‘You may go.’ Siddan was dismissed.
He wanted to ask Veerappan about his intentions, but quickly folded his hands in a vanakkam and exited the camp.
Informers in the camp later told the police that the moment Siddan left, Veerappan yelled for Baby.
As soon as he arrived, Veerappan gave him a piece of his mind. ‘You idiot, what were you thinking? That man is important to us. And you fool around with his wife? Control your libido,’ he yelled.
Baby’s face reddened. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken so harshly to him. Without saying a word, he stormed out of the camp.
Veerappan sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Go fetch that ass before he gets himself killed,’ he snorted.
Baby was mollified and persuaded to come back, but the rift between him and Veerappan widened. Eventually, Veerappan allowed him to leave the gang and go his own way. As a sign of his affection for his distant nephew, Veerappan allowed him to keep his.303 rifle and also gifted him a pair of tusks so that he could sell them and start afresh.
Baby immediately headed off to meet Giddhabhai ‘Kulla’ Bacha. Kulla means tiny. Giddhabhai wasn’t quite as small as the nickname suggested, but he had been given the moniker to distinguish him from a couple of namesakes who were a few inches taller than him. The name stuck.
In the underworld circles, Kulla Bacha was the man you went to if you had illegal ivory. So it was no surprise that he was the first person Baby went to see. But in his arrogance, Baby made no effort to hide his movements.
Before long, Nawaz found an informer whispering into his ear, ‘Kannukutti thaniya suthudhu (A stray calf is on a loose tether).’
‘Bring in the calf at the right time,’ he responded.
The informer, Kandavel, nodded. ‘Soon,’ he said, and left for Kulla Bacha’s camp.
Like Baby, Kandavel had once been an armed member of Veerappan’s gang. His stint with them had lasted three years till a minor fallout occurred between him and the other gang members. Veerappan had stripped him of his weapon and ordered him to leave. But for old times’ sake, he still functioned as a courier for the gang and visited their hideout every now and then.
What Veerappan didn’t know, however, was that after Kandavel was evicted from the gang, Nawaz had carefully cultivated him. Instead of arresting Kandavel for the multiple cases against him, the STF had given him some money and asked him to keep them informed about Veerappan’s activities.
On his way to meet Kulla Bacha, Kandavel ran into Baby in Thalavadi Forest. Baby was cooking upma in a clearing, while three young boys, who worked with Bacha, hovered around and chatted with him. They had to make sure that everything was in order before Bacha arrived to negotiate a deal for the tusks.
‘Come and sit with me, Kandavel. You’re right in time to taste my delicious cooking,’ laughed Baby.
Kandavel settled down as Baby continued preparing the meal. After a while, Bacha’s boys left. Kandavel noticed Baby’s rifle on the ground. The two of them were then alone.
‘It’s the perfect opportunity,’ thought Kandavel. He briefly toyed with the idea of taking Baby captive and producing him before the STF, but that would have involved walking many miles in an area full of potential threats while guarding a dangerous, wily foe.
‘Too much risk. It will have to be right here, right now,’ Kandavel decided. In a flash, he grabbed the gun, slid the bolt and pulled the trigger. The powerful ammunition of the.303 is designed to take out an enemy from even 600 yards. Baby was barely a yard away. The bullets tore through his body, leaving gaping holes in their wake.
In the quiet of the forest, the sound of the rifle carried to Bacha’s men. They exchanged panicked glances.
‘Police!’ exclaimed one of them. They fled for their lives, making no effort to contact Bacha for the next few days. It was only after they were convinced that there had been no police crackdown and Bacha was alive and well that they mustered the courage to approach him again.
Meanwhile, Veerappan learned of Baby’s death and flew into a towering rage. Whatever his kinsman’s faults—and there were many—he had been immensely fond of him.
As luck would have it, Kandavel was in the gang’s camp when the news arrived. He was unaware that Bacha’s men had heard the rifle shots. He believed that the best way to ward off any suspicion was to pretend to be unaware of Baby’s fate.
‘Where is Tupaki? He had complained about Baby. He must have killed him,’ thundered Veerappan. ‘Find him.’
By then, Tupaki had also heard of Baby’s death and realized that he was the prime suspect. Rather than depending upon Veerappan’s rough-and-ready method of dispensing justice, which did not involve any legal niceties like presuming a person innocent until proven guilty, he decided to go underground with his wife.
This only cemented Veerappan’s belief that Tupaki was responsible for Baby’s death. The misunderstanding might have lasted longer, but unfortunately for Kandavel, Bacha decided to meet Veerappan. It was ostensibly a condolence call, but he also wanted to assure the bandit that he had nothing to do with the killing.
‘I was stunned when I learned about Baby’s death. You know, I was on my way to meet him. My boys and Kandavel were probably the last friends he saw,’ Bacha told Veerappan.
The bandit had been nodding silently and stroking his moustache. He stopped abruptly and glared at Bacha.
‘What was that about Kandavel?’ he asked.
‘He and my boys met Baby just before he died. In fact, my boys left Kandavel and Baby alone. That was the last time they saw him,’ said Bacha. ‘They heard gunfire a little later.’
Veerappan’s eyes widened slightly as he turned to Govindan and asked, ‘Kandavel was here the day we learned of Baby’s death, wasn’t he?’
Govindan nodded and replied, ‘He didn’t mention meeting Baby.’
The two men stared at each other, first perplexed and then with mounting anger. Veerappan hit his forehead. ‘The bastard sat right here while we talked about Tupaki. He must have been laughing his head off the whole while,’ he remarked.
After his outburst, Veerappan became quiet. For those who knew him, it was an ominous silence.
‘A thorn has to be removed by a thorn,’ he finally said, with icy clarity. ‘I want Kandavel shredded. Call him here. No, wait, let’s not make him suspicious. Bacha, you bring him to me.’
A few days later, an unsuspecting Kandavel walked straight into the trap devised by Veerappan at a place called Kenjimaduvu (ironically, kenji means to plead or beg). He greeted the bandit with a smile that faded as Veerappan stared back at him stone-faced.
Govindan broke the awkward silence. ‘Have you been meeting anyone in the STF?’ he asked Kandavel.
‘No,’ said Kandavel, weakly.
Govindan’s expression hardened. As Kandavel looked into his eyes, the enormity of his predicament dawned upon him. ‘I should have questioned Bacha more closely,’ he thought. But it was too late.
Still, he tried to bluff it out. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.
Govindan poked him in the chest with his rifle and remarked, ‘You met Baby just before he died?’
All the fearlessness went out of Kandavel. His legs began to shake. His shoulders slouched in defeat, as he began inhaling in short, rasping breaths. His throat went dry.
‘You son of a bitch, we suspected Siddan. We would have killed him. You were sitting there like a snake in our lap while we condemned him,’ snarled Govindan.
‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to … It was Mohan Nawaz,’ Kandavel began to blabber.
Nawaz’s name acted like an electric prod on Veerappan. ‘That bastard, again. He springs up everywhere,’ he snarled.
Veerappan raved and ranted at Kandavel, listing his acts of treachery—real and imagined—even as his men systematically beat him up. He started to shiver, although it was a humid day.
Kandavel sank to his knees, writhing in pain. Dimly, he became aware of Govindan standing behi
nd him. He gave Veerappan one final look, a mute appeal for amnesty, which went unheeded. The click of a gun being cocked snuffed out the last feeble ray of hope. There was an ominous pause. Then a gun roared, only once.
The informer’s death sent a shockwave through the STF. To serve as a warning to any potential informer, Veerappan got Kandavel’s last moments recorded on camera. A few days later, graphic photographs of his brutal end appeared in the Tamil magazine Nakkeeran, along with a screaming headline: ‘Trial in Veerappan’s Court—Death for Betrayal’.
The accompanying article sent chills down the spines of several readers, mostly concentrated in towns and villages. In the hills and forest areas, Veerappan’s stomping grounds, the news was conveyed in hushed voices through simple word of mouth, the story getting even more horrifying with every retelling. Veerappan had made his point forcefully: if you don’t wish to do anything for me, then make sure you don’t do anything against me.
A year later, another gang member found himself facing Veerappan’s wrath for molesting a woman. Meikei Rengasamy, a fringe member of the gang, was accused by a farmer, who was in regular touch with Veerappan, of forcing himself on the man’s wife. Veerappan was in image-makeover mode by then, collaborating with radical Tamil groups and trying to project himself as a saviour of the oppressed masses. He had let Baby leave the gang, but no such lenience was forthcoming for Rengasamy, who was brutally executed. Once again, Veerappan’s ‘justice’ was recorded on camera.
Meanwhile, other rumours abounded. Veerappan, suffering from a persistent cough, had acquired medicines from a local quack a few days before the execution. The STF’s intel had picked up a rumour, probably planted, that Veerappan was extremely unwell. Other whispers of a similar nature also began reaching the STF. Some claimed that he was suffering from tuberculosis, others that he could barely walk. Greenhorns in the intelligence wing started to enquire, not so discreetly, if it was true that he was no more. This caused a rumour to spread like wildfire that Veerappan had died near Manigarai, a hamlet halfway up a hill, which had been abandoned several decades ago during a severe drought.
It seemed to add up to one conclusion—Veerappan was indeed dead and his gang was making sure that the cops would never get their hands on his corpse, as a matter of honour.
The news of Veerappan’s death was received by the STF with a combination of excitement and disappointment. There was excitement that the Veerappan menace was finally over and disappointment that he had cheated justice in death.
An STF search party under Ashok Kumar was rushed to the site to ascertain the truth. It dug out a Nakkeeran magazine, muzzle-loader guns, travel bags containing clothes, hermetically sealed diaries and a huge stash of rice, oil and food, all sealed in three layers of polythene, suggesting a long stay of a sizeable number of people. The search party also came upon a coconut shell and a shattered mud pot, before finally stumbling upon a skeleton (which matched Veerappan in height). Later, it turned out that Sethukuli Govindan had conducted the last rites with the coconut and the mud pot. The STF was more or less sure that the deceased person was Meikei Rengasamy. Still, some doubts lingered. Could it be the dreaded bandit himself? Even before the forensics team could identify the deceased, reliable information arrived that Veerappan had been spotted elsewhere.
But the real skeletons that tumbled out of the bandit’s cupboard came from one of Veerappan’s diaries.
These, for the first time, revealed the bandit’s outreach plans. Nellikuppam Ramesh of the Tamil Nadu Viduthalai Padai (or the Tamil Nadu Liberation Army—TNLA), a banned and underground extremist outfit, was part of his camp. The redoubtable Q branch of the TN police later unearthed diabolic plots not only of the TNLA, but also of the TNRT—Tamil Nadu Retrieval Troops, of a quid pro quo between the gang and the radicals.
16
One Day, Two Escapes
August 2001
‘Two narrow escapes and that too within a span of barely twenty-four hours?’ I remarked. That was quite unbelievable, as Veerappan was known to give only two–three darshans a year to security forces, and here he was appearing twice on the same day. Curious, I opened the file.
November 1998
Assistant Commandant V.S. Naik heaved a contented sigh as he looked around. He, along with a patrol party of the Karnataka STF, was taking a break near Kundri, next to a water point. Some of Naik’s men walked up there to freshen up. Just then they heard a rustle behind them. They whipped around and were dumbfounded to find themselves gazing upon Veerappan and some of his men.
For one long, seemingly interminable moment the two sides gaped at each other. Then everybody went for their guns at the same time. But in the confusion and adrenalin-fuelled frenzy, none of the bullets found their mark.
With a savage oath, Veerappan lowered his rifle and took to his heels. By the time the members of the patrol could figure out what had happened, they found their target bounding from one rock to another and vanishing.
Naik and his men tried to give chase, but the window of opportunity had closed. It was after a very long time that a policeman had seen Veerappan face-to-face, and Naik was inconsolable.
A few hours later, it was the Tamil Nadu STF’s turn to go through the same gamut of emotions.
A local police station up in the hills informed the STF’s Bannari camp that Veerappan had sent word to a local vendor that he would shortly arrive at his home to have dosas. The man’s son immediately headed for the police station to pass on this once-in-a-blue-moon intel. This time, Hussain, an expert sniper himself, personally volunteered to lead a team to surround the vendor’s house, which was little more than a hut. The men threaded their way carefully through the thick undergrowth. ‘Careful, lads. Don’t jerk the trigger in excitement,’ whispered Hussain.
The team, which included several crack shots, exchanged glances and nodded. They knew all too well how easy it was to get carried away in a rush of excitement, and how a split second could make all the difference between life and death.
Suddenly they heard a strange noise. It sounded like someone was shooing away birds. Hussain didn’t want to take any chances. He dropped on all fours and moved stealthily towards the hut. Their view of the target was cut by almost 90 per cent. Still, it would be impossible for anyone to enter or exit the hut without being noticed by them, or at least their scout.
Hussain peered over the earthen bund of the half-ploughed field that led towards the hut. ‘His head will be the size of a papaya,’ the sniper in Hussain thought, as he lay quietly with his right cheek resting on the butt of the 7.62 self-loading rifle.
Suddenly, the stillness was shattered by a shot.
Hussain’s jaw fell. ‘Not again,’ he thought, recalling all the previous occasions when the element of surprise had been lost. He glared at his team, but a voice inside his head was already telling him that based on the direction of the sound, the bullet had not been fired by any of his men.
He grabbed his night-vision binoculars and focused. His gaze rested on a fence. The lone gate was open.
‘Come on, they’re getting away,’ shouted Hussain.
All caution was jettisoned as the squad charged towards the hut.
‘Don’t shoot. There’s no one here but me,’ yelled the terrified owner, as Hussain and his men burst into the hut. Hussain looked around. There were some empty plates. The dosa stone was lukewarm; the embers had still not died out.
‘Where is he?’ yelled Hussain.
‘He left fifteen minutes ago,’ came the reply.
The mystery of the anonymous shot was solved soon thereafter.
Hussain shook his head ruefully as he narrated the manner in which he and his men had found another hut about 50 feet below the vendor’s. It belonged to a farmer, who owned a muzzle-loader and nursed a deep hatred for some wild boars that were raiding his fields and ruining months of hard work.
As luck would have it, that evening, the farmer had decided to kill as many of the boars as he could and had be
en waiting for them since sunset. It was his shot that had startled Hussain and probably hastened Veerappan’s departure.
By the time the STF reached the man’s house, he was already chopping the meat with rhythm and relish. He was whistling a cheerful tune as he worked. The STF men looked at him, then at each other, and burst out laughing, rueful at another missed opportunity.
Part 3
The Rajkumar Saga and its Fallout
17
An Audacious Abduction
Srinagar, 2000
At the turn of the millennium, I was IG (Ops) of the BSF in Kashmir, heading a 50,000-strong force. The Kargil war and fidayeen attacks—particularly after we lost a DIG in Bandipur to the latter—kept us on our toes.
One evening, during chile-kalan—peak winter in Kashmiri—I was at the Lal Chowk bunker, one of the hundreds that dotted Srinagar. I was amazed at the way my boys would always keep their morale high, despite the abysmal living conditions. Within minutes of my departure from Lal Chowk, the post was rocked by a grenade attack. A jawan patrolling nearby was fatally shot when a passer-by, part of the milling crowd, suddenly whipped out a pistol from under his phiran and opened fire.
Days later, I received a late-night call from the control room. Some militants were holed up in a house in Srinagar that had resulted in an intense gun battle with troops from four different forces—the army, the Special Operations Group of the J&K Police, the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) and the BSF. All troops were pinned down on the street opposite the house, unable to move in.
A heavily armoured truck, also referred to as a mobile bunker, was positioned nearby.
‘Why doesn’t someone drive that in? I enquired, ‘The boys can follow under its cover.’
‘The CRPF driver was hit by a bullet through a little beading at the top of the windscreen,’ I was told. ‘We’ve managed to extricate his body but nothing has happened since. The boys are badly shaken.’
Veerappan: Chasing the Brigand Page 12