by Jigna Vora
16
DAYS OF DESTRUCTION
As I sat facing Vilas Datir at the Crime Branch office, I felt strange. The anxiety and turbulent thoughts over the past few weeks had drained me. Now that I sat in that chair, knowing that they had arrested me, my mind had gone numb. So numb that I could collapse that very moment. The enormity of the accusation and the uncertainty that stared at me was yet to sink in.
About fifteen minutes later, when my brain kicked into overdrive, I stared at the sandals on my feet. I had purchased this new pair from the Lord’s showroom right opposite the Crime Branch Office a few days ago. I looked at the silver anklets and toe rings I hadn’t found the time to take off when the cops had come calling. The sandals hurt like hell.
Why had they arrested me? For what?
The cops, most of whom I had professional dealings with, had stabbed me in my back. Himanshu Roy had assured Zaidi sir that no harm would come my way if I was innocent. I had been through a broken childhood, a broken marriage and just when my career showed promises of a new-found hope, I was pulled to rock bottom again. Why?
I wondered about the situation back home. What were my family members thinking? What about my son? My grandmother had also been taking a bath when the police picked me up. She would have stepped out and found her life changed drastically.
*
Ramesh Mahale called me to his cabin. He couldn’t look me in the eyes.
‘I had to do my duty.’
‘I understand, sir.’ I choked and hung my head low. ‘But this is a huge mistake.’
‘You are allowed one phone call,’ he said. ‘Seek legal opinion.’
My mobile had already been confiscated on the way to the station. The few cellphone numbers I could dial from memory seemed blurred by my tears. Nobody in my family had the means to deal with such a problem. With great effort, I dialled a number from Mahale’s landline with the hope that it would connect to Murtuza Dewan, a friend who had a good network of lawyers. The phone rang endlessly. Just as I was about to hang up, he answered. I was relieved to hear his voice.
‘I’ve been arrested,’ I said in Gujarati. ‘They are going to produce me in court in a few hours. Need a lawyer.’
‘Heard about it,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to connect with senior advocate Mundargi.’
‘The media will be in full strength at the court,’ I said. ‘Tell my family not to turn up. They won’t be able to handle it.’
He agreed, and we disconnected. Ramesh Mahale then asked me to take off all the silver jewellery I was wearing. He also suggested that a constable would go back to my home, and bring over a different pair of clothes because the pink T-shirt and blue jeans I was wearing would not be the right attire for a court appearance. I asked for my asthma inhaler as well. He nodded. I was thankful for this little leniency.
Assistant Commissioner of Police (ACP) Ashok Durape arrived at the office. An ACP-level officer was mandated to produce an MCOCA-accused in court during police custody. Durape also signed my arrest warrant. Mahale asked me to leave his cabin. Half an hour later, a constable returned with a new set of clothes and my inhaler.
The lady officer asked me to change in the bathroom. She warned me not to lock the door. When I protested for my privacy, she stated she would hold the door closed from outside and stand guard. She wanted to make sure I wouldn’t escape or attempt suicide. The gents’ toilet was stinking. I somehow found a dry corner and changed into a brown kurta and white leggings, and draped a shawl over my shoulders.
Around 2.30 p.m., the police escorted me down the wooden stairs of the Unit One office. As we descended the long staircase, the ground floor was abuzz with activity. Mahale warned me that a huge media contingent was waiting below. I draped the black and white shawl all over my face. ‘And for your own good,’ he whispered in Marathi, ‘don’t utter a word on the way out.’
Cameras, mics and voice recorders were thrust into my face. The cameramen and photographers fell over each other and created a stampede-like situation to get a byte. A lady constable pushed me into a waiting Scorpio at the gate. A reporter forced a mic through the window. From the corner of my eye, I realized he was Ganesh Thakur of Star News.
‘You have been arrested for the murder of J. Dey,’ he said with journalistic urgency. ‘What do you want to say?’
I lowered my face into my lap and wailed. What was there to say?
On the way to court, we stopped by GT Hospital at Crawford Market for my medical check-up. A female medical intern asked me if I had any injuries or medical conditions. I informed her of my asthma. After the check-up, we passed by the Metro Theatre and reached the sessions court. The court gates were packed with the media, and the police led me through the back entrance. But the back entrance was also full of people waiting, and cameras flashed in my face as the police dragged me to the elevator. It clanked its way up to the fifth floor. As the elevator gates opened, more media personnel blocked our way. The police surrounded me and we jostled our way through. All my colleagues from Asian Age were waiting in the courtroom. Murtuza was there too. Hussain Zaidi had tears in his eyes.
‘Sir!’ I screamed out. ‘See what they did to me!’
‘Keep calm,’ he said, trying to control his emotions.
I was ordered to stand beside the witness box. The lady officer held on tightly to my hand. The tension in the air was palpable. Lawyers, policemen, media and the general public had thronged to the court. Dilip Shah was the public prosecutor. He quoted sections to the judge and argued that I had been arrested for emailing J. Dey’s details to Chhota Rajan.
Murtuza had engaged another senior advocate, Girish Kulkarni, for my case. Pin-drop silence fell upon the packed court as Kulkarni put forth a brilliant argument. He lambasted the investigation and submitted that there was no concrete ground for my arrest.
But the judge sent me to police custody for four days, until 29 November 2011. My legal team had me sign a vakalatnama, which formalized the appointment of my lawyer. It also submitted that I did not wish to make any confession in this case. This would ensure that the police would not extract a confession from me forcefully.
By 3.30 p.m., I was back to the Unit One office. Mahale asked if I wanted to eat something. I merely shook my head. I had had tea in his office countless number of times when reporting on crime stories.
‘How about some tea?’ he asked now.
‘The tea of your police station has turned bitter, sir.’
*
I was asked to sit outside on a chair. But since the media personnel wouldn’t stop hounding me, the police shifted me to a small partition where a group of constables were watching TV. The news of my arrest was playing all over. I began crying again. A burly constable stood up from his seat and turned off the television, and I felt thankful for his sensitivity. Around 6.00 p.m., I was informed that I would be shifted to be locked up at Azad Maidan police station. Like a child I pleaded with Mahale not to shift me. But as per the rules, a female accused could not be kept at the Crime Branch after sunset.
‘I do not have any more clothes,’ I said.
‘I’ll get a message delivered to your family,’ he said. ‘You’ll be brought back to the Crime Branch first thing in the morning.’
At the Azad Maidan police station, my uncle and cousin were waiting with my clothes. I called out to them but a constable stopped me from meeting them, bringing me back to the reality of my arrest. The clothes were delivered to the police station, a stone building from the British era. An entry was made in the station register. There was one lock-up for females, and a couple more for male accused. I was ushered into the ladies lock-up, which was occupied by two more ladies. The toilet and bathroom were also inside. I hadn’t stopped crying. The behaviour of the media hurt me the most. Some kind of karma had ensured that I was getting the same treatment I had subjected others to. I also realized that the media was ruthless enough to relentlessly chase one of their own if it made prime-time news.
One
of the ladies in the lock-up had been arrested in a drugs-related case. She tried to console me and offered me the mutton bheja fry that her son had brought for her dinner. I politely refused on account of the fact that I was vegetarian.
I couldn’t sleep that night. There was a small window at the top, and I kept trying to look out of it, but there was only darkness. The inhaler eased my breathlessness, but it didn’t help a lot. There was enough space in the lock-up, so I kept pacing around the cell thinking of my son. The two women were sound asleep. The dismal stench of the toilet prevented me from going to the toilet until I could find a cleaner place. The next morning, two lady constables asked me if I wanted to bathe.
‘Where?’ I asked.
They pointed to the same bathroom, which offered no privacy. I decided I would bathe at the Unit One office, which at least had a door.
The Crime Branch cops picked me up at 7.30 a.m. At the Unit One office, the lady officer again asked me not to lock the bathroom door, and diligently stood guard outside. There was no light in this bathroom, and the water was ice-cold. The lady officer allowed me to use the geyser. I took a bath, changed my clothes and stepped out. Later, the same lady officer struck up a conversation with me and expressed astonishment over the possibility of a patrakaar killing another.
A tea vendor called Pakya arrived in the office with glassfuls of tea. He knew me from my earlier visits. I called him over.
‘Give me a cup of tea,’ I said. ‘Please.’
He smilingly pulled out a cup from his tray. ‘Here.’
‘I have no money,’ I said. ‘I’ll pay you later, okay?’
Pakya smiled and went about delivering tea to other policemen. Mahale arrived around 11 a.m. I asked him if I could meet my family members, but the rules did not allow it—he would have to speak to his seniors. Senior Inspector Arun Chauhan from the Property Cell arrived.
‘Which email address did you use to communicate with Chhota Rajan?’ Chauhan asked me.
‘Don’t you know already, sir?’
I had answered with my eyes locked into his, unflinchingly. He fell silent. He never asked me another question about the case.
Mahale asked me why I had not informed them about the interview with Chhota Rajan when I was called to give a statement in the J. Dey case. I protested that the question had been twisted. I had been asked if I had any ‘relation’ with gangsters. The answer was I did not have any, and I still stood by it. Mahale opened his palms towards the various portraits of Lord Ganesha on his walls.
‘It is fine if you don’t trust me any more,’ he said. ‘Put your trust in Bhagwan. He will ease things for you.’ I nodded.
After sunset, they shifted me back to Azad Maidan. For two days, I hadn’t eaten a morsel. The lady arrested in the drugs case asked me to eat again, and again I refused. That night, I put my dupatta on the floor and lay down to give my back some rest. Late in the night, the Crime Branch cops turned up to check on me. They shouted my name and I responded with a grunt, to show that I was alive and hadn’t committed suicide or run away.
The next morning, 27 November 2011, I was back at the Crime Branch office. Since it was a Sunday, my neighbour had turned up at the Crime Branch with some food. Mahale allowed me to eat as I hadn’t eaten for two days. He also informed me that Hussain Zaidi would come to meet me around 3.30 p.m. We met in Mahale’s cabin, in his presence. I asked Hussain Zaidi about the situation outside.
‘Pathetic!’ he said. ‘Media pressure is making it worse.’
‘Will our organization support me?’
‘Expect nothing,’ he said. In his attempt to stand by me, Zaidi sir had published a front-page editorial in the Asian Age, not knowing that it would eventually cost him his job.
I spoke in a low whisper. ‘Should I tell the cops that the Rajan interview was facilitated by Paulson Joseph, the co-accused on the J. Dey murder case?’
‘Yes,’ Hussain Zaidi said. ‘We don’t have anything to hide.’
I turned to Mahale, and blurted it out. He was stunned to hear the revelation, but he did not let it show on his face. Paulson had been arrested in this case way before my arrest. His police custody had ended, and he was already in judicial custody. A few minutes later, Hussain Zaidi left and Mahale called me for questioning again.
‘What is this angle with Paulson?’ he asked.
I explained that I had no direct access to Chhota Rajan. For the interview over the shoot-out at Pakmodiya Street, I had got in touch with one Nishit Chovatiya, who was a resident of Tilak Nagar. I knew him from previous visits to Ganesh mandals in the area. I asked Nishit if he could arrange an interview with ‘Nana’, which is how Chhota Rajan was referred to. Nishit promised to get back to me in a few days.
He told me I would have to visit Navi Mumbai for the interview, from where Paulson would call Chhota Rajan. On the decided day, Nishit and I drove in his car to Navi Mumbai. At a famous eatery, we were joined by Paulson and Arif. Paulson messaged from his phone a few times, but received no callback. After a long wait, we left the restaurant. Since Nishit and the others were going to south Mumbai, they decided to drop me at Worli so that I could go to my office at Paragon Centre. Even during the drive, Chhota Rajan did not call back. As I was exiting the car, Arif asked for my number. When I asked for a reason, he said that Chhota Rajan would call me when the time was right. Then, they drove off.
Mahale listened to all of this with complete silence.
‘Madarchod Paulson!’ he said. ‘He never confessed to me about this!’
On Monday, 28 November 2011, the prosecution asked for an extension of my police custody because some new facts had emerged in the case. They also wanted custody of Paulson again, so that they could corroborate his statements with mine. Though I had had no contact with Chhota Rajan before or after the interview, I wondered if I had shot myself in the foot by telling Mahale about Paulson’s involvement in the interview. The court admitted the prosecution’s submission and granted the required custody for seven days.
By now, the media pressure had reduced a bit. As days passed, reporters stopped showing up as it was no longer Breaking News but had become a routine follow-up story. I could see it in court.
Later in the afternoon, the cops took my fingerprints. They handed me a slate with my name, and I posed for my mugshot. It was the most humiliating experience of my life.
The next day, on Tuesday, my aged grandfather came to meet me at the Crime Branch. He was crying inconsolably and lamented that he was a simple man, with no political connections and no money. I was trying to console him when Aariz Chandra from Aaj Tak arrived. He took a keen interest in snooping on my conversation with my grandfather. Mahale noticed this and asked Aariz to step out. After fifteen minutes of crying, I asked my grandfather to leave because I suspected Aariz would call every possible reporter to create unwarranted sensationalism. I stood by the window and watched my shivering grandfather struggle to keep his walking stick firm. Would I meet him again? My eyes filled with tears when I saw a cameraman pointing a camera at grandfather. My grandfather tried walking faster, but could not because of his age. The camera followed him like a vulture. I kept watching and crying until my ailing grandfather was out of sight.
This routine went on every single day. On 9 December 2011, I switched on the geyser in the dark bathroom of the Crime Branch to take a bath. A loud spark followed, and the stench of fumes filled the air. The lady constable standing guard outside called for me.
‘I am okay,’ I said, ‘but the geyser’s dead.’
When I stepped back into the light, I noticed that a purple patch had appeared on my hand as a result of the electric shock. The same day, the court sentenced me to judicial custody.
*
During my time in police custody, I was cut off from the world outside. I had gone from being a journalist who chased news to having no idea what was being written about me. Around a week into police custody, when Senior Police Inspector Arun Chauhan of the Property Cell came to
the Unit One office, he spoke to me in Hindi about a recent news article.
‘Do you know what your friends in the media are saying about you?’ he said.
I had no clue.
‘They are questioning your lavish lifestyle,’ he said. ‘Looks like you were a regular visitor to an expensive spa in Ghatkopar.’
‘Who wrote this?’ I asked.
‘A reporter from DNA—Priti Acharya,’ he said. ‘So, you visited the spa once a week?’
‘Yes,’ I said, refusing to be ashamed of taking care of myself.
‘How much does the membership cost?’ he asked.
‘Rs 35,000 for a year.’
‘Pretty expensive, isn’t it?’
I sensed the sarcasm in his voice, and clarified that I was a journalist who was earning a decent salary each month by giving her best to her profession and her organization. To spend a portion of my hard-earned money on myself did not make me a criminal, nor could I be forced to feel guilty about that. Nevertheless, I wondered how the reporter in question was able to obtain this information about me. Then, I remembered that the reporter herself was a member of the same ‘expensive’ spa—where she would visit for slimming sessions. The services she was undertaking were more expensive than my membership. I had run into her at the spa once. After I was done with my hairstyling, I had offered to drop her to Colaba in my car since I was going down the same route to Crawford Market. During the drive, as we crossed the Wadala Imax, our conversation steered towards my recent trip to Sikkim, and how much I had enjoyed eating momos there. Now, she had reported this conversation like a story about my ‘lavish’ lifestyle. That night, sitting in the Azad Maidan police lock-up, I realized how an innocuous conversation had been used maliciously against me. Colleagues from my fraternity seemed more than happy to throw me under the bus if it could do them any good.
Savita, a lady constable who was on duty during my police custody, spoke to me about an article in a Marathi newspaper. In a press conference, then commissioner of police Arup Patnaik had made a statement that the MCOCA charges against me could be possibly repealed depending on how the investigation proceeded. The police had arrested me on suspicion of my involvement, but if the investigation suggested otherwise, they may not file a charge sheet against me. This was the essence of the CP’s statement.