4
Death of a Newborn
July 2001
Karuppusamy wasn’t done with recounting Veerappan’s deeds. One, in particular, was hard to believe.
‘What kind of person kills his own child?’ I asked. ‘Is this fact or just hearsay?’
As a father of two, I could not think of anything more precious than holding my children in my arms and protecting them from harm, even more so given the harsh realities of my profession.
Karuppusamy scowled. ‘A complaint was made at Burgur Police Station. It was registered on 17 July 1993, as Burgur PS Cr. No. 17/1993 under Section 302 of the Indian Penal Code, making it a case of murder. One Neethipuram Chinnasamy was with the brigand when he got his daughter murdered. He confirmed this fact when we arrested him.’
I knew Veerappan had committed multiple murders, but the news that he was an accessory to the murder of his daughter came as a shock to me, especially since Veerappan was known to be highly protective of his family. He would wreak vengeance at any perceived slight on them at the hands of the authorities.
As I picked up the file with the records of the death, I asked Karuppusamy to tell me more about Veerappan and his wife Muthulakshmi.
After his escape from captivity, Veerappan, it is believed, made it a point to stay away from intoxicants and women, both of which he perceived as dangerous distractions. He was very clear that he would never again give the authorities a chance to nab him. However, despite his resolution, he could not help being drawn to Muthulakshmi, an attractive teenager from Neruppur village.
Muthulakshmi soon noticed that Veerappan was a frequent visitor to her village. His bristling moustache, piercing gaze and air of authority—as well as the awe and fear he generated among the villagers—made quite an impact on her. She began responding positively to his attention.
Muthulakshmi’s parents were far less enthusiastic about her suitor. Her father even informed Veerappan that Muthulakshmi’s marriage had already been fixed with one of her cousins. But Veerappan refused to give up. A few months after his proposal was rejected by her father, he eloped with Muthulakshmi and the two got married in a forest temple.
Soon, Muthulakshmi was pregnant and managed to stay in the forest in that condition for eight months. She finally returned to her parents’ house for her delivery. Worried about her being arrested, her father took her to Chennai, where she surrendered to the police.
The police lodged her in a women’s hostel. Later, she delivered a baby girl who was named Vidya Rani by an STF officer, Sylendra Babu. He permitted Muthulakshmi to return to her parents’ home in Neruppur, though her movements were closely monitored.
One day, one of Veerappan’s men came to Muthulakshmi’s home, pretending to be a relative. As soon as he entered the house, he whispered that Veerappan had sent word that she leave the infant with her parents and return to the jungle, as he missed her.
No mother can part with her baby easily. For a couple of months, Muthulakshmi ignored her husband’s command. Finally, she was convinced that her child would have a better future in the village than in the forest.
One night, she sneaked out of Neruppur and was soon reunited with Veerappan.
In 1992, the couple had another baby girl, Prabha, who was delivered by a seasoned midwife called Chinnapullai. A year later, yet another girl was born to them. But far from being a cause for celebration, this newborn became a source of worry for Veerappan.
By the time the baby was born, his band had swelled to over 100 members, including several women and elderly persons. This was slowing down their movement.
The STF had overrun his virtual fortress in Bodamalai and demined its approaches from three sides, forcing the gang to shift towards thicker forests in Dhimbam, with the authorities in hot pursuit. Veerappan’s scouts had already reported that pursuers from the south and east were closing in.
In the forest, an alert patrol can detect the slightest sound from a long distance. A baby’s cry can go as high as 110 decibels, barely 10 decibels below a thunderclap. Besides, a baby is completely unpredictable and its crying could instantly reveal a well-concealed location without giving any opportunity to muffle the sound.
‘She is turning into a major problem,’ thought Veerappan grimly.
According to Neethipuram Chinnasamy’s account, one day, the child let out an extremely ill-timed cry. Everyone in the band looked at her, then their eyes swivelled towards Veerappan. Nobody said anything, but the implication was clear.
Veerappan turned towards the midwife. Chinnapullai took great pride in delivering babies safely even under the most harrowing circumstances, but this time, Veerappan had a different job in mind for her.
The midwife began to say something, but changed her mind when she understood Veerappan’s intention. ‘Some juice of erukkampoo will make her choke,’ she said.
Erukkampoo, or Calotropis, is revered as Lord Ganesha’s favourite flower. Practitioners of Ayurveda use it regularly for medicinal purposes.
‘Do it,’ Veerappan said shortly. Muthulakshmi was the only one to shed tears for the baby.
Karuppusamy said that on 13 July 1993, a Karnataka STF team led by Inspector Jegadeesan and a BSF contingent found a suspicious mound at a place called Maari Maduvu. They dug it up, only to find the body of a baby. The medical examiner who conducted the autopsy could not determine the cause of death, as the body was in a highly decomposed state.
‘I know he killed many innocents, but to take the life of your own child is inhuman,’ I couldn’t help exclaiming. ‘For Veerappan, tactical considerations always outweigh ethical ones,’ said Karuppusamy darkly. ‘Like a Russel’s viper that can bite through its own skin, he is capable of turning on his own flesh and blood, if it is a matter of survival.’ Karuppusamy maintained that according to Chinnasamy, Veerappan’s heinous act had served another purpose. ‘It sent tremors through the ranks of his followers,’ he said, adding that it ensured that his gang remained loyal to him.
5
A Blow to Veerappan
July 2001
We were on a routine patrol and had stopped for a tea break. I was rather excited about being outdoors, bonding with the men in my unit after hearing and reading up on Veerappan’s many exploits. But what I read in the papers did not come close to the accounts I heard from my men.
In my years of service away from Tamil Nadu, I used to fret about how the media portrayed Veerappan as making a fool of the police. I knew several of the men who were charged with capturing him, and could never understand why the smartest and bravest in the force were unable to get him.
But every minute of my stay in Sathy only reinforced my belief that the task I had undertaken was far from easy, given that Veerappan knew every inch of the dense forest and all its secrets better than our forces. We were impeded, not just by the harsh terrain but also because the locals looked upon us with fear. Fear of reprisal from Veerappan if they were even seen in the proximity of the police.
On that particular jungle patrol, as we awaited a pickup near the road head, I got the chance of getting to know Tamil Selvan a little better. He was, undoubtedly, one of the many fascinating characters in the STF. He was one of the lucky few who lived to narrate his brush with Veerappan. The cerebral, slightly heavy Selvan, who was happiest when devouring books at a rapid pace or playing chess, now spent most of his time hunched over maps. He didn’t look like he was made for long, gruelling treks through the forest, but he more than compensated for it with enthusiasm, sheer willpower and an array of innovative dishes that made our patrols extremely interesting. His yo-yo dieting and feasting had the metronomic regularity of the waxing and waning of the moon.
At that precise moment, Selvan was deftly slapping wheat dough sprinkled with a dash of salt and sugar. He then rolled the dough on to a twig and held it above the campfire. A minute or so later, he offered it to me with a flourish. ‘There you go. Tamil Selvan’s biscuit-cum-breadstick,’ he said.
I couldn’t
help but laugh as I helped myself to the unique snack. With tea, it was sheer bliss.
Even as I gobbled up the snack, he announced, ‘I feel like a smoke.’
‘I thought you’d quit,’ I said.
‘You know me. I’ve quit so many times.’ He laughed.
Looking around, he hailed a constable, ‘Hey, thambi (brother)! Have you got a beedi?’
Both moved away and a minute later were chatting together, as the smell of the beedi wafted towards me. I shook my head.
Ranks melted around Selvan. He was extremely popular with the men. The fact that he had stayed with the force even after a severe injury in an ambush by Veerappan only added to the esteem in which he was held.
Selvan was lucky to survive.
My mood darkened as I thought of two STF officers from neighbouring Karnataka who had died in an ambush set by Veerappan.
Early 1992
‘Sahebru (Sir), I have some information on Eearaapan,’ said the voice over the phone, referring to Veerappan by the local Kannada name. ‘But I want to talk to someone senior.’
There was a pause. The policeman who answered the call at Ramapura Police Station replied, ‘Come to Kowdalli inspection bungalow tomorrow morning.’
Early next day, a Karnataka STF jeep pulled up in front of the rendezvous point. Two of its most courageous officers emerged: Sub-Inspector Shakeel Ahmed and SP Harikrishna. Harikrishna’s wife was expecting a baby when he volunteered to join the STF. Shakeel Ahmed was a second-generation cop who, on hearing of the killing of three SIs in April 1990, rushed to MM Hills to join the hunt for Veerappan, and declared that he would not get married until the brigand’s capture.
The meeting had been set up by Nataraj, a cashier at one of the local liquor shops in Ramapura, and Muthuram, who owned a small hotel at that location. But it was their companion who was of real interest to the two men.
‘This is Nagaraj,’ said Nataraj. ‘He is a daily labourer who has been providing rations to Veerappan for the last three months. He has even met Veerappan in his hideout four times. He told us all this over a round of drinks, and we persuaded him to speak to the police. And with this we can earn some recognition and a share of the reward money.’
The excited officers questioned Nagaraj repeatedly till they were convinced that he had indeed met the outlaw. Then they hatched a plan.
After a few more visits to Veerappan’s camp to ensure that he had won the brigand’s complete trust, Nagaraj told him about some brokers from Bengaluru who wanted to buy ivory from the gang in exchange for a cache of arms and ammunition. The bandit showed interest, and delegated the task to his right-hand man, Gurunathan, a tall, burly fellow reputed to be an excellent gunsmith and as good a shot as Veerappan himself.
Posing as the brokers, Nataraj and Muthuram met Gurunathan. They were told that the gang needed guns and bullets, and they promised to arrange a meeting with an ‘agent’ from Mumbai.
A few days later, the ‘agent’ arrived. It was Shakeel Ahmed, dressed in casuals. It was past midnight when the trio of Nagaraj, Muthuram and Shakeel met Gurunathan and some other men in the forest. They were startled to see a girl with him. Muthuram panicked when he realized that he knew the girl. It was Chandni, a tribal girl from a nearby village.
He introduced himself and asked the girl why she was there.
The girl blushed and admitted that she was engaged to Gurunathan. The two had been introduced by a villager called Kamala Naika, who had put Nagaraj in touch with Veerappan.
Shakeel, introduced to Gurunathan as Shivraj, took out a box of bullets. ‘This is exactly what we want,’ Gurunathan said enthusiastically. He also asked for Sten guns. ‘Shivraj’ was to take back ivory tusks in exchange. After negotiations on the price of the ivory, the two men shook hands on the deal.
‘Shivraj’ said that the main agent would personally come down from Mumbai for the deal, that would be concluded in a few days.
On 17 February 1992, about thirty-five men set off for Dinnalli, Sathyamangalam. They included Shakeel and Harikrishna, dressed in T-shirts and jeans, with concealed firearms. The two officers, Nataraj, Nagaraj and Muthuram, and a driver squeezed into one car. Thirty police constables followed half a mile behind in a lorry.
The car stopped near the forest and Harikrishna told Nagaraj, ‘Bring Gurunathan to us. Tell him that the man from Bombay has arrived with the goods.’
About an hour and a half later, Nagaraj returned. ‘Gurunathan has asked you to come into the forest,’ he said.
‘Tell him that the main agent has come, but being a city fellow, he is scared of the forest. Gurunathan should come to the car,’ responded Harikrishna.
After a few nerve-racking minutes, Gurunathan appeared along with Chandni. Shakeel got out of the back seat and Gurunathan got into the car. Shakeel got in next to him. Gurunathan was now sandwiched between Harikrishna and Shakeel. Nataraj and Chandni stood outside, chatting.
Harikrishna was introduced to Gurunathan as the ‘main agent’. He handed over an empty Sten to the latter. After a moment’s hesitation, Gurunathan gave his double-barrelled rifle to Shakeel to hold while he inspected the weapon.
Shakeel casually handed over the rifle to Muthuram and nodded. Shakeel and Harikrishna then gently leaned back to fish out the revolvers from their hip pockets. The unsuspecting Gurunathan was still engrossed in inspecting the Sten when in one coordinated move, the two policemen put their weapons to either side of the startled Gurunathan’s head, even as Muthuram levelled the gangster’s own rifle at his chest.
Outside the vehicle, Chandni’s eyes widened as she saw the proceedings. But before she could react, Nataraj snatched her gun away and jerked her by her hair. A yelp of pain escaped from the girl’s lips even as her lover, the fearsome Gurunathan, whimpered with fear inside the car. His hands were forced behind his back and he was handcuffed.
Chandni was taken to the MM Hills Police Station. Muthuram, who knew both Chandni and her mother, pleaded on her behalf, and she was let off after a warning to never get involved with criminals again. Gurunathan, meanwhile, is said to have agreed to lead the police to Veerappan’s hideout.
One would think that following such a successful operation and with such a valuable asset, Veerappan would have been captured successfully. But that was not the case, as Gurunathan died before Veerappan was caught. To some, Gurunathan’s death continues to remains a mystery to this day.
There are contradictory versions regarding the events that led to his death. Official records state that he tried to escape from custody and was shot during the attempt. But those sympathetic to the gang insist that he was killed in cold blood after he led the police to the place where he had last seen Veerappan—only to find that the bandit had already left the site.
Gurunathan’s arrest was probably the biggest blow the police had managed to inflict upon Veerappan thus far, but it only served to enrage the bandit, who vowed to extract bloody retribution.
All my conversations with my men and the locals only strengthened my belief that Veerappan was not a man who would let any action by the authorities against him or his men go unanswered. And his first act of vengeance was an attack on a static location—Ramapura Police Station. So far he had ambushed policemen on the move. Now, for the first time, he planned an attack on their stronghold.
19 May 1992, 1 a.m.
It seemed to be yet another uneventful night.
Constable Rachappa yawned and stretched on the veranda of Ramapura Police Station, where he was on guard duty. Five of his comrades were in deep slumber. Two policemen were inside the station. A van of the District Armed Reserve was parked across the road as part of the special arrangements to tackle the Veerappan menace. There were five more men sleeping inside. Sub-Inspector Rachaiah was in his house, a stone’s throw from the police station.
Unnoticed by anyone, a khaki-clad figure emerged from the shadows. At a gesture from him, men silently surrounded the police station. Then the man raised his rifle and iss
ued an order: ‘Kollungada … orutthan thappaamei (Kill all the SOBs. Nobody should escape).’
The sound of dozens of bullets being fired shattered the peace of the night. Most of the men sleeping on the floor of the veranda died instantly. One of them, Constable Nagesh, tried to run for cover, but was hit in the left arm and fell to the ground. He desperately dragged himself to the SI’s motorcycle parked in the compound and ducked behind it.
Assistant Sub-Inspector (ASI) Subbanna and Constable Basavaraju, who were inside the police station, hastily locked the doors and fired back. Some incoming bullets managed to pierce the doors but, fortunately for the men, didn’t hit either of them.
One of the men inside the van, Nagaraju, emerged from it and tried to run towards the SI’s quarters, but was hit by a bullet in the left thigh and collapsed. The others ducked hastily in the van.
Veerappan and his men inched closer to the station. They broke into a storeroom and picked up six single-barrelled guns and ammunition, some of which the police had ironically seized from the gang earlier.
‘Life comes full circle,’ thought Veerappan wryly, and then turned to the situation at hand.
Inside the police station, Basavaraju frantically cranked the wireless set. The nearest police station at Hannur, some 18 km away, received the SOS. Inspector Venkataswamy, the man in charge, hastily assembled some men and dashed towards Ramapura.
As the rescue party roared at full speed to help their besieged colleagues, Venkataswamy, anxiously monitoring the wireless, clearly heard the sound of bullets being fired. ‘They could easily be overwhelmed by the time we get there,’ he thought despairingly. Then an idea struck him.
‘I’m coming with a large force. We’ll be there any minute. Keep fighting. We’ll trap them,’ he yelled into his wireless set.
Veerappan: Chasing the Brigand Page 4