Cama and Albless Hospital, a few metres away from the CST.
At around 1 a.m., I received a call from a trusted source. He was the one who had been providing me nuggets of information from the Malegaon blast probe.
‘Madam, Hemant Karkare sir is no more.’
‘What?’ I shrieked.
‘Sahab was shot dead by the terrorists.’
Only a few hours ago, I had been sitting in Mr Karkare’s cabin and sipping tea with him. And now, he had been martyred while fulfilling his duties. All of it came rushing back to me—his quiet manner, his sky-blue shirt, his promise about a big story. I rushed to Zaidi sir’s cabin and broke the news, leaving him in shock. I also called Megha about Karkare’s death.
‘What are you saying?’ she said, unable to believe her ears.
‘Yes,’ I said, my voice choking. ‘Where are you?’
‘I am covering the attack near Metro Junction. We just received some information about terrorists shooting at the cops. The terrorists are now driving towards Chowpatty.’
As reporters, we often keep our emotions in control even as we deal with traumatic topics. But news of Karkare’s death had brought tears to my eyes.
I sobbed. Karkare had been inside a Toyota Qualis with other police officers and constables when the terrorists had attacked them. The terrorists then took the police vehicle and fled the spot.
‘Are you sure about his death?’ Megha asked. ‘Should I break it on television?’
‘Yes,’ I said, still crying. ‘The news is confirmed.’
And then I watched the news being played out on TV. Hemant Karkare had died protecting his nation in a small lane only a few metres away from the Crime Branch office. Two other officers, ACP Ashok Kamte and Senior Inspector Vijay Salaskar, had also been killed. The man who had arrested several alleged right-wing extremists was no more, and the big story he wanted to break had also been laid to rest with him.
*
Paromita spared no chance to boast about her considerable influence with the Intelligence Bureau (IB). She claimed to know that I had been framed in this case, and that I was going to be released soon. I had no clue if there was any truth in her words, but it disturbed me enough to discuss these things with my lawyer. As usual, he advised me to trust no one.
One night, as I was preparing to go to sleep, Paromita asked me about my interactions with Pragya.
‘I think she is innocent,’ I said.
‘She told you that?’ Paromita laughed. ‘Quite a manipulator she is!’
‘Why’d you say that?’
‘Because she confessed about her involvement to me.’
I gasped. ‘What?’
I had no clue who was speaking the truth. I was unsure why Paromita always kept a close eye on who was getting friendly with me. Perhaps, it was because Pragya was locked in a power struggle with the other powerful inmate in Byculla Jail—Jaya Chheda—and Paromita had chosen to side with Jaya. I did not want to be a part of these games.
‘Jiggy,’ Paromita said. ‘Will you seek revenge against those who have wronged you?’
‘Never thought about it,’ I said and returned to my space. I turned over and tried to sleep.
After Paromita’s warning, I kept away from Pragya as much as I could. The sadhvi called for me quite a few times, but I would excuse myself on some pretext or the other. Pragya had a court order that allowed her home-made food. She once sent across a portion of undhiyu, a popular Gujarati delicacy, for me, but I politely sent it back to her. A few days later, around 2.30 a.m., I woke up to the sounds of utensils clanging loudly inside the jail. Pragya was smashi
ng her aluminium plate on the wall and creating a ruckus. The jail authorities arrived and made sure the situation was handled. The next morning, a group of women who had been arrested from Nagpur for alleged Naxal links began a hunger strike to protest against the quality of food in the jail. It turned out that the clanging of utensils had been a signal from Pragya to those women to begin the strike. The food remained the same however. But I learnt that Pragya would constantly work to keep jail authorities on their toes.
Every Friday, the jail superintendent would visit all the barracks. It was an important event and the barracks had to be cleaned by us on Thursdays so that the superintendent would be pleased. We scrubbed the floor with Ariel detergent. The superintendent would ask the inmates if they were facing any problems in the jail. But everyone kept mum because no corrective action was ever taken for any complaint or request. Moreover, the constables inside the jail would take it as a personal insult if an inmate complained, and they would make that inmate’s life all the more miserable. The superintendent would always speak very politely to me.
Pragya, like everyone else, kept mum too. For her, initiating the strike was the way to make a point. She made it a point to celebrate all Hindu festivals. In March 2012, on the occasion of Holi, she brought her Lord Krishna idol outside her cell and performed an elaborate puja in the barrack. She also arranged for small sachets of gulal, and all the inmates celebrated Holi with her. That day, she tied a sacred thread around my wrist and put a pendant with an inscription of ‘Om’ around my neck. Even though I had kept my distance from her, I had no urge to stop her from tying the thread. She said she had performed a special prayer for my release, and for her prayers to be answered, it was important for me to keep the thread on my wrist until I was out of jail.
About a month later, Pragya was shifted to a Madhya Pradesh jail. Strangely, when I myself left the jail, the sacred thread she had given me came loose on my wrist, on its own.