In those years Hathoda Tyagi came to know several members of the gang. Some nameless, transiting through; some regular couriers and informers, who brought in ammunition, money, news, and the death warrants Guruji was writing up. Prime among the regulars was Kaka, a dark, thin, optimistic Sikh with a wasted left arm, who told him a new story of the great Donullia’s exploits each time they met. Beaming with pride he would say, ‘Fighting Aurangzeb’s armies, Guru Gobind Singh had declared, Sava lakh se ek ladaoon! That’s exactly what our Guruji does!’ Each follower of mine will vanquish a multitude.
It stirred Hathoda Tyagi immeasurably. He could see himself astride a big white horse, slicing through ranks of oppressors, restoring the balance of good in the world. More stirring still were his encounters with some of the key associates of the great chieftain. Hulla Mallah, big as a door, with a gentle voice, and hands so big they could crush a man’s skull like an orange. Kana Commando, blind in the left eye, sharp in the tongue, capable of taking apart and putting together a weapon by flickering candlelight, full of deep analysis and strategy. And the man with the ravine running down his face, Katua Kasai, the real cool killer, with blade or bullet, mostly by Donullia’s side, laconic, wiry, capable of drinking an entire bottle of country liquor—Shiva’s prasad—and remaining cogent.
These men would arrive unannounced in the dead of night, and the old man would scurry about cobbling together food and bed for them. They came trailed by many armed men who hung around the yard, smoking and talking. Sometimes they came merely to convalesce from infection and wound; at other times for a meeting with Gwalabhai, or Bajpaisahib.
The farm, flush by the forest, far from the town and village, an indistinct dot on the great Gangetic plain, was a key and permanent outpost and was not exposed to other associates. The meetings with policemen, arms suppliers, traders, businessmen, and local politicians were held in shifting locations in the forest and the town.
If it became necessary to bring someone to the farm, the blindfold was deployed. Often it was used with medics who were brought in to treat fevers and injury. There was a regular doc, Srivastavji, with a Hitler moustache and thick glasses, on the rolls, but sometimes he needed to bring in assistants, and even other doctors. At such a time he too was brought in blindfolded. In a small room downstairs was a big wooden table used for surgical procedures. Directly above it hung three fat 200-watt bulbs, which when switched on necessitated the turning off of all the farm’s lights.
Occasionally this was done with traders with whom terms had to be negotiated. It was not about the usual protection money, but new deals, including the commissioning of actions to neutralize enemies. At such a time one of the big boys from the ravines—Kana Commando, Hulla Mallah, Katua Kasai—was always present to provide a whiff of the authentic and to strike terror into the heart. Every negotiation was done in the name of Donullia Gujjar; every twist of the screw carried his name.
Hathoda Tyagi, with his growing reputation, was a hulking presence at these summits. He never spoke and he seldom followed the train of the conversation. What he did was to observe with fascination the fear that gripped rich men in the face of physical violence. Men who would have been ruthless and dismissive with underlings, men with fortunes they could not burn in three lifetimes, wheedled and whinged in the presence of Donullia’s men. And yet, the moment they had to commission the killing of another, they acquired a rare bravura.
The assassin understood that wealth and station do not finally provide freedom from fear; only physical courage does. He felt truly free, blessed by one who was also truly free. Yet, in all those years, for all his special status, for all the wonderful missives Donullia sent him, Hathoda Tyagi did not once catch sight of his great and liberated patron. Each time he made an inquiry he was told the meeting was soon to take place; that Guruji was no less eager to meet him; that a new crisis, a new danger was keeping him occupied.
Often rumours floated up to him from the old man. Of expansions, alliances, political manoeuvrings. A new plant to make aerated drinks; a twenty-room hotel with air-conditioning; another cinema hall; an engineering college; differences with Bajpaisahib; a brewing axis with the new dispensation in Lucknow; perhaps a legislator’s ticket for Gwalabhai. None of it held any interest for the assassin. He knew none of this had anything to do with the great brigand. These were the petty material concerns of the men around him, including his brother Gwalabhai. What excited Hathoda Tyagi were the stories of Donullia’s latest strike, his most recent escapade.
And the brigand kept his legend alive by striking ruthlessly several times a year. In one brutal reminder he sent back the nineteen-year-old son of a Yadav landlord in nineteen pieces over nineteen days—in polythene bags, like stale meat—after having abducted him from the midst of his nineteenth birthday celebrations.
In September 1997, Hathoda Tyagi sensed an opportunity to finally see his Guru. That month the entire district was feverish with expectation. In every house and office, on every village chaupal and town corner, the question was: would he really risk it?
Two years before, Donullia Gujjar had decreed a massive temple to Hanuman—avatar of Shiva, protector of Rama, lord of strength, courage, celibacy, purity. It was built in granite and marble, with pillars and steeple of cast iron. The plinth was set at an imposing six feet, and the huge central statue of the god carrying the mountain with the Sanjivini herb had been carved by a team of master craftsmen from Rajasthan. The bell hung at the entrance of the sanctum weighed nearly a ton and had been strung on a thick girder. The sound of it tolling vibrated the floor and could be heard for miles and miles. The brigand chief had paid for it all, and now that it was complete, a date had been set for its consecration.
Sadhus, mendicants, fakirs, priests had been invited from everywhere, not just Chitrakoot and Varanasi. Donullia wanted to feed and honour at least one thousand and one holy men to commemorate its inauguration, and he wanted to do it himself. His intention had been announced and thousands were planning to turn up to catch a darshan of the god and the legend. So was the largest complement of policemen ever assembled in the district for a civil action, led by the superintendent himself.
On the evening of 24 September, when Hathoda Tyagi and the old man turned off the highway onto the link road that led to the temple that lay at the foot of a hillock, they found themselves swept up in a surging sea of humanity. Men and women of all ages, riding cycles, bullock-carts, motorcycles, scooters, horse-carts, overflowing tempos, walking, were on a determined pilgrimage. As they slowly negotiated their own motorcycle through this moving mass—their feet stabilizing rudders on the ground—they became one with the charged atmosphere. Everyone was coiled with the expectation of action; everywhere were policemen, in uniform and in plainclothes. The hammerman avoided looking any of them in the eye. In preparation for this excursion, like his leader, he had grown a beard. It was a risk, but he had his exquisite 908 in the pocket of his jacket. If the occasion required, he could, in an instant slip off the back of the motorcycle and melt into the crowds, pistol cocked and ready.
The river flowed to the rhythm of dholaks and single-stringed mandolins and chants to Shiva and Hanuman. Old men and women shuffled along with the aid of sticks, children travelled on the shoulders of the young. Threading through them were hawkers selling chana and chiki and pink candyfloss and besan burfi from aluminium boxes strung around their backs.
Long before they reached the temple, the river’s flow had slowed to a gutter’s sludge. The old man had turned off the motorbike engine and they were now propelling it forward with their feet. The ardour and tension was thickening around them as the chanting grew louder, swallowing up all small talk.
The temple on the foothills was like a big piece of cake overrun by thousands of ants. There were people up the hill, on the banyan trees, in the barren fields all around. Lights and lanterns were everywhere: in the hands of the faithful, strung up on poles and trees. The chorus of a loud kirtan, with clashing cymbals, r
inging bells and the boom of dholaks, was powering out of the inner sanctum—festooned with moving lights—and was being echoed by the concentric rings of fevered devotees that went all the way out and beyond.
Along the plinth of the temple sat a long line of beggars and alms-seekers—cripples, lepers, the blighted and the cursed; limbs missing, limbs gnarled, eyes gouged out; men, women, children. They had travelled from all over, some from adjoining districts, to collect at faith’s altar. Hathoda Tyagi walked down the hellish ranks doling out ten- and twenty-rupee notes, sparking a ripple of cries and blessings. It was what he did whenever he got the opportunity. He had no real use for his money. What went to his family went to his family, the remaining bundles were squandered on meat for the dogs, doles to the old man, and alms to all manner of fakirs and beggars.
Hathoda Tyagi knew the prophecy about himself. As did Guruji and the others in the gang: the boy was blessed. The priest had said, ‘It will not be easy to harm him. His stars are like Hrinyakashyap’s. He can only be harmed in a place that has both sunlight and shade; he can only be harmed when he is moving and not still; he can only be harmed when his belly is full; he can only be harmed when he is hidden from view; he can only be harmed by a slain enemy; and he can only be harmed when he is trapped between friends. For all these things to come together is a near impossibility. Remember, to kill the evil Hrinyakashyap, Lord Vishnu had to appear himself and bend the elements. And as you know, the gods don’t descend into this country any more!’
Hathoda Tyagi also knew that all blessings need to be secured and kept whole by continual acts of generosity and kindness. In the company of vileness the greatest boons were leached of their potency. He gave what he had little need of—his money—and tried to keep what he needed—the benedictions of the wretched—which were the benedictions of the gods.
As the two of them wandered through the crush, they began to spot the men of the gang threaded in the crowd. No one acknowledged the other; blank eyes gave encouragement to look the other way. Gwalabhai stood at the entrance to the sanctum, welcoming the luminaries of the district, who pushed through a narrow path kept open by volunteers for men of privilege who had a first right to the divine. Government officers, landlords, rich traders, media-men, politicians poured through this narrow pipe, greeting Gwalabhai and being ushered in. This was an obeisance to god and a legend. Both would make a reckoning with them—one in this life, the other in the next.
Bajpaisahib arrived amid a flutter of his supporters and policemen, their elbows and shoulders widening a pathway for him. His appearance was significant. For some time rumours had been rolling that the romance between Donullia Gujjar and the wily brahmin had begun to sour. Many felt the new police action and the cordon at the temple’s inauguration was his doing. His appearance here was an alibi, to allay these suspicions. He was a brahmin. He would never take on the brigand in the town square. He would mug him in some warm and intimate alley.
Gwalabhai touched the politician’s feet, and on his way out fifteen minutes later, Hathoda Tyagi caught his eye. When the assassin reached for his feet, Bajpaisahib said, ‘Should you be here? I am told they want you in five states now.’ Without straightening up, the young man said, ‘Guruji needs me here tonight. I will always be where he needs me.’ The old man said, ‘Well, be careful. These are not good times. And this place today has as many policemen as god’s men!’ Folding his palms, the assassin said, ‘I carry my life in my pocket, and am happy to give it away.’ The politician filed away the information as he vanished into the heaving crowd.
Just before midnight there was a sudden uproar as a manic band of sadhus and fakirs pistoned through the mob. In flowing beards and flowing ochre, wearing multiple necklaces and wristlets of exotic beads, high on god and high on hashish, they came chanting the glory of Shiva, clacking their castanets and beating their dholaks and banging their cymbals and strumming their ektaras.
Immediately, as the crowds made way for the soldiers of god, the soldiers of the state closed in. In this swirling noisy whirlwind of orange, somewhere, without a doubt, was the man they were looking for. Hathoda Tyagi too dissected the swirl. Could it be that one? The not-too-long beard, partly grey; the prominent hook nose; the firm wrist holding the ektara; swaying with two big men close by him. No, more likely this one. A big turban twirled around the head; strong shoulders; and even in the delirium of devotion, eyes that were open and watching. Yes, this was him.
Hathoda Tyagi mowed through the crowd to stay apace with the dervishes as they powered their way to the shrine, not losing sight of his mentor. All around, he could see and sense the policemen working the sieve, looking for signals from their informers. The assassin’s hand hovered near his waistband. This was the day he had lived for. When he would kill to save Donullia Gujjar, display he had an asshole of iron, become part of folklore.
Then his eyes met the eyes of the man and he knew it was not him. Yes, they were open, but they shone with an empty abandon, a foolish immersion in the moment. The noisy frenzied orange blob was now squeezing through the main portal of carved sandstone, beginning to dance up the short flight of wide steps. At the head waited Gwalabhai, hands folded, delighted at the appearance of god’s armies. With his big shoulders Hathoda Tyagi pushed his way through, in parallel, up the stairs, and he spotted Guruji at the precise moment three pairs of policemen’s hands reached into the heaving bodies to unobtrusively pull him out. The giveaway was right there—the sneakers! The big unruly white beard with streaks of black, the dark skin, the wiry body!
The assassin reached into his waistband for his 908, poised to unleash mayhem, but suddenly found his wrist gripped in iron. He tried to hit out with his elbow, but the hand holding his wrist had trapped the arm too. By his ear, a firm voice, said, ‘Stay still, son. The world is an illusion. Nothing is ever what it seems. Those who adore the gods are taken care of by the gods.’
From the corner of his eye, in the shoving-screaming crowd, he saw a bent-over tired-looking man with a salt-and-pepper stubble and a bushy grey moustache, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a loose maroon turban. On his forehead was a wet red tilak and in his ears round gold earrings. The assassin said, ‘Guruji!’ The bent-over man said, ‘If you call someone guruji, then he becomes a guru. Surely you know this. It’s written in our scriptures.’
Before the assassin could think of something to say, the bent-over man said, ‘Like the immense Bajrangbali, you are a man of purity and purpose and strength. Take his blessings, son, and become twice the man you are, and be quickly gone. Today is not a day to linger. Our friends are behaving like our enemies, and you have many important things to do.’
Hathoda Tyagi said, ‘But Guruji, I am here to protect you.’
The bent-over man said, ‘I do not build monuments to the gods only to be then scared of men. There is only one mighty Hanuman and there is only one Donullia Gujjar! The policeman has yet to be conscripted who can pluck a hair from his body. Go now, son! Go!’
By the time he realized the iron grip on his arm was no longer there, the bent-over man had vanished, like a shadow in the dark, and the cavalcade of delirious sadhus and fakirs had swept into the sanctum, and the thousands of peasants and townsmen, the old and the young, the poor and the affluent, men and women, upper caste and lower caste had ascended into a crescendo of chanting, one with the gods, elevated into the divine.
For the next ten days the local papers quoted dozens of devotees who had seen Donullia Gujjar, and even touched him. No two descriptions matched.
The man who had been pulled out and arrested was revealed to be a harmless panda from the sangam at Allahabad. The sneakers were a gift from an American tourist.
The police superintendent received a public rebuke, two inspectors were transferred, and one sub-inspector suspended.
The district buzzed with speculation about the growing estrangement between Bajpaisahib and Donullia Gujjar, based on the shifting alliances in Lucknow.
The temple’s
reputation soared, and hundreds of devotees began to visit it daily.
Hathoda Tyagi walked on air.
The old man at the farm said, ‘He called you son? He touched you? What do you have that the rest of us don’t?’
Courage. Loyalty. Asceticism.
Like the great god Hanuman. Servitor of Lord Rama. Embodiment of strength. Eschewer of all pleasures of the flesh.
For the next few years, as Donullia Gujjar’s swordarm outside the ravines, Hathoda Tyagi, with unemotional efficiency, battered and slaughtered the foes of his chieftain and of the people, sending brain and bone flying like confetti. Working alone, working with teams, he never asked questions and he seldom failed. Once a name was delivered unto him, the man was, for all practical purposes, dead.
He continued to live on the first floor on the farm—the old man, growing older, merely his vassal now—and lavished all his money and love on his multiplying dogs and had his scalp lapped daily by the buffalo. A few times his sports mentor, Rajbir Gujjar, came to visit him, but there was little left in common between them. The protégé had entered and colonized a space whose boundaries the teacher had dared not touch. With characteristic generosity the young man gave to his tutor more money than he had ever seen. It was after all thanks to him that he had found his asshole of iron, and found meaning in the shade of Guruji.
Thanks to Guruji he also gave up the eating of all flesh, and took to fasting on every Tuesday. Continually Guruji sent him gifts. Little personal things, a Rolex watch, Nike shoes, a Denim deo. Also new weapons, pistols, revolvers, even two grenades. He locked everything up in the steel trunk, and lived solely by his 908 and hammer.
Hathoda Tyagi was content. He had a mission. He had a guru. He had a god. He had his dogs and a buffalo. He had a roof over his head. And he had an asshole of iron.
The Story of My Assassins Page 45