The STF personnel reciprocated his sentiments. Tall, good-looking and unflappable, Sanjay’s call sign (code name) was ‘STAR’. An engineer by training, Sanjay hailed from Jaipur and spoke Tamil fluently. Everyone down to the lowest ranks was addressed by him with utmost courtesy. The boys adored him.
He had been hand-picked by me as part of the CM’s security team before he had volunteered for the STF, where he served as Walter’s No. 2. The two men got on well, despite the twenty-five-year gap (Walter was from the 1963 IPS batch; Sanjay, 1988).
Sanjay also worked with Shankar Bidari, head of the Karnataka STF, who was ten years his senior, as Walter was frequently called away on important work. He handled this potentially tricky situation with his usual quiet competence. His ability to be either gentle or firm, depending on the situation, and his maturity, which belied his relative youth, made him an ideal foul-weather captain.
Not one to beat around the bush for long, Sanjay got straight to the point. ‘You wanted to speak to me about something, sir?’
‘I wanted to ask you about the raid on Veerappan’s den,’ I replied.
May 1993
Following the Good Friday massacre, the media was rife with speculation that the military would be called in to nab Veerappan. Finally it was not the military, but the paramilitary.
On the Karnataka government’s request, a battalion of the BSF arrived, with its senior officers expressing confidence that the task would be accomplished within three months.
Anyone familiar with hunting fugitives or insurgents would tell you that catching a wily foe is easier said than done, especially in a hostile terrain that the enemy knows like the back of his hand and with a local population whose customs and language are unfamiliar to you. But strangely, troops often have to go through the same learning curve every time—from Vietnam to Afghanistan, and even during the Indian Army’s stint in Sri Lanka.
As the BSF geared up to begin operations, we learned through our network of informants that Veerappan had seeded all the three narrow tracks leading to his virtual fort at the foothills of Bodamalai with mines. The SP in Salem confirmed that after the ground was dug up and the mines planted, cowherds were forced to march their cattle several times over the ground to erase any signs of digging. Veerappan’s sentries occupied the knolls that overlooked the tracks round the clock.
All this had been done under the direct supervision of a short man, who sported a crucifix on his chest (later revealed to be Simon of the Good Friday blast fame.) The most alarming part of the intel was that apart from the buried ones, some mines were also hung from trees.
This posed a bigger tactical threat, especially as brushing accidentally against even one—which was entirely possible, given the narrowness of the tracks, especially if a patrol was conducted at night—would be disastrous.
Even as the STF mulled over the best way to proceed, on 21 May 1993, Sanjay Arora received information that pinpointed Veerappan’s den. He ordered his team to prepare for a raid immediately.
Darkness had descended by the time the final preparations were done. In fact, it was almost pitch dark. ‘But darkness, like the jungle, is neutral,’ reasoned Sanjay. ‘If you master it better than your foe, it becomes an advantage.’
‘Let’s move,’ Sanjay told his team.
His team marched, their steps nearly synchronized. In less than two hours, they reached Valankulipatti.
Sanjay then signalled with his right hand, palm down. The team halted. Next to his scout was the informer who claimed that he had broken bread with the gang only two days ago. The man jerked his thumb to his right, pointing to a sort of tunnel through the dense bushes. Sanjay dropped on his stomach and pulled himself forward. The rest of the team followed. Wriggling on their tummies, working one knee and one palm at a time, they moved through the tunnel. The scout pinched his nose to suppress a sneeze that could have wrecked all their efforts.
‘This tunnel could have been made either by wild boar or men,’ thought Sanjay, sensing that this could easily be a trap. ‘If either suddenly comes charging at us from the opposite direction, things could get really messy.’
After a crawl of a few tension-filled minutes, the team ended up in a clearing barely 30 yards in diameter. As they cautiously rose to their feet, their eyes darted left and right, checking every inch for potential threats. Suddenly, the moon, which had been hiding behind thick clouds, shone on the clearing. The men ducked hastily—some, not finding any cover, simply sank to the ground, trying to present the smallest possible target.
In the same light, they saw something dark and squat at the centre of the clearing, but were unable to make out exactly what it was.
The scout thought he heard a rustle in the bushes and threw a clump of earth towards it. All the men familiar with the area knew the simple formula. If there was movement in the bushes, it meant an animal was concealed there. If nothing happened, the odds were that the place was either empty or occupied by the wiliest animal of all—man.
They lay quietly for a minute. The moon disappeared behind the clouds once again.
The men could hardly see their own guns, let alone make out a hand signal. So they resorted to a method familiar to most hunting tribes—quietly tap the head of the man behind. Without even a decibel of sound, the message was relayed to the entire group. They rose to their feet and closed in silently.
The dark form turned out to be the circle of a well, which provided potable water for Veerappan’s massive camp of over a hundred men and women. But the site itself was abandoned. A detailed survey revealed some rations, torn garments, sheets and ashes where food had obviously been cooked.
‘They’ve gone, sir,’ said one of the men. ‘They must have left at least a week ago.’ If only the STF had had helicopters and drone backup, then this march of the bandits could have been stopped in its tracks at Bodamalai and a hundred deaths could have been avoided. But that was not meant to be. The STF became heliborne only in the year 2000.
Unknown to the STF, which relied on human intelligence that, at times, could be several weeks old, or even misinformation provided by the locals to create diversions for the brigand, Veerappan and his gang had embarked on a westward migration. They would not return to their old hunting grounds till 2001, though Veerappan was known to make the odd quick trip to Gopinatham, accompanied by one or two men.
Sanjay recalled being puzzled about the absence of the brigand. ‘Where could they have gone?’ he had wondered at that time. The answer was revealed soon in a blaze of gunfire that almost claimed the life of another senior officer.
9
Ambush in MM Hills
July 2001
I slapped the file down on the desk. My head was spinning, trying to make sense of what I was reading, but it seemed to be a big hotchpotch. There were almost as many versions of the events of that day in MM Hills as the number of people. Given the remoteness of the region and the fact that news, at times, took days to reach the police, it often got embellished to add dramatic effect in the retelling. And every retelling changed the story a bit, depending on the leanings of the storyteller.
‘Just how many descriptions exist on this encounter? The media says one thing quoting Veerappan’s sympathizers, our report says something else, and even the people who were present at the battle don’t seem to agree on what happened,’ I wondered.
Even as I rubbed my forehead to ease a twinge, Karuppusamy said, ‘It’s the fog of battle, sir. Everything happens so fast. The people present only manage to grasp glimpses of the incident. You too played a part that day, remember?’
I nodded. It was by sheer chance that I had been present when the badly wounded Gopal Hosur, an SP in the Karnataka STF, was rushed to hospital after what was one of the most dramatic attacks staged by Veerappan.
This is what happened that day, to the best of my knowledge …
May 1993
Veerappan’s courier was on edge. As he scurried away from the village, he kept sneaking fu
rtive glances all around him, trying to ensure that he was not being followed. Then a familiar voice called his name and his heart sank.
‘Dei Punnuswamy, where are you going in such a rush?’ asked Sethukuli Govindan, Veerappan’s distant cousin and a new rising star within the gang.
Punnuswamy laughed nervously, ‘Oh hello, what are you doing here?’ he asked.
Govindan walked up to Punnuswamy. He placed his palm on the back of Punnuswamy’s head and stared into his eyes, speaking in a soft but menacing voice. ‘Funny, I had the same question for you. Why don’t you answer first?’ he asked.
Punnuswamy’s faltering nerves crumbled and he collapsed to his knees. ‘Please don’t hurt me. I’ll tell you everything,’ he wailed.
A few hours later, Govindan was pushing Punnuswamy into the gang’s camp. The commotion brought Veerappan to the scene. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
Punnuswamy later told the police that he had fallen at Veerappan’s feet and wrapped his hands around his legs. ‘Anna, nananu ksamisu (Elder brother, forgive me). I had no intention of harming you. They forced me to take the gun. They said I should sneak into the camp and kill you whenever I get the chance. I was going to tell you everything. Spare my life, I beg you,’ he snivelled.
‘Who are “they”?’ asked Veerappan.
‘The STF dogs,’ whimpered Punnuswamy.
A smile crossed Veerappan’s face as he leaned down to pat the man grovelling at his feet. ‘The Karnataka STF is planning to kill me, da? I think it’s time they too were taught a lesson,’ he snarled.
It was a beautiful morning on 24 May 1993 in MM Hills, some 150 km from Mysore. The road to Mysore has many S-curves and the surrounding greenery and bright sunshine made for a picturesque setting.
The beauty of it was completely lost on Veerappan as he lay on a hillock, eagerly awaiting his prey. He knew every inch of the place. Once, not far from here, hordes of villagers on a daily wage of ₹20, which they cheerfully took, used to harvest one of the world’s best sandalwood varieties.
Veerappan only had eyes for the road, where the Karnataka STF convoy was expected any moment. His men had kept watch on the STF camp, monitoring all movement in and out of it for almost a week. They had picked out the ambush spot a couple of days back and were lying in wait ever since.
Around 7 a.m., Veerappan tensed as his keen ears picked up the sound of approaching vehicles. He nodded grimly. Three distinct sounds. Soon, three police jeeps came into view. The front and rear jeeps were probably escort vehicles. Veerappan’s eyes focused on the middle one, which was carrying Gopal Hosur, the STF SP who commanded the camp in MM Hills. He was a major thorn in Veerappan’s flesh.
‘Not for much longer,’ thought the bandit grimly, even as he began savouring the moment when he would give the order to open fire.
Bang!
A shot rang out just seconds before the convoy would have been hopelessly trapped.
‘What the hell! Which idiot fired before I gave the go-ahead? I’ll kill him myself,’ roared Veerappan.
But his voice was drowned out as his other men too began shooting in a chain reaction. A furious Veerappan roared with impotent rage as he emptied his weapon at the vehicles.
Despite the premature firing, the convoy was riddled with bullets. Many STF men were hit before they could even process what was going on. Others quickly spilled out of the jeeps to take cover behind the trees and fired back.
Gopal’s driver, Ravi, felt a sharp pain in his right wrist as a bullet went through. Groaning, he quickly sized up the situation. ‘It’s hopeless,’ he thought and turned to look at the back seat.
He saw that Gopal had raised his AK-47, even though he was bleeding profusely from the neck. The sight jolted Ravi into action.
Frantically, he tried to manoeuvre the jeep, but it didn’t respond. Puzzled, he looked at his right hand and realized that there was no strength left in it. Ravi swore, then grabbed the steering wheel with his left and reversed as fast as he could.
‘He’s getting away,’ yelled Veerappan. ‘After him!’
The outlaws broke cover and raced towards the road. But the jeep was too fast.
Veerappan turned his face to the sky and howled in frustration. ‘I’ll get you another day,’ he screamed.
With effort, he composed himself. ‘Time to get out of here,’ he ordered. ‘Make sure to cut down a tree and block the route in case they send a search party after us.’
As his men began to melt away, Veerappan strode up to one of the jeeps in which all the occupants were lying dead.
‘I’ll get myself a little souvenir,’ he said, pulling out a 7.62 mm SLR that belonged to one of the jeep’s unfortunate occupants. He carried that weapon with him till his last day.
The gang had prepared its ambush so thoroughly and was so sure of its success that it moved on to a designated rendezvous spot where piping hot tea and snacks were laid out. An exuberant Veerappan rewarded his key associates liberally with gold chains, his earlier anger forgotten.
At the time I was at the STF headquarters in Mellur (Tamil Nadu) on a visit for a few days that I had managed to extend to almost a month. A long lull in the CM’s tour calendar had meant that she was not travelling for a while, and was surrounded by a well-trained, reliable team in Chennai. Ravi Sawani, also an alumnus of the Rossie school of hard knocks and known to be meticulous about security protocol, was leading the team in my absence.
It was a perfect opportunity for me to take off for a few days. I requested the CM for permission to spend some time with the STF. Walter Davaram was just as delighted by our reunion as me. I spent a hectic month with him, engaged in combing operations. I was holding the fort at the headquarters while Walter led a team into the forest the day of the attack.
The wireless operator at the STF camp came rushing up to me, an anxious look on his face. ‘Bad news, sir,’ he panted. ‘An STF party has been ambushed in MM Hills. The SP was badly wounded and it will take them too long to get him to Mysore. We’re an hour away. They’ve crossed the Palar checkpost and are bringing him here.’
We had a couple of doctors at hand, but they were able to do little more than provide first aid. Gopal’s injury clearly needed advanced medical attention.
‘Tell them to meet us on the highway,’ I said. ‘Where is the nearest hospital?’
‘In Salem, about 50 km away,’ I was told. It was the same Gokulam hospital where they had rushed ‘Rambo’ Gopalakrishnan after the Good Friday blast.
‘Well, Salem is where we’re going,’ I replied. ‘Call up all the police stations en route and tell them to ensure that we get a clear run.’
We quickly organized some vehicles and rushed to the highway where we rendezvoused with the Karnataka STF. Gopal was unconscious. The doctors patched him up as best as they could and put him in the field ambulance. I was in the lead vehicle and instructed the driver to keep the pedal pressed to the floor all the way to Salem.
The doctors there had already been alerted and had the operation theatre ready by the time we came screeching into the hospital. Gopal was stabilized and then shifted to St John’s Hospital, Bangalore. He underwent multiple surgeries and had some 55 inches of sutures in his neck.
Karnataka CM Veerendra Patil flew by helicopter to Salem to visit Gopal as soon as he learned of the attack. The flight path took the copter over the hills where Veerappan was hiding. We learned later that Veerappan thought the helicopter was being used to search for him and that the manhunt for him had already begun.
The Karnataka STF was chafing at the way one of their own had been attacked so brazenly. Shankar Bidari personally spent the next 120 days in the forest without a break, leading intensive searches. Retaliation was swift and decisive, and some gangsters were killed. But the wily Veerappan had vanished.
I still remember Gopal’s close encounter with death. The man was bedridden for months, but was fortunate to survive. It was an extraordinary combination of three strokes of luck that had
saved him. To begin with, the premature firing on his convoy (we never did find out who fired that first bullet). If the ambush party had waited for Veerappan’s command, they would have definitely succeeded in not just trapping Gopal, but perhaps, even wounding him mortally.
Two, he had a quick-thinking and resourceful driver in Ravi. When the rescue party reached Hosur’s jeep, they found Ravi’s injured right hand on the verge of being severed from the wrist. Despite the agony, he displayed raw courage and presence of mind to get out of the death trap in the nick of time.
This has led me to believe that in any potentially threatening situation, you must choose your driver carefully. He could prove to be a life-saver! Who can forget the dramatic manner in which General Augusto Pinochet’s driver did a bootleg turn and saved the general’s life during an ambush on his car-cade in 1986?
The third piece of luck was the presence of an STF camp and an accessible hospital that helped save precious hours at a time when every second was critical.
We had lost far too many good men in the long years spent hunting Veerappan, but sometimes Lady Luck was kind to us. She was certainly smiling on Gopal Hosur that day. And as I found out a couple of days later, she would be equally generous to me.
26 May 1993, 7.30 a.m.
I brushed the leaves from my battle fatigues and gently stretched my muscles, cramped from lying still for hours. It had been a long, fruitless night in the forest. We had received a tip-off that some men had been spotted moving around in the foothills of Bodamalai and we had lain in ambush through the night, but it had passed uneventfully.
Veerappan: Chasing the Brigand Page 7