A grin appeared on Veerappan’s face. ‘Perhaps it’s time we paid him a visit too,’ he remarked.
On the evening of 3 December, Veerappan and his men kidnapped DSP Chidambaranathan; his brother, a head constable; and the officer’s brother-in-law, a high-school teacher.
Ashok Kumar had repeatedly warned Chidambaranathan that it was unsafe for him to be moving freely in the area, but his advice had been ignored. Chidambaranathan’s abduction immediately made the headlines, but the gang itself was silent. There were no demands or statements of intent.
It was an anxious wait. On the sixth day, the Coimbatore district collector received an audio cassette from Veerappan, stating that he had Chidambaranathan and the others in his custody. He also said that he would send his trusted lieutenant Baby Veerappan to conduct negotiations.
Baby, a kinsman of Veerappan who had joined the gang six years ago, had rapidly risen through the ranks. Veerappan was said to be so fond of him that he had even contemplated getting his elder daughter married to Baby when she came of age. With his long hair, bandolier and flamboyant manner, he could have easily been mistaken for a transplant from the Chambal ravines of the 1960s.
The collector immediately went into a huddle with Arora, and it was decided that Karuppusamy would pose as a revenue inspector and talk to the gang. One of the STF’s veterans, Karuppusamy was ideal for the role, as his wiry build and gentle manner would not rouse any suspicion.
Karuppusamy met Baby in the Lingapuram forest area in Coimbatore district. Baby emerged from the forest, a.303 rifle in hand, accompanied by another gang member. He spotted the government jeep and signalled it with a flourish, as if hailing a cab.
Once the party reached the Coimbatore Municipal Inspection Bungalow, Baby asked his man to ‘check out the place’. The men entered the building after getting the all-clear. Baby then handed over a fresh cassette to Karuppusamy.
On the tape, Veerappan demanded the best possible medical care and safety for Arjunan. He also issued a demand that made the collector’s jaw drop. ‘₹1,000 crore if you want the DSP back alive.’ That kind of ransom must surely have been a record!
As the collector conveyed the demand to his equally stunned seniors, Karuppusamy was given the directive to travel with a tehsildar in the latter’s jeep and pick up Arjunan from the edge of the forest.
Their journey out of the jungle turned into a media circus, during which Arjunan obligingly lifted his lungi to display his cyst. Bulbs flashed and a chorus of exclamations then filled the air. Mercifully, he didn’t offer any sound bites.
For twenty-seven days, Karuppusamy and Arjunan shared the same room. An ardent devotee of Lord Ayyappa and a simple vegetarian, Karuppusamy was stunned at Arjunan’s gargantuan appetite. The man could polish off huge portions of fish, crab, mutton and eggs, washing it down with copious quantities of fresh fruit juice.
As negotiations dragged on, Karuppusamy drew Arjunan into prolonged conversations where the man insisted that his brother was a misunderstood person, a religious man and a good leader.
‘Who does he hate the most?’ Karuppusamy asked once.
Arjunan’s reply was instantaneous. ‘Shankar Bidari and Mohan Nawaz,’ he said, and then launched into a venomous diatribe against both men.
While Karuppusamy and Arjunan talked, Inspector Ashok Kumar, dressed as a peon, would drop by and respectfully take instructions from his boss, the ‘revenue inspector’.
The message to Arjunan was relayed in clear and uncertain terms—forget ₹1,000 crore, not even a rupee would be forthcoming as ransom. But as he was getting excellent medical care and living in comfort, he was in no hurry to wrap up talks.
While Arjunan was comfortably ensconced in the inspection bungalow, Baby came up with one demand after another. He wanted to meet the members of Veerappan’s gang detained in MM Hills as well as Muthulakshmi and enquire about her well-being. Both wishes were granted.
When they met, Baby handed over a cassette from Veerappan to Muthulakshmi. She, in turn, recorded her reply, speaking bitterly about the treatment that the Karnataka STF had meted out to her.
Baby even visited the MM Hills headquarters of the Karnataka STF. Needless to say, our counterparts in Karnataka weren’t too happy about this, but they gritted their teeth and cooperated because a fellow officer’s life was on the line.
A few days later, Baby returned to the forest, carrying baskets of apples and oranges. His hygiene had gone up a notch, with his long hair combed tight. The collector heaved a sigh of relief, the kind usually reserved for successful completion of visits by high-ranking dignitaries for inspections.
Before long, word about the ₹1,000 crore ransom leaked and hit the front pages of all local dailies. It made Veerappan the butt of many jokes. But if anyone thought he had muddled up his maths and actually wanted a smaller figure, his next list of demands set all doubts to rest.
He demanded that a granite quarry be leased to him for a hundred years, one hundred gun licences be awarded exclusively for his close protection detail, and that he be protected by the same commandos that guarded the Tamil Nadu CM (that, ironically, would have meant that I would supervise his security too!). His most urgent demand, however, was for the immediate removal of the STF.
Meanwhile, Walter Davaram, chafing in a hospital bed in Chennai after suffering a life-threatening accident, defied the orders of his doctor to be on bed rest for twelve weeks and returned to the field. After merely eight weeks he rushed 500 km by rail and road, with several broken bones held in place by steel rods.
‘This nonsense has gone on long enough. Time to end it,’ he thundered.
There was an immediate impact of his arrival on the STF’s morale. But there was also an element of luck.
On 28 December, the STF’s intelligence wing received hints that Veerappan may soon meet the media. He was apparently worried that his image had taken a beating due to the hostage situation and his outlandish demands, and so he was keen to present his point of view. A new tape recorder and a set of new clothes had gone into the jungle the previous evening.
Mohan Nawaz’s sources revealed that the hostages were probably being held near a village called Lingapuram. Based on this information, Sanjay Arora worked out an elaborate operation. A dozen teams began combing the area on 29 December. While descending a slope, one team member noticed something pink fluttering near some bushes. Closer scrutiny revealed it to be the gang’s campsite. It was empty, but for some dried meat.
Unfortunately, even as the team moved in, Baby Veerappan spotted them and opened fire, hitting a constable in his right shoulder. Two of Veerappan’s most trusted men began to hustle the hostages away. The ‘funnelling fire’ with LMGs, however, forced the fleeing fugitives to head east towards Lingapuram, rather than allow them to vanish into the forest.
Later, a livid Chidambaranathan revealed that he was convinced that the STF had acted irresponsibly and had almost got him killed. According to him, ‘Nobody rescued us. We rescued ourselves.’
Meanwhile, Veerappan’s two men were shaken after their close brush with death. They also realized that they were now cut off from the gang and that it was only a matter of time before the STF would close in.
Chidambaranathan later told the police that he could sense their vulnerability and convinced the two men that it was better to surrender and live than get killed. That night, the five men surfaced in a nearby village, Kanthavayal, and turned themselves in.
As luck would have it, Veerappan was not with the gang when it had come under attack that day. He had actually gone to meet the media. But as he neared the rendezvous point, a lizard fell off a tree on to his left shoulder. ‘It’s an ill omen,’ Veerappan said and immediately dropped his plan to hold a ‘press conference’. As he returned to the camp, he heard heavy firing and turned tail instantly, according to gang members who surrendered later.
On 30 December, as a blissfully ignorant Arjunan relaxed in his room, a burly man entered and saluted Ka
ruppusamy.
‘Do you know who this is?’ asked Karuppusamy.
‘No. Who is he?’ asked Arjunan, still unconcerned.
‘The same Mohan Nawaz you’ve spoken about so often,’ chuckled Karuppusamy.
Though both Arjunan and his brother knew of Mohan Nawaz because of his actions and hated him with passion, neither had actually set eyes on him till then. Arjunan’s demeanour changed instantly. He turned pale and began to tremble. His eyes were ready to pop out.
‘Hello Arjunan, I’m delighted to finally meet you,’ said Nawaz pleasantly. Then he pointed at Karuppusamy and asked, ‘Do you know who this is?’
Arjunan shook his head silently, his cornered gaze darting from one man to another.
‘My senior in the STF, Inspector Karuppusamy,’ Nawaz informed Arjunan, who by now had broken into a sweat. ‘Oh, and you might want to meet the “peon”, Inspector Ashok Kumar. Now, get ready. There’s a nice prison cell waiting for you. For once, your brother is not going to be of any help to you.’
Within days of Arjunan’s arrest, the Karnataka Police demanded that he be handed over to them for interrogation. They went to court and eventually obtained a court order to this effect.
On 26 June 1995, Arjunan and Veerappan’s two aides were formally transferred into the custody of the Karnataka Police. They were immediately bundled into a police van that headed for the STF base in MM Hills, approximately 140 km away.
According to the report filed later by the inspector-in-charge, Madhukar Musale, the van had moved about 40 km when he heard strange sounds emanating from the back. He stopped the van and jumped out to investigate. When the back of the van was opened, he found the three men squirming on the floor. They happened to have taken cyanide capsules. Death followed almost instantaneously.
Their deaths raised several questions, most of which remain unanswered. How did they manage to get hold of cyanide capsules in a high-security confinement? What provoked them to kill themselves after almost six months in Tamil Nadu Police custody?
An enquiry panel eventually absolved the Karnataka STF of allegations that it had deliberately killed the men.
But when Veerappan learned of Arjunan’s death, he was furious. Both his younger brother and sister Mariammal had died in circumstances that Veerappan found highly suspicious. His wife’s captivity also rankled him no end and it was only a matter of time before his wrath would explode.
Known to nurse his hatred, on 9 August 1995, Veerappan entered Punajunur village and walked straight to the headman’s house, yelling and cursing. The headman’s son had bragged to the media that it was his family that had provided the police with the information that led to the arrest of Muthulakshmi. Word of the interview had reached Veerappan as well and he decided to take matters into his own hands, his former comrades said.
Police accounts reveal that when he heard the commotion, the headman’s son unlatched the back door quietly and fled for his life. The rest of his family was not as fortunate. Five of them were lined up against the house and shot at point-blank range. A daily labourer, who rushed to the spot when he heard the bullets, also became a victim. He was shot in his left arm, which later had to be amputated.
That nobody else in the village dared to intervene hardly surprised me. The jungle-hamlets were under siege. It was as though a man-eater was on the prowl next door. There was an air of terror all around.
13
Unfriendly Fire
August 2001
‘An excellent spot for an ambush,’ I said, gesturing at the lone banyan tree that we had crossed a while ago.
There was ample cover and a clear line of fire at anyone trying to cross the Moyar River, a natural bottleneck that separated the Eastern and Western Ghats and was home to several species of flora and fauna. Soon, we camped on the western banks of the river. Rucksacks were unzipped, some Velcro softly pulled, peanuts and dates munched and water gulped.
Veerappan also appreciated the area’s hidden potential. At least that is what was revealed by one of his gang members whom we captured later. ‘We’d set a trap for him, but …’ said the lean man standing next to me.
I swivelled and looked at DSP F.M. Hussain, who was shaking his head ruefully even as he shoved a handful of freshly caught fish into an improvised clay oven. Hussain was clever, with a knack of rustling up good food without much smoke, smell or noise.
We were at a place that the locals referred to as ‘vin meen kaduvu’ (roughly translated as ‘fish like stars in the sky’). Silvery on top and pale below, the fish in the region indeed resembled stars when they leapt out of the water in shoals on a moonlit night.
Hussain’s.303 was propped up against a shrub nearby. Contrary to all regulations, its barrel was sawed into half, reminiscent of the Sicilian lupara made famous by Mario Puzo. Experts—and Hussain certainly was one—believed that the shorter barrel made for easier handling in wooded areas. It was a trade-off between power and portability.
Hussain had personally modified his weapon. He almost always meddled with any gun or machine part that was remotely connected with police work. His range of contacts was wide, extending from scientists from the Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore, to street mechanics from any small town.
A sniper and a gunsmith, a hunter and a cook—and superb in each role—Hussain was another old-timer who had been with the STF right from the Jungle Patrol days. In between, he had also rushed to Chennai when the city had faced an outbreak of swine flu and stray pigs needed to be culled swiftly. Hussain and another marksman, Samy, were reportedly spotted roaming around with.22 rifles. It was rumoured that about 5,000 pigs were taken off the streets of Chennai within days. Samy’s friends then took to calling him ‘Pig’ Samy. Hussain had missed that title by a whisker.
Hussain’s resourcefulness was legendary in the forces. In his early days in the police, when he was posted in Ooty, his boss had bemoaned the fact that there was no mounted police for ceremonial purposes and for conduct of patrols during peak tourist season. Overnight, Hussain ensured that all the stray ponies in the scenic hill station were rounded up. The next morning, he paraded them, although not in perfect alignment, before the beaming SP. Years later, Hussain still cracked up whenever he recounted that episode.
Right now, though, there was no sign of a smile on his grim face. ‘There was a time when my boys and I, who were in plain clothes, were mistaken for Veerappan’s men by the Karnataka STF. They almost opened fire on us,’ he gestured with his hands towards a spot that was about a couple of kilometres from our present location.
‘Really? How did you avert that?’ I asked.
‘I got lucky. I overheard their conversation over the radio set and yelled out to them in the nick of time not to shoot. Friendly fire is a real hazard in this terrain. Poor Ananjeya found out the hard way right here …’ he trailed off.
June 1995
Ananjeya Kumar cursed softly as his stomach rumbled. Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he gently lifted the small camouflage patch over the dial of his watch. Nearly 2 a.m. Technically, 26 June had begun two hours ago.
‘What a time and place to get a stomach upset,’ he thought bitterly. The still, humid night added to his sense of suffocation even as he kept up his night vigil.
Ananjeya and three other STF men, all volunteers, had been camping at the spot—between the Moyar River and Bhavanisagar Dam—for the past several days, following a juicy tip-off that Veerappan and his men were in the area and could cross the river at any time. The terrain would force them to enter a cul-de-sac, making it the perfect spot for an ambush. Therefore, Ananjeya was put in charge of the team and asked to lie in wait for the brigand.
As a constable, Ananjeya was somewhat junior for such an assignment, but he had made a favourable impression on the STF leadership a year ago. News had reached the STF that Veerappan was camping in the Velampatty jungles and receiving supplies from Nallur. But when the STF set up a camp near the village, its inhabitants had formed a human shi
eld of women and children and surrounded it, giving the fugitives time to melt away.
Emboldened by their numbers, the motley crowd had begun to morph into a hostile mob. The situation was turning uglier by the second when Ananjeya had stepped forward with a sickle in hand. As the crowd looked on, he had drawn a line on the road in typical larger-than-life southern film-star style and yelled, ‘If anyone crosses this line, he is dead. If you think I’m not serious, try me.’
The mob had paused and looked at the earnest young man who stood resolutely, weapon in hand. His eyes moved in slow deliberation from one face to another, implying that he was trying to decipher a way to maximize the damage and daring them to make a move. Nobody was able to meet his gaze and after a while, the crowd had quietly melted and his team gelled. Since that day, Ananjeya was marked out by his seniors for higher things.
Ananjeya and his team were quickly briefed about their current mission and left in no doubt that the terrain was bound to make them miserable. Land and water battled for space, with the land shrinking considerably after the rains in the Nilgiris. But the real winner was the buffer in between: the sticky, slushy, slimy marsh that separated or linked the land and water. The depth of the marsh was deceptive and the surface, treacherous. It was not a good place for either the hunter or the hunted.
‘You can set up an observation post. There is a huge banyan tree that you can camp under. But if you move even an inch beyond the tree, you can be spotted from the hills on either side,’ the ambush party was briefed.
And so, the four men set up camp with care. The solitary banyan tree provided excellent cover. They checked in silently, setting up their bivouac at night. Its colours—light green, yellow and brown—blended well with the surrounding shrubs.
A few days passed uneventfully. Seeing no threat in their rare but gentle movements, the birds, jittery at first, ceased to raise an alarm.
Veerappan: Chasing the Brigand Page 10