THE PRICE YOU PAY
SOMNATH BATABYAL
HarperCollins Publishers India
To MKB, first-class raconteur
and
to Georgie Pope, superwoman, best friend
Contents
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About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright
1
‘G
ood morning, sir. The commissioner would like to speak to you.’
‘Yes, of course. Morning.’ Uday Kumar tried to sound more awake than he felt. The clock on the bedside table showed a little past 6 a.m. and an uneasy feeling crept into his drowsy head, merging with the canned music that said he was on hold.
It was not the timing that bothered him. As a deputy commissioner in Delhi Police, Uday was used to answering his political and professional bosses at all hours but a direct call from Delhi’s top policeman brought a sense of impending trouble. Not the kind of trouble that had won him a president’s medal or got him suspended twice, but the irksome variety, like the hostility he felt from his wife, sleeping beside him: neither acute enough for a showdown, nor mild enough to ignore.
‘Uday,’ he heard the commissioner’s measured voice, ‘have you seen the Times?’
‘No, sir, I haven’t, but I’ll call for it immediately. Good morning, sir.’
‘Please get back to me.’ His boss did not bother with salutations.
Uday scrambled out of bed and pulled on his track bottoms, calling to the guard to bring the morning newspapers. His wife Alka peered out of the covers irritably, refusing to return his apologetic smile.
The photograph on the front page of the Times of India jolted him awake. It showed a figure strung upside down from a tree. The caption informed that this man, accused of petty theft, had been publicly thrashed by Ranbir Singh, a station house officer in Uday’s charge. The headline read: ‘Delhi Police Abuse Human Rights. Again.’
Ranbir Singh, who must have been waiting for the call, answered it at the first ring.
‘Is this true, Ranbir? Have you done this?’ Uday heard himself shouting.
‘Yes, sir, but I was …’
Uday was not in the mood for explanations. ‘My office. In an hour,’ he said, and hung up.
Dressing hurriedly, Uday returned the commissioner’s call, assuring him he was investigating the matter and would prepare a full report that afternoon. He ignored Alka’s sullen presence at breakfast and silently chewed on his aaloo parantha, wondering how to avoid a media frenzy over this minor issue. He had a big day ahead and he wasn’t going to let it be spoilt by some smalltime crook and a fool of a policewallah.
Uday was still contemplating strategy as he lowered his bulky frame into the back of the white Ambassador car when the first journalist phoned. It was television reporter Arvind Rao, possibly the last person Uday wanted to hear from that morning. He thought for a moment, then decided to take the call – Arvind had a knack for becoming inventive when stalled.
‘Hello, Arvind, how are you?’ Uday began in his damagecontrol voice.
‘Namashkar, sir. Congratulations. Your officers are frontpage news.’
‘Shouldn’t be. You guys have strange priorities. This is a minor disciplinary matter.’
‘Are you joking? Ranbir will be dragged through mud. I think this will become big. What action are you taking?’
‘Arvind, there is nothing in this story. Wait; I might give you a bigger one today.’
Uday had plans for this evening’s news, and had scheduled a press conference. His team, along with the Special Cell, had just busted an international cricket-betting syndicate. Cricket, crime and cash – that was prime-time television; not this thiefthrashing bullshit.
‘Boss, we know the evening story. Police PR. No one is interested in a solved case. I need a comment on this one. You have to tell me something.’ Arvind’s persistence was annoying.
‘I am on my way to the office and I will look into the matter,’ Uday responded sharply. ‘I cannot say anything before I know the facts.’
The journalist hung up, surprising Uday who had expected more of a contest.
He had reached Chanakyapuri and, if the traffic held off, would be at his office in half an hour. He wound down the window as the vehicle sped past the embassies on Nyaya Marg, savouring the start of the winter and claiming a few moments of calm to collect his thoughts. There were very few streets left in Delhi where one could breathe the early morning air, and this particular stretch, with its broad and empty roads, orderly tree-lined pavements and ostentatious architecture, was Uday’s favourite. He rearranged the cushions on the car seat, trying to find a comfortable position. The back pain, which had started with a slipped disc ten years ago, increased in intensity each winter.
The car came to a halt outside his office. Sunil Mishra, Uday’s immensely capable personal assistant, was standing at the entrance, his attentive eyes on his boss as he struggled to get out of the seat, grimacing with the effort. Mishra, Uday knew, would require no prompting to schedule a doctor’s appointment.
‘Good morning, sir. Ranbir Singh is here.’
‘Give me five minutes,’ Uday replied, as he pulled himself up the steps.
As soon as he was in his office, Uday received a call from the genial and garrulous press officer of Delhi Police, Vikram Singh, whose Machiavellian dealings would have extracted a nod of approval from the philosopher himself.
‘Boss, what is going on? You should not give comments to journalists without at least telling me, no?’
‘Why, what happened, sardarji? I haven’t said a word to anyone,’ Uday replied, both indignant and worried.
‘Watch Nayi Khabar. I will call you back.’
Uday switched on the television set and searched for the Hindi news channel. Within moments, the earnest voice of Arvind Rao could be heard. He listened incredulously as the journalist claimed that in an exclusive interview, the deputy commissioner of police, north district, Uday Kumar, had told the news channel that an inquiry would be conducted against Ranbir Singh and appropriate action taken.
Uday swore as he phoned the press officer back. ‘Vikram, if this is what that bhenchod understood from our conversation, then maybe he needs to be hung upside down and thrashed!’
‘You know how it is, boss man.’ Vikram chuckled. ‘It’s a circus and I’m the ringmaster without a whip. I can guarantee, within ten minutes every news channel will be saying the same thing. Anyway, don’t worry; I will handle it from here. You just get ready for the evening show. You have a big day ahead.’
Uday pulled out his crumpled copy of the Times. How had this happened? Ranbir might be corrupt, but he was also efficient and certainly not stupid. From a station house officer, Uday did not expect more. There were no honest SHOs in Delhi, he knew that. To get the posting in the first place, one had to pay hefty bribes that had to be recovered later. The more lucrative the area, the bigger the bribe; and Ranbir’s terrain, Chandni Chowk, was practically a gold mine. Part of Old Delhi, it still housed some of the city’s earliest and biggest entrepreneurs. There might be no flashy glass-front air-conditioned offices, but millions changed hands in cash in those narrow congested streets every day. It was also communally volatile. Ranbir Singh was not posted there for his honesty – or lack thereof – but for his competence.
There was a knock at the door and the man who h
ad ruined Uday’s morning walked in gingerly, followed by Assistant Commissioner Dilip Tandon.
‘Ranbir, what were you thinking?’ Uday began immediately. ‘I can understand you thrashing the fucker, but to do it with a press photographer around? Are you blind? Have you gone mad?’ His voice rose and Ranbir remained quiet, eyes on the floor, waiting for his boss to let off steam.
‘Go on, tell me,’ Uday said impatiently.
‘Sir, I caught the guy red-handed. He is a local nuisance. I wanted to teach him a lesson, sir, and also make an example of him for the residents.’ Ranbir paused for a moment and looked at Uday. ‘But I swear, sir, there was no photographer around. I told my men to watch out even for mobile phones. Take my uniform off if you like, sir, send me to the Lines, suspend me, but I can swear by it.’
Uday watched Ranbir for a few moments and decided he was not lying. There was no point ticking him off for administering a few slaps: that was accepted practice, though this tree business was definitely innovative. The police could not afford to open a case against every petty criminal caught. To send a person to jail took time and effort, and ate into other policing duties.
‘Okay, you can go. I’ll call you later,’ Uday told Ranbir. ‘Tandon, one minute,’ he said to the other policeman, who had been standing by silently during the exchange. ‘Start a departmental inquiry and take your time with this,’ Uday instructed him, unnecessarily he realized. He knew Ranbir and Tandon worked hand in glove to make money and one would hardly jeopardize the other. ‘I don’t want to be bothered with this any more. That’s all for now,’ he said with barely controlled distaste.
‘Yes, sir.’ Tandon saluted and hurried out.
The Tandons of the force were the worst sort: notoriously corrupt and absolutely incompetent. By Uday’s reckoning, the best policemen were those like himself: middling corrupt, but efficient. Absolute unbending honesty was no less problematic than heartless corruption. If used effectively, Uday always said, amorality could be a policeman’s weapon.
‘Mishra-ji,’ Uday told his PA on the intercom, ‘get Ashwin, the Times guy.’ He wanted the mystery of the newspaper photograph solved. Uday knew the journalist, Ashwin Pandey, who had done the story, and quite liked him.
The reporter came on the line.
‘Good morning, Ashwin. What is this that you keep doing?’
‘Ha ha, sir, good morning. Nothing much, just a small story to keep the job,’ the voice at the other end was flush with victory.
‘Come and have tea with me,’ Uday said. ‘If you are free, come now.’
Mishra-ji walked in with the morning files. For the next half- hour, Uday busied himself with the tedious administrative side of policing a district: sanctioning leave; penning formalized begging letters to headquarters for equipment, manpower and money; examining the progress of pending cases and attending to personal requests. An orderly knocked and told him that Ashwin Pandey was waiting to see him.
‘Yes, send him in,’ Uday said, and asked for tea.
Ashwin seemed bulkier, Uday thought. He was also without the trademark thick glasses.
‘Arre, what happened, your vision has suddenly cleared?’ Uday exclaimed, getting up to shake hands.
‘What to do, sir?’ Ashwin replied. ‘There is so much to see in this city of yours that I decided to get 20/20 vision. Got this laser treatment done,’ he said, sitting down.
‘Really?’ Uday thought of his wife’s deteriorating vision. ‘Must be expensive, no?’
‘Yes, a bit, but I have a friend who has started this facility. Got a discount.’
‘Did you also do a friendly story for your friend?’
‘Unlike your fellows who get free treatment and if not, threaten to slap false cases.’
The retort was instant and Uday laughed. ‘I will take the doctor’s name and address from you later. But for now, tell me boss, how did you do this?’ He waved his copy of the Times. ‘I called Ranbir in today and screwed him over. He swears that there was no photographer around.’
‘Your man is right.’ Ashwin grinned. ‘We were not there. Not when the thief was being thrashed, anyway.’
‘Then?’
‘Well, I got to hear about the incident from this guy who lives in the neighbourhood and went to the spot. The thief was still around, screaming about police torture to anyone who cared to listen. We strung the chap up again and took his photo. He was only too ready to oblige.’
‘What!’ Uday exclaimed, shocked. ‘Ashwin, what are you saying? You are worse than my constables. You really put that guy up again?’ He began to laugh.
Ashwin nodded, smiling sheepishly.
‘What a crook!’ The cop chuckled. ‘He shafted Ranbir right back.’
After tea, the reporter rose to leave. He shook Uday’s hand. ‘No hard feelings I hope, sir.’
‘None from my side, but do not go towards Chandni Chowk. I cannot guarantee your safety. See you at the press conference.’
As Ashwin left, Mishra-ji walked in. ‘Sir, there have been phone calls from the news channels asking for comments. They are all running the morning story.’
‘These journalists, Mishra-ji,’ Uday said to his PA, ‘they have no mothers, no sisters. Any hole they get, they’ll park their dirty dicks. Compared to them, we are angels.’
He related Ashwin’s story and Mishra-ji, who had served his boss for over twenty years, shared his outrage and amusement.
After lunch, delivered by special arrangement with the nearby Oberoi Maidens Hotel, Uday settled down to read his notes once more. Through months of phone taps, his team had established links between the cricket-betting syndicate in central Delhi and the organized crime gangs in Dubai, Hong Kong and Malaysia and, most importantly, Pakistan. That always got the headlines, Uday thought. He was convinced that two players in the national team were involved with the syndicate but the evidence was inconclusive.
Years ago, he had been part of the team responsible for unearthing the Hansiegate scandal, where top international players were implicated in organized betting. Although the police had telephone conversations between South African skipper Hansie Cronje, his teammates and bookies on tape, they were nervous about breaking the story. Governments got involved and the whole thing turned nasty. Out of the blue, Hansie confessed, professing that his Christian roots had pushed him to tell the truth.
Uday never met Hansie, and a couple of years later, when the cricketer died in a plane crash, he was depressed for weeks. There was something graceful about how Hansie had found the courage to own up to his crime, knowing the consequences. A career built through hard work and graft would now lie in tatters, forever to be ridiculed.
Unlike our motherfuckers, Uday grimaced inwardly. The whole country knew they were guilty, but they still had the nerve to behave as if nothing had happened. Half of them were television commentators and the rest were in Parliament.
It was not the investigation, nor its coverage that worried Uday, but the announcement to be made afterwards by the police commissioner. He was hoping nothing would change the man’s mind. That a so-called human rights’ abuse in his jurisdiction should have cropped up on this of all days was just plain bad luck. Uday was to be transferred from his present position to take over as deputy commissioner of police, Crime Branch. Technically the new posting was not a promotion, nor was it a more glamorous assignment. But it afforded Uday the opportunity to be a real policeman again. He’d had enough of districts. Most of the time, it seemed to him, he was like a counsellor, negotiating between warring factions. No more playing community cop to criminal politicians and their hoodlums, and eating cheap sweets at their gatherings. Now he could go arrest the bastards.
And then there was the tip-off, not really concrete information but a sort of murmur that Uday had picked up. If true, he would need the resources of the Crime Branch. The final chapter of his policing career had arrived. How he would be remembered depended on what happened in the next few months. Uday Kumar was not planning on a q
uiet exit.
2
‘I
s the boy still there?’ Amir Akhtar asked the receptionist. It was 2.15, and the chief reporter of the Express was thinking of lunch.
‘Yes,’ came the reply over the phone. ‘He hasn’t left the sofa at all.’
‘In half an hour, if he is around, send him in.’
Amir stepped out of his cramped cabin into the reporting section, now empty. Even if they were not working on stories, he encouraged his team to be out during the day. The reporters were his eyes and ears, and Amir encouraged their presence on the city’s streets. ‘If you want to fool around, do it outside,’ he would say.
He bent down and touched his toes, feeling the hamstring stretch. As he walked towards the toilets, Amir could see the boy … what was his name … sitting on a sofa, reading the newspapers. He paused and stared at the face – young and earnest – and felt a stab of irritation. The editorial meeting in the morning had not gone smoothly and on top of that, the editor, Mihir Ghosh, was trying to saddle him with this boy. He wanted experienced hands; not eager faces, fresh out of college, wanting a revolution. ‘I want to make a difference’ or such claptrap during an interview meant instant rejection in Amir’s mind.
Apart from Vivek Sethi, his senior crime reporter who had recently put in his papers, for two years now there had been zero defections from Amir’s team, which finally resembled a settled unit.
He liked Vivek, but the notice period was a strain for both men. He was infuriated to discover that Vivek had failed to visit the site of a double murder in south Delhi last night. His report read like it had been filched from a TV bulletin: short, sketchy and sensational.
This sort of sloppiness stood out in a newspaper known for its sound investigative journalism. The Express’s reputation had been built on the back of the city reporting team, which Amir had headed for the past six years. His benchmark for a story was simple. ‘If your article catches the eye of the editor of the Times of India, you have done your job,’ Amir told his reporters. ‘Only fools write for ordinary people. You want to be read by journalists; not shopkeepers.’
The Price You Pay Page 1