Our response was instant and overwhelming. Brass hosed down on Cocoon from every direction. Bullets zipped all around along with the rhythmic flashes of guns.
I felt something hot on my neck. Empty shells were spewing from my buddy Sundaram’s AK. Since we were standing close together, some of them scalded my neck.
I shuffled to my left, flicked my gun to burst fire mode, and let go.
After a few bullets, I paused briefly, as did the others. Another couple of reports of a self-loading rifle and a shotgun came from Cocoon.
Kannan reiterated the terms for surrender.
There were a few more shots, followed by a volley of the STF’s response. I signalled the teams to stop.
Another pause. This time, there was no return fire.
The mayhem of the encounter faded to a dull murmur. Some birds had returned to their nests, but were still chirping restively. Dogs were still barking in the distance. Cocoon was engulfed in smoke and dust.
I signalled to Rajarajan and Hussain.
Another stun grenade was lobbed into Cocoon. There was a flash and a bang. Rajarajan flashed on a torch, which he held below his gun’s barrel, as did Hussain. The two beams of light converged.
The two men approached Cocoon warily. They heard a gurgle, followed by a hiss—like air escaping from a cycle tube. It is a sound typically made by air trapped between the lung tissue and the chest. Someone wounded was trying to suck in air.
Then, silence.
The stillness was finally broken by the cry of ‘All clear’.
The encounter had started at around 10.50 p.m. and was over in twenty minutes—a rapid climax to a twenty-year wait!
Hussain and Rajarajan saw blood and bodily fluids splashed all over—the walls, floor and seats, food packets and the stretcher. They picked up two AKs, a 12-bore Remington pump-action gun and the infamous 7.62 mm SLR.
Three persons were huddled together—their final conclave before going down. Men in their death throes, clutching each other! One, later identified as Govindan, was a little distance away.
The four men were speedily removed from Cocoon and laid on the ground. I beckoned to Kannan and, ignoring a cramped muscle, hobbled over to where they lay.
It was my only face-to-face moment with Veerappan, if it could be described as such. He was unable to speak and was clearly dying. I noticed that a bullet had gone through his left eye, just as it had with Senthil in Sorgam Valley almost ten years ago. With his moustache trimmed and in civilian clothes, rather than his trademark green dress and brown belt, he seemed a stripped-down version of his former self.
He had been a wily and worthy foe, with a mastery over both strategy and tactics. Even at fifty-two, he was sinewy and extremely fit. Forensic specialist Dr Vallinayagam, who later examined his body, told me he was in the shape of a twenty-five-year-old, apart from the problem with his eyes.
Rumour has it that he had damaged his eyes while applying dye to his famed moustache, which often filled him with pride. It was an irony worthy of an O’Henry tale. The famous moustachioed bandit eventually trimmed his whiskers to get his eyes treated, only to end up losing both—his eyes as well as his life.
I took stock of the encounter. There were no casualties or serious injuries among my boys. I sent up a quick prayer of thanks. It was one more thing to be grateful for on a night when fortune had been exceedingly gracious. I was not the only one to be scalded by a buddy’s empty shell. It’s not so unusual when people are firing while packed in close proximity to each other.
A total of 338 bullets were fired by us. Later, seven were found in Govindan’s body; two had pierced Veerappan’s body and exited from the other side, while one stayed inside.
It is impossible to predict the number of bullets that could hit a target during a firefight. Two people close by may not receive the same number of bullets or wounds. In 1980, when the SAS had stormed the Iranian embassy in London to rescue twenty-six hostages, eighty-two bullets had hit one terrorist alone. The bullet count for his other five comrades was in single digits.
An early casualty of the firefight was the lamp at the tip of the selfie-stick, which had been shot out. The shreds of its shattered bulb nearly got SI Rajesh Khanna in the eye. Thankfully, he did not sustain any serious injury. In any case, the illumination from the lamp had not really been used as Cocoon glowed in the radiance of its own light.
Charles, like a conjurer, pulled out a black cloth the size of a bed sheet. He was supposed to have cut the cloth into strips to be used as bandanas. But in the excitement, everyone had forgotten about it. Now, it served to cover the four men.
Gradually, I sensed a growing murmur from the boys.
Since the identity of the men inside the vehicle had not been revealed to them initially, they began to mutter in disbelief when they recognized the fallen men.
‘Could it really be him?’ ‘Is it just someone who looks like him?’ ‘No, it’s actually Veerappan!’ they wondered aloud.
I then signalled that we needed to rush the four men to the nearest hospital. They were loaded onto an Omni and dashed away.
Suddenly, cries of ‘Long live the STF’ resounded through the clearing.
There was a spontaneous eruption of delight and high-fiving. I was hoisted on the shoulders of my men and effortlessly passed around. I noticed that Kannan had been similarly hefted. We exchanged broad grins and shook hands. No words were needed.
Next, it was the turn of Hussain, Rajarajan, Tiru, Sampath and Saravanan.
All the officers and team leaders present were tossed around, as were the head constables, who had spent years haranguing and tongue-lashing the men to finally make this moment possible.
There was a brief pause as the boys looked in puzzlement at Durai, standing calmly at a distance, scratching his shaven head. Nobody knew him, but they clearly understood that he was one of them and had played a pivotal role in the operation. Up went Durai, too.
As soon as the boys brought me to the ground, I bounded up the school’s steps, two at a time. Sitting on the parapet with my feet dangling on the dangerous side, I made the call.
‘The CM has retired for the night. Is it urgent?’ asked Sheela Balakrishnan, Jayalalithaa’s secretary.
‘I think she will like what I have to say,’ I replied.
An instant later, I heard her voice on the phone.
‘We got him, ma’am,’ I said. Then I quickly recounted the operation and informed the CM that Veerappan was on his way to hospital, but survival seemed unlikely. I replied in the affirmative to her brief query on the STF’s safety. Though she was her usual dignified self, the elation in her voice was unmistakable. ‘Congratulations to you and the STF, Mr Vijay Kumar. This is the best news I’ve ever had as CM,’ she said, before hanging up.
I looked up to the sky and touched my lucky medallion. Some of the boys were pocketing souvenirs to show their unborn grandchildren. The ballistics guys would go ballistic at the missing empties, I thought wryly. But the men would surely take immense pride and great delight in narrating the story of this unforgettable night. Then I felt something lodged in my vest. It was the empty shell fired by my buddy, now wet with my sweat. I twirled it on my fingers for a moment and decided to keep it as a souvenir for my unborn grandchildren.
It was now time to drive straight to the Bannari Temple and stand before Bannari Devi with my tonsured head bowed in gratitude. That would complete a vow made when I had felt very lonely and was filled with a sense of despair about this mission.
I began walking towards my jeep. As I was about to enter it, I turned back for one last look at Cocoon.
The rooftop blue lamp had found its own rhythm as it revolved during the entire firefight. Incredibly, it had not been hit by a single bullet. Now, it finally ground to a halt, as if to say ‘Mission Accomplished’.
All cell phones continued to be on switch-off mode. I tried to call Meena to inform her about the operation’s success, something she had always prayed for ferve
ntly. But the news flash on BBC, CNN and their Indian counterparts ensured that the element of surprise was lost. Later, when I reached our home in Sathy, a huge crowd greeted me with a traditional aarti. Meena stood behind, an unmistakable look of pride and adulation in her eyes. It would be a while before I could pat and hug her, but sadly, I could never convey my true feelings to her.
The media frenzy also gave rise to persistent rumours that Veerappan had been captured, tortured and executed and that the encounter was entirely fake and stage-managed. Such rumours are an insult to the ethics and calibre of a force like the STF. Veerappan’s wife had approached the Madras High Court seeking a CBI probe into the encounter, but the court not only turned down the plea, but complimented the force.
Some people insisted that Veerappan’s fingertips were blackened, which showed his fingers had been burned. Actually, ink was applied during the inquest to take his fingerprints for the first time.
There were also rumours about an ambulance moving around in the area a few days before the encounter, which proved the bandit’s alleged capture before the officially recorded date. The ambulance in the area was part of our ‘hearts and minds’ programme, which provided medical aid to the local population. The truth is that Veerappan died due to bullet wounds sustained during the shootout at Padi.
18 October 2004, Monday, 11.10 p.m.
File on Koose Muniswamy Veerappan closed.
Epilogue
19 October 2004, 10 a.m.
Geddasal, Dhimbam Hills
The priest’s hands fumbled as he cleaned up films of cobwebs and layers of dirt. With a wet cloth, he slowly wiped the doors of the sanctum sanctorum of the village’s temple. He was bathed in sweat by the time he pushed open the doors. As they creaked open, long-accumulated dust showered down upon him. He shut his eyes and received it like a benediction.
The sanctum sanctorum, which was only 6 feet by 4 feet, housed Shiva—the powerful God of Destruction. Almost every family in the village had at least one member who bore his name, Jadeyan.
The priest washed the deity’s feet as his body trembled. ‘Forgive us, O Lord,’ he prayed silently. ‘How could we have turned our back on you? You are everything to us.’
It had been ten years and ten days since Veerappan and his men unleashed their sheer brutality on Geddasal. Their bloodthirsty search for Jadeyan, the village headman who had tipped off the STF about his camp, ended with five dead bodies near the temple. ‘God did not stand by us when we needed him. What is the point of our daily prayers?’ the villagers had remarked. The temple doors were then slammed shut.
Today was different. Veerappan was dead. Justice had finally been delivered to the victims of Geddasal.
The priest shuffled the plate of flowers closer and began ringing the prayer bell. He heard villagers gather outside in full strength. Slowly, their voices joined in chorus as they began singing.
The priest smiled. ‘It’s just a matter of time. You’ll forgive us,’ he thought, as he bowed to the Lord.
On 18 October, I received a call from the then NSA M.K. Narayan to convey PM Manmohan Singh’s personal message.
On 30 October, the CM hosted a state ceremony and banquet in Chennai, wherein Walter, Nataraj, Kannan and I were awarded medals. Each member of the STF was given a house plot and ₹3 lakh in cash. Accelerated promotions were announced for all, up to the rank of DSP.
Later, we all got back to our lives and everyone is doing well, wherever they are today. Walter Davaram continues to be the head of the Tamil Nadu Amateur Athletic Federation. Shankar Bidari, R. Nataraj and others chose to shed their fatigues and don political colours. Kempiah, who was brought into the STF after the Rajkumar episode on the specific request of the actor’s family, is now advisor to the Karnataka CM. Gopal Hosur is retired and lives in Bangalore, as does Ashok Kumar. Sanjay Arora, Kannan, Shanmughavel and Nawaz still continue to be in the force. Hussain now runs a farm, not far from the ‘dosa point’ where he narrowly missed Veerappan. Rambo, who recovered from the Good Friday blast, continued in the Tamil Nadu police for fifteen years. He passed away on 9 November 2016. Jedayan died in a car accident four years back.
Mr X has apparently stopped his nefarious activities but, I’m told, keeps looking over his shoulder!
Appendix 1
The Fault in Veerappan’s Stars
Towards the end of 2001, one of our intelligence sources provided a copy of a document resembling a birth chart along with a horoscope at STF headquarters. The chart identified the child’s father as Muniswamy and mother as Ponnuthaiammal. The date of birth was 18 January 1952. It was the horoscope of Koose Muniswamy Veerappan.
We were stunned, but doubts quickly arose. Was this horoscope genuine or fake? Some senior citizens of his native village Gopinatham, who were consulted, confirmed its authenticity. Members of the Valluvan community, who specialized in preparing horoscopes, would join a family within days of a child’s birth and stay with them for the next two-three weeks to prepare the chart. Apparently, this chart was prepared by a particular Valluvan who was trusted by the people of Gopinatham in the 1950s and 1960s.
Like some men who lead hazardous lives, some members of the STF were deep believers in astrology. Experts were summoned and asked to decipher what the stars apparently foretold for our adversary. The horoscope stated the subject would be particularly vulnerable at the ages of fourteen, nineteen, thirty-two, forty-five and fifty-five (he died at the age of fifty-two). If he survived his sixty-fifth year, he would go on to be seventy-eight.
Some of his predispositions were also mentioned. He would be efficient and complete any task undertaken. But it also said that he would be ‘red-eyed, less educated, ungrateful, egoistical, fond of women, petty-minded, and short-tempered’. The chart also added that ‘big people would seek him out, but he would be an enemy of the government’.
VEERAPPAN ASTRO CHART
Date of Birth–18/01/1952, Place–Gopinatham
As readers flipped through the 125-page document, several interesting predictions tumbled out. The horoscope said he would run away from home and spend a lot of time living outside his home state. There was also a mention of a prolonged period of ‘vanavasam’ (life in the forest). There was a clear reference to his receiving a rajadandanai (punishment by the state).
For believers, that last prediction was a huge source of hope, which kept them going during dark times. Sceptics will probably scoff at that, but when you live a dangerous life with an uncertain future, every little bit of optimism helps.
Acknowledgements
I would especially like to acknowledge the lion-hearted efforts of Walter Davaram and Shankar Bidari. Between them, they reduced the Veerappan gang’s numbers to single digits. I enjoyed working with the Karnataka STF: Kempiah was bold and risk-taking. K.N. Mirji, my Karnataka counterpart, cheerful and focused, was a great partner. His full cooperation led to the success of the operation. The Karnataka STF veterans ‘Tiger’ Ashok Kumar, Poonacha, Bawa, Saudagar and Prasad, who had many run-ins with Veerappan’s gang, deserve a book of their own.
I thank the Tamil Nadu Intelligence and Q branches for backing us to the hilt. My DG, I.K. Govind, totally trusted me. Home Secretary Sheela Rani Chunkanth and her predecessor Syed Munir Hoda were a great help. So was Chief Secretary Mr Narayan. The Forest, Revenue and PWD officers put up with the STF, although it was actually poaching their turf and occupying their sparse accommodation. The district collectors and SPs of Ooty, Coimbatore, Erode, Salem and Dharmapuri stood by us. I would like to thank them all. The STF’s Sorimuthu, Pugalmaran and photographers Ravi and Surjeet. My buddy Sundaram inside the jungle and Janardhan outside the jungle helped me no end.
I also thank Dr Udaya Kumar of Sathy—the STF’s unofficial doctor, Dr Murthy and the other doctors for conducting medical camps.
V. Vaikunth, former DGP who wrote the first commendation of Operation Cocoon in The Hindu. Thanks are due to Balasubramanian and Saravanan of Bannary Sugars—many STF officers
were their near-permanent guests. The ‘sweet box’ of the last day was courtesy these two.
To the media, a big thanks. It fully cooperated when I reduced the STF’s media presence, which helped us keep the various operations under wraps.
If nearly four decades in police service has convinced me ‘it’s mostly team work’, one decade’s attempt to be a writer only firmed up that belief. It has been a wonderful journey with so many carrying me on their shoulders.
The following were my sources of strength:
My batchmate, late Jagdish Saligram, the first to prompt me to write.
My wife, Meena, for putting up with my protracted struggle to turn into a writer, my mother Kausalya who, at over ninety years, keenly read my draft, my son Arjun and daughter Ashwini and their spouses—Dr Gita Arjun and Deepak Menon—for their constant queries.
My sisters Malini, Usha and Latha; brothers Sivu and Rajan and brothers-in-law Dr Gangadharan and Mohan Menon were of great support.
Thank you, Meera and Dr E.K. Ramdas of Calicut, for letting me stay at your Wayanad coffee estate where I wrote my first draft. Ravi, Ubaiyadullah, Saravanan, Javed, Ayyappan, Dhiman, Nandanan and Hari Kumar for typing reams of stuff. For the map, Satheesh Edwin and Sajeem.
My trainees, Rohan from the IPS and Abu, now in the IFS, who went through the manuscript many a time and gave useful suggestions.
I also want to thank my erstwhile SPG colleague Shantanu Mukherjee for his very incisive comments, Satyamurthy, formerly of The Hindu, and The Hindu’s Sudharshan for their suggestions.
Author Amish Tripathi, thanks for putting me through to Anuj Bahri of Red Ink Literary Agency. That’s how I met Vikas Singh. Thank you, Vikas, for helping organize and structure hundreds of pages of research material, collected over several years, into a tight, gripping, reader-friendly narrative from the first word to the last.
Veerappan: Chasing the Brigand Page 25