I ran up to the truck and jumped on to the driver’s seat. It was sticky with the dead man’s blood. A split second later, the other door opened and my staff officer entered. The look on his face suggested that I was violating a full chapter of the SOPs (standard operating procedures).
Though BSF had overall responsibility of the city, this particular operation was being handled mainly by the CRPF and J&K Police, with the army in a supporting role. Also, the IG’s participation had only compelled the BSF Quick Reaction Team and other personnel to get involved, albeit unwittingly.
I fired up the engine and drove in at full throttle. The metal antenna of my bunker got tangled with a bunch of overhanging cables and some electricity poles, leading to considerable damage. Though the bunker almost stalled, it had, by then, achieved the intended purpose. A cheer went up and the boys came charging in behind me. A few shots were fired at the windows of the building. Then the boys brought down heavy covering fire. One brave jawan crawled up and lobbed a grenade through a window.
The militants retaliated with intense firing, constantly shifting positions. A few bullets hit the truck, but pinged off the armour.
After a while, the firing became sporadic. ‘Just some mopping-up operation to be done now,’ I thought and got off the truck. Satisfied that things were under control, I went home and turned in. However, on getting information that firing had restarted, I had to head out again in -4 degrees Celsius and search every inch of the shack. Such is life!
Even though I was engaged in a battle of a different intensity far away from Veerappan’s hunting grounds, I continued to hear about his escapades and brushes with the police.
A few months later, I moved to New Delhi on a staff appointment. Never much of a paper-pusher, I was anyway quite restless in my new assignment. Then news from Tamil Nadu made me desperate to get back to the STF again.
After lying low for a while, Veerappan contemplated abducting a celebrity. He had already gained expertise in kidnapping people over the years, starting with the son of a granite-mine owner in 1992.
In July 1997, Veerappan abducted ten Forest Department employees in Karnataka. The hostages were finally released after forty-four days in captivity, with the editor of Nakkeeran, R.R. Gopal, acting as the negotiator on behalf of the government for the first time. It was rumoured that the bandit was quite unhappy about his hostages being small fry.
The choice of Gopal as the negotiator raised serious doubts in the minds of the public. The popular perception was that the press was able to contact Veerappan at will, even as the police struggled. However, Veerappan was not an isolated case. Whether an underworld don in Colombia, an insurgent in Beirut, a militant in Kashmir, or a Naxal leader, they tend to access the media when they want to. Mostly, the communication is one-way. Veerappan actively courted the press and reached out to them, just as he assiduously avoided the police. When someone was taken to his hideout, it was usually through a circuitous route. There would be multiple guides, with each one knowing only part of the route. People who went to meet him could hardly ever retrace their steps. If it had been all that easy to nab Veerappan, it would have been done years ago, especially since the STF in both states had outstanding personnel.
On 8 October 1997, Veerappan abducted wildlife researchers and photographers Krupakar and Senani. The next day, he stopped a bus carrying fifteen tourists through Bandipur Forest and took them hostage. The same fate was reserved for the six Karnataka Forest Department staffers who went searching for the bus. Though Veerappan set most of the tourists free the same day, along with three government staffers, he refused to release Dr Satyabrata Maiti, a scientist with the Indian Institute of Horticultural Research in Bengaluru.
Maiti, Krupakar, Senani and the three foresters stayed in Veerappan’s captivity for a fortnight, before finally being released. Krupakar and Senani later wrote the book Birds, Beasts and Bandits on their enforced stay with Veerappan.
These daring abductions were followed by a meeting of the CMs of both states in August 1997, which resulted in a nine-point agreement regarding Veerappan’s demands.
However, some of the more outrageous demands were turned down. One of them was that Veerappan be kept in a special camp in Tamil Nadu, where he would receive visitors freely. It reminded me of Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar, who had got a jail built to his specifications, comprising a soccer field, a bar, a Jacuzzi, his own guards and women of his choice. But Jayalalithaa, then the Leader of the Opposition, blasted Veerappan’s request.
After the many close calls with the STF, Veerappan had kept a low profile. As winds of political change swept through the state, speculation was rampant in the press that Veerappan was possibly negotiating his surrender on very soft terms.
Veerappan’s lofty ambitions were rudely shattered after Walter Davaram publicly declared that if the bandit was ever given favourable treatment, he would personally shoot him!
Those of us who knew Walter well joked that getting a gun would not be a problem for him. Apart from his service issue weapon, he had built up a sizeable personal collection. His most prized possession perhaps was a revolver awarded to him by the Home Ministry for being the topper of the 1963 IPS batch.
Anyway, a leopard cannot change its spots. Veerappan too was getting itchy. Men who were part of his gang at the time told the police that though his previous abductions had made headlines, Veerappan yearned to be the stuff of legend. And for that, he knew he needed to reel in a really big fish.
Then, in the summer of 2000, one nefarious act made Veerappan a household name in India. It not only sent shockwaves throughout the country, but also made headlines the world over and catapulted the brigand to the status of India’s most wanted.
July 2000
Deep in the forest, Veerappan’s group huddled together, talking about potential targets.
‘Anna, Rajini’s house is near ex-CM’s (Jayalalithaa’s) house. We can get him when he moves out to a studio. Or near Chola Hotel,’ said one man.
Rajinikanth is the reigning deity of Tamil cinema, a superstar whose fans’ emotions border on religious devotion. He was undoubtedly tempting prey, but snatching him from the heart of Chennai and bringing him into the forest posed many logistical challenges.
‘What about Stalin?’ asked someone else, referring to the son of then Tamil Nadu CM, M. Karunanidhi.
‘He’s the Chennai mayor, always surrounded by gunmen. Too risky,’ cautioned another.
Several ideas were floated and discarded. Through it all, Veerappan remained expressionless.
‘How about Rajkumar?’ somebody suggested.
The name made Veerappan look up. Dr Rajkumar was a legendary superstar of Kannada cinema and the recipient of many prestigious honours, including the Padma Bhushan and the Dada Saheb Phalke award. He was regarded by his fans as a national treasure.
The gang began to discuss the idea. ‘His ancestral village is Doddakajanur. He has a farmhouse there that he loves. Our informers tell us he is there right now. He doesn’t like too much security around. Perfect target’.
‘Anna, it will fetch us big money. And your image will change,’ one of them told Veerappan.
Veerappan’s neck swivelled. That one word—’image’—seemed to touch a chord.
‘How far is Doddakajanur?’ he asked.
‘About 20 km, very close to the Karnataka–Tamil Nadu border,’ came the reply.
A smile settled on Veerappan’s face. ‘Let’s go pay Rajkumar a visit,’ he said.
30 July 2000
Veerappan waited patiently in the fallow fields, his eyes fixed on the farmhouse where his prey was having dinner with a small group.
‘Enjoy your meal. It will be the last one in a civilized setting for a while,’ he thought. As he counted down the minutes, he remembered his horoscope that had predicted, ‘The state will listen to your words.’
‘Let’s see if that comes true,’ he muttered.
The sky was changing colour. Finally it
was pitch-dark. Veerappan slowly let out a deep breath and nodded. It was time to move.
The gang’s advance team, dressed in khaki and olive green, knocked at the door. Before someone could answer the door, they pushed it open and barged in forcibly. Watching from his concealed position, Veerappan allowed a smile to play on his face. ‘So far, so good,’ he mumbled and marched in.
As Veerappan entered, all eyes turned towards him. The occupants looked befuddled at the sudden turn of events. But one look at Veerappan and the shock gave way to fear and dismay.
Veerappan walked up to Rajkumar. ‘Ayya, polaam (Let’s go),’ he said. Then he handed over an audio cassette to Rajkumar’s wife, Parvathamma. ‘Give this to (then Karnataka chief minister) S.M. Krishna. He’ll know what I want. Ayya will be safe.’
‘Please give him his medicines. Don’t harm him,’ Parvathamma pleaded as her voice choked.
‘No harm will come to him in the forest. But make sure Krishna listens,’ Veerappan told her.
In the melee, however, the gangsters ignored her plea about the medicines. Later, through All India Radio, the family reminded Veerappan of it.
Apart from Dr Rajkumar, the gang also rounded up three more hostages—his son-in-law Govindraj, relative Nagesh and assistant Nagappa. Luckily, the driver was spared as Veerappan realized that he would be needed to drive Parvathamma to Bangalore.
‘Don’t try to raise an alarm or make any sound as we leave,’ Veerappan warned. ‘If I hear the slightest sound, I’ll act. Don’t blame me later.’
Moments later, the bandits melted away into the darkness. The operation went off more efficiently than they had hoped, setting the stage for a 108-day hostage drama that gave sleepless nights to the administration of two states and riveted the attention of the world.
In the four long hours that followed, and which seemed like a lifetime to Rajkumar, the gang made their prize catch walk about six miles. It was slow going, but they could walk only as fast as the aged actor. At seventy, Rajkumar was fit, but suffered from arthritis and diabetes. Veerappan knew better than to push him beyond his physical limits.
In the opposite direction, a frantic Parvathamma drove through the night, only taking a break in Mysore to consult her family astrologer, Bhasyam Swami. After looking at his charts and performing some calculations, he assured her that her husband would come out safely from the ordeal within a few days.
Parvathamma then drove straight to the CM’s residence, where he was woken up at about 3 a.m. and given the shocking news.
Krishna immediately summoned Home Minister Mallikarjun Kharge, DGP Dinakar and Home Secretary M.B. Prakash. Later, Transport Minister Sageer Ahmed, Chief Secretary B.K. Bhattacharya and Rajkumar’s son, Shiva Rajkumar—a Kannada film star himself—were added to the crisis management group. (In 2016, Shiva Rajkumar played the lead role of an STF officer in director Ram Gopal Varma’s film, Killing Veerappan.)
That night the men summoned by the CM met in his camp office in Bangalore. Steaming hot coffee served to everybody in the room lay untouched as the men listened intently to Veerappan’s tape. There was no talk of death, mutilation or torture. But the subtlety of the message was even more terrifying.
It almost seemed as though Veerappan knew he would have the audience’s undivided attention and revelled in that knowledge. It was both threat and theatre.
One of his first demands was that the government send an emissary to ‘discuss some of the problems I face’. He also warned against any dramatic rescue attempt.
As the audio tape rolled to an end, many present in the room exhaled audibly. A brief silence descended. It was broken by a member of the group who said, ‘Let’s be clear. Our priority is to get Rajkumar back alive.’
Within a few hours, Bangalore and the rest of India woke up to the dreadful news. Schools, colleges, shops, business establishments and even banks shut down for the day in Karnataka. Phone lines were jammed as people made frantic calls sharing titbits and speculations. Most people stayed indoors. Those who dared to venture out found that the public transport system had plunged into chaos.
The abduction of a celebrity like Rajkumar has a devastating psychological impact. Any police officer can tell you that there is far more economic loss involved in, say, electricity theft than in a street crime. But such crimes evoke far greater fear in the minds of citizens, because each person instinctively thinks: ‘It could have been me.’ When a high-profile person like Rajkumar is involved, people immediately start thinking: ‘If the state cannot protect a VIP, how safe is the aam aadmi?’
In such a situation, the government’s first response always is to prevent breakdown of law and order. The Karnataka government immediately pressed several companies of the armed reserve police into action. Luckily, there were no riots, though spontaneous protests took place across the state.
In a show of solidarity, the Kannada film industry announced that no films would be produced, distributed or exhibited in Karnataka till Rajkumar’s safe return. It was a heart-warming gesture, but as the days wore on, it took a heavy toll on the industry’s finances.
Media personnel, ranging from lesser-known local dailies to multinational TV channels, rushed to Rajkumar’s ancestral home. The remote village suddenly arrived on the global map, for all the wrong reasons.
CM Krishna, accompanied by senior officials, flew to Chennai to meet his Tamil Nadu counterpart, Karunanidhi. As the two emerged from the meeting, TV anchors jabbed mikes in their direction, hoping for a bite.
A senior officer said on camera, ‘Negotiations are a must. If we shut the doors on his (Veerappan’s) face, the safety of Tamils in Karnataka may be threatened.’
The officer had voiced the unspoken fear haunting both governments. His candour was appreciated by the media, but not by his bosses.
Towards evening, Karunanidhi announced that Nakkeeran Gopal, who had helped secure the release of the forest officials a couple of years ago, would serve as as negotiator on behalf of both the sates.
August 2000
Gopal began his journey to meet Veerappan on 2 August. During the entire crisis, he went into the forest five times, even as the Karnataka government ordered the STF to cease all operations in the area. By moving just one man into his camp, Veerappan had managed to create an asymmetrical fight.
While the STF operations had officially been called off, a few mavericks of the Tamil Nadu STF kept their confidential informants (CIs) active, with strict instructions only to observe and report suspicious activity in the forest. ‘Do not engage with them under any circumstances,’ it was emphasized.
By 10 August, a Forest Department plot watcher met Mohan Nawaz. He claimed to have seen three gang members, along with four strangers. ‘One of them was in green dress, the others in neat clothes. They came from the roadside, rested for a while and then dispersed,’ he said.
Nawaz felt a frisson of excitement run through him. Veerappan and his hostages could not be very far. Unfortunately, before he could act on this intelligence, Veerappan’s trusted aide, Govindan, got to know about some strangers being spotted in the area and immediately rushed to him.
‘The sons of bitches must be from the STF,’ Veerappan snarled. ‘Tell Gopal.’
Gopal made a huge fuss about this. ‘Veerappan had clearly stated that the government must do his bidding or else blame itself for Rajkumar’s fate,’ he told both chief ministers.
The option of mounting an STF rescue op was taken off the table even before it was assembled cogently. The STF men were dispatched on other tasks. Some were asked to do traffic duty, with comical results. More used to hefting rucksacks and AK-47s than managing traffic, they probably ended up causing more jams than easing them.
The STF’s Bannari camp wore a deserted look, with just a handful of members left behind—a storekeeper and a few guards, checking the residual inventory at night.
From Veerappan’s vantage point, he could see that the lights were still on at the camp. Beside himself with fury, Vee
rappan’s ultimatum came swiftly, ‘Withdraw the STF immediately; Nawaz and Hussain first.’
I remember thinking that Veerappan’s demand had only reinforced the kind of monumental threat he considered both Nawaz and Hussain to be and the amount of psychological damage the duo had done to his morale.
And while both states scrambled to comply, I thought, rather ruefully, that in their haste, they had overlooked one vital clue.
If Veerappan was so well informed about the STF’s activities, he, or at least some of his gang members, were obviously keeping a close watch on the Bannari camp and, therefore, must be geographically close to it. Perhaps the two governments simply chose to ignore this fact because nobody wanted to risk an operation that might leave the authorities with the daunting prospect of handling an outraged public and a vociferous media.
It was later revealed that Veerappan was hardly 5–10 km from the Bannari camp. His strategy was as simple as it was audacious—hide in the open. He would move camp every now and then, but only by a kilometre or so—right under the policemen’s watch, but not in their direct line of sight.
It also emerged later that the abduction could have easily been averted had a warning by Arkesh, a CRPF officer on deputation to the Karnataka STF, been taken seriously. As recently as in May 2000, the officer had warned the Karnataka government that, according to his sources, Veerappan was plotting to abduct Rajkumar. Unfortunately, his warning failed to reach the right ears.
One of the biggest challenges senior officers have to deal with is information overload. According to the US government, this phenomenon resulted in vital clues, which could have prevented the 9/11 attacks, being ignored. When one encounters too many false leads and misleading clues, fresh warnings only trigger fatigue and one is too quick to dismiss them. It should ideally never happen, but every now and then, it does. And that is what happened during 9/11, with Veerappan, and continues unabated with many terror attacks.
Veerappan: Chasing the Brigand Page 13