‘I’ll be posted to the Crime Branch within a week and we’ll work on this together. Come, I have to get back now.’
Once sure that he was alone, Abhishek emerged from the toilets and returned to the conference room. He tried to appear nonchalant as he reclaimed his seat in the back row. On stage, the commissioner was holding forth on the menace of cricket betting and the virtues of his officers. Abhishek made a few notes.
Policemen: Uday Kumar, Mayank (confirmed tip-off)
Babloo Shankar planning a comeback.
Half an hour later the press conference concluded and refreshments were served. Abhishek, mindful of his belly, left quietly. There would be ample time to meet his fellow reporters, if he could keep this job. And with the information he had, he thought he just might.
On the street, Abhishek hunched his shoulders against the early evening chill. If something came of this, he would buy that grimy omelettewallah a bottle of hair dye himself.
3
U
day Kumar sped away from the police headquarters, satisfied with the evening’s outcome: his new posting was confirmed, the press conference had gone off without any glitches, and Ranbir’s indiscretion seemed buried. To top it all, three weeks after the first tip-off, Mayank Sharma had told him that Babloo Shankar was indeed coming back.
Uday was glad he had asked Mayank to work with him. The boy had trained under him and was efficient and hard-working. He was also scrupulously honest, but one could work around that. Within a very short time in the Crime Branch, Mayank had earned a reputation for keeping his mouth shut and his ear to the ground. But what should Uday tell him to listen for?
He made a phone call to a friend in Mumbai, Sunil Shinde, who worked with the Research and Analysis Wing, the government’s external intelligence unit. As part of its varied remit, from masterminding bomb blasts in Karachi to fiddling with governments in Nepal, the RAW also kept an eye on expatriate underworld dons. Uday told Shinde what he had just heard from Mayank.
‘Let me call you back. I’ll see what I can find,’ his friend told him.
Uday stretched himself out on the back seat, trying to soothe the nagging ache in his lower spine when he heard his call sign.
The radio operator sitting in the front told him that the deputy commissioner of the neighbouring district, Vishnu Gupta, was asking for him. ‘Sir, Charlie 1 calling, sir.’
‘Charlie 1, November 1, please go ahead. Over,’ Uday replied.
‘November 1, Charlie 1,’ began Gupta, ‘I have a demonstration tomorrow which will pass Golcha cinema and move towards Red Fort. They should reach your district by afternoon. Over.’
‘Roger. Arrangements made. Out.’
Uday returned the handset, cursing Gupta under his breath. ‘Worthless. All this man does is police procession and weigh his options for better postings.’
Even mundane exchanges with officers from the Central services irritated Uday. Many of them, peers and seniors included, had trained under him, a man from a state cadre, the perennial second rung. He knew their worth well, including this bhenchod Gupta, twenty years younger, but today holding the same rank. In a year or two, Uday would have to report to the dimwit.
‘Yesterday’s kids,’ he would thunder to his junior officers, ‘chhokras, here with their smart English accents and degrees in history and sociology, talking down to me, Uday Kumar! Half of these motherfuckers begged me to train them.’
In his early pursuit of a career in the Central services, Uday was no different from the objects of his derision. In Nehru’s India of the previous century, such a career was one of the few ways to avoid social obscurity. For those who got through, a world of opportunity awaited. The public school–educated envisioned a life of wining and dining diplomacy, while entry to the administrative or police services was the small-town boy’s wet dream. As a reward for years of swotting history books and memorizing obscure events and facts, young men – and the occasional woman – were allowed to rule the lives of thousands.
Uday did not make it to this top tier and, instead, had to settle for the state services. The going rate for his dowry tripled nevertheless and his father, a clerk in a district court in Bihar, could not understand his son’s disappointment. ‘There is money in this service too. After all, it’s the same uniform, no?’ he ranted.
‘Yes, same khaki uniform,’ Uday used to think bitterly, ‘just not the same respect. We are the untouchables, the scheduled castes, and these bastards from the Central services are the Brahmins.’
Uday was known as the Dirty Harry of Delhi Police; to be called upon when things needed cleaning up. What was in college a derogatory reference to his Bihari background – ‘Fucking Hari’ – now evoked Hollywood’s most notorious cop. His humble origin and natural flamboyance found resonance in a nickname that both shamed and pleased him.
Back at the office, Uday took a shower and changed into civvies. He helped himself to the pakore Mishra-ji laid out for him and started surfing the news channels.
‘Did they use my bytes?’ he asked his PA.
‘Yes, sir, most channels have used at least one.’
‘And the Ranbir story? Any channel running that?’
‘Three of the Hindi ones, sir. But that’s all.’
Uday nodded. Good. ‘I want to finish all pending files tonight,’ he said. Seeing his PA’s stricken face, Uday added, ‘You can go home. From tomorrow we have other work to do.’
Shortly after Mishra-ji had left, Shinde called back with information: Babloo Shankar would send in associates first. Uday had a hunch he would. Putting the phone down, he sat for a while, thinking through what he had just heard. For now his quarry had changed. Still lethal, but at least she was easy on the eye. Better to run after a Madame X than that old cripple, Babloo.
I
t had been a quiet news day and Amir was looking forward to an evening at the Press Club. He would do one final check of the city pages, and then leave.
‘But how can you change Proteas to Protease,’ Rajat Sharma, the sports reporter, was demanding of a young subeditor at the desk.
‘I did a spellcheck and that is what was suggested.’ The girl shrugged.
‘Proteas is the South African cricket team. What the fuck is Protease?’
‘I don’t know. The spellcheck suggested it,’ the girl explained patiently.
Amir suppressed a laugh as he ambled over. Two of the pages were done and he signed the printed copies, marking his approval.
‘Call me if you need anything. I’ll be at the club,’ he told the desk editor.
‘This is the only desk which inserts mistakes,’ Rajat said as he walked outside with Amir. ‘Perfectly clean copy, man, and look at what they do. It had my byline on it. I look like a fool and I am beginning to feel like one.’
‘That’s what happens when you get interns for free. They protease you,’ Amir said, grinning. ‘Come to the club. I’ll buy you a drink.’
Amir had reached the stairs when Abhishek caught up with him. ‘Sir,’ he called out.
‘Oh, yes, hi.’ Amir looked back without stopping. ‘Quite a good report. It’s being carried.’
‘Thank you, sir. But I was going to ask you what time to come in tomorrow.’
Horribly persistent, Amir thought as they descended the stairs. ‘Look, there’s no vacancy right now. Why don’t I let you know when something comes up?’
The night air was crisp. A parking attendant brought the car out and Amir was just getting in when Abhishek lightly touched him on the arm. ‘Sir, I think I’ve got a big story.’
Oh Christ, he is one of those, Amir thought, impatiently making to close the door. ‘What is it? I am getting late.’
‘Sir, I’ve heard that someone called Babloo Shankar is coming back.’
Amir looked away and stared ahead at the road. This was a joke; this boy was a joke. His mind reeled. How did he know? What did he know? Who was this boy? Amir tried to calm himself and took a deep breath. He saw that his knuckles were w
hite from clutching the steering wheel. He turned to look at the young man and registered the slightly quizzical expression on his face. He had no idea, Amir decided. ‘Get in,’ he told Abhishek, feeling an overwhelming urge to smoke.
Another vehicle started honking behind them. Amir put the car into gear and slid away, and then turned into the first side alley.
‘Yes, tell me,’ he said, stopping the car.
Abhishek related the information precisely, detailing in particular the snatches of conversation between the two policemen. Amir did not smile at the indelicate reason for his eavesdropping, the young man noted.
Amir heard him out to the end of his story. A bike was coming towards them down the alley, its headlights on full glare, blinding both of them. Amir waited for it to pass. Then he spoke slowly, carefully. ‘If anyone – and I mean anyone – gets to know of this, your career in journalism in this city is over. Rest assured about that. For now, come to the office tomorrow. No promises, but perhaps an internship can be arranged.’
Abhishek got out of the car and Amir drove straight to the Press Club where his two pegs of rum and water were waiting.
The young man went back for his scooter, wondering what he had stumbled across. He was certain Amir Akhtar had looked scared.
U
day Kumar’s office was situated in a part of Delhi where the frenzy of the new city had yet to invade. The area was protected by a large green buffer, the Ridge, and the aged buildings of the university slowed the onslaught of development, their oldness shaming even the most heartless bulldozer. Until recently, the chief minister’s offices were situated here and the area remained close to the corridors of power. But it moved at a pace that suggested scepticism towards the world-class city baying at its borders.
Sunil Mishra had enjoyed his three-year posting here and was sorry it was coming to an end. He did not like the police headquarters where his boss Uday Kumar would now be based as DCP, Crime Branch. The intrigues of that monstrous ten-storey building, with its tiny cubicle-like offices for people of his rank, suffocated him. He was thinking despondently of his future in a cramped room, the inevitable media glare of the posting and his boss’s penchant for it, when somebody knocked at the door.
Mishra jumped up and extended his hand, smiling broadly at the man who walked in. ‘The sun has arrived from the west today. You have come to our humble abode,’ he told a beaming Amir Akhtar.
‘Mishra-ji, it is you who have forgotten us, the downtrodden of this world,’ Amir replied, seizing the proffered hand with both of his.
‘Please sit. What can I get you? Some tea or coffee?’
Amir liked the diminutive mild-mannered man, and on another day would have gladly sat down to tea. But this was not the moment. ‘No, Mishra-ji. Thanks. I need to meet Uday immediately.’
The deputy commissioner was in a good mood that morning. Two new trainees had landed up and he was giving them his initiatory talk with relish. He loved doing this: shaking up the young men, shocking their sensibilities, knocking off some of the official jargon they were fed at the academy. He had asked them the three things required to be a good policeman, and was roaring with laughter at their replies. ‘Which motherfucker told you that?’ Uday howled, doubling up and slapping the table. ‘Keen eye? Did you say keen eye? Keen eye for what, you idiots?’ He loved to see them squirm. ‘In Uday Kumar’s school you will be trained in only one exercise: how to extend the length of your tongue. Ask me why.’
The trainees remained silent.
‘Go on, ask me,’ Uday encouraged.
‘Why, sir?’ one of them murmured.
‘So that you can lick the asses of your senior officers well!’ Before he could enjoy their shocked reactions, the phone rang. ‘Amir Akhtar? Yes, send him in.’
The timing was uncanny. Uday had not met Amir in a long time. He could not possibly know anything.
‘Akhtar mian, you look good. What magic potion do you take and who administers it?’ Despite his anxiety, Uday grinned with the pleasure of seeing an old associate.
‘The good fortune of bachelorhood. Keeps you fit and running. How are you?’ Amir said, settling himself down on a chair and crossing his legs. He always did this, Uday thought, as he watched Amir make himself comfortable. It was his way of dealing with power, this easy casualness. Uday remembered the first time he had met Amir at the residence of a senior policeman. While he, a young officer, had sat on the edge of the sofa, ill at ease, Amir had sat just like this, smoking a cigarette.
‘Chai?’ Uday asked, and Amir nodded. ‘Two teas. One without milk for sahab,’ Uday instructed the orderly.
Amir looked at the trainee officers who were still standing to attention.
Uday noted the look. ‘Okay, dismissed, boys. Your first class is over. The sooner you forget your academy manuals, the better.’
He was shaking his head in silent laughter as they stepped out, expecting Amir to share his amusement. It was a universal phenomenon: the contempt the experienced had for the young, and the derision with which the youth regarded the old.
‘Is Babloo back?’ Amir’s voice cut through Uday’s attempt at hilarity.
Uday, caught by surprise, looked blankly at Amir. Tea was brought in at that moment, giving the cop time to gather his thoughts. He concentrated on preparing it, while his guest sat observing him.
Amir knew from his friend’s reaction that it was true; Abhishek Dutta was right.
‘Don’t get into it again, Amir,’ Uday said finally, handing him a cup.
‘That’s not possible, Uday. We both know that.’
‘Why?’ Uday snapped. ‘It’s not your job. I would not go after him either if I were not in this damned uniform. We have both spent too many years on this. Look at what it has done to you and your marriage. And now you want more? Let it go, man.’
Amir quietly sipped his tea as Uday went on. Arguing with a man who had already lost the argument was pointless. It was easier to let him say his piece and feel the better for it. Amir’s gaze shifted to the board behind Uday as he spoke. It displayed the names of all the officers who had held the post since 1946, a year before India gained Independence. He knew all the serving policemen and quite a few of those who had retired.
‘You are not listening, are you, Amir?’ Uday asked.
‘I am,’ Amir replied. ‘Thank you very much for your concern about my soul and my family life, but stop the bullshit, Uday. If I don’t get involved, every presswallah in this city will. How will you get Babloo Shankar then?’
‘So, it’s blackmail, Amir?’ Uday said softly. ‘You know the consequences of blackmailing a Delhi Police officer?’
Amir kept silent.
‘So what do you want?’ Uday finally gave in.
‘For now, a promise that you will share with me every detail of what is happening. I will activate my people too. I haven’t lost my source base completely,’ the newsman replied.
Uday paused for a while, working out how much to say. ‘We know very little. We have heard a rumour that he is coming back. Still unconfirmed. I have put someone on the job. But really, we don’t know much right now,’ he said, hoping he sounded truthful. ‘By the way, how do you know this?’ Uday added, after a pause.
‘In case you have forgotten, I am still a reporter,’ Amir said, smiling now. Even after three decades in the job, he enjoyed flummoxing a police officer.
The phone rang.
‘Five minutes,’ Uday said before turning back to Amir. ‘Okay. You find out what you can and get back to me. I’ll see what comes up.’
‘Who is this new young man you have put on the job? Mayank is the name, if I am not mistaken,’ Amir said casually, standing up.
Uday looked surprised, then smiled. ‘Your sources are very good indeed. Come, I’ll see you out now.’ He led the journalist to the door. ‘Just one thing, Amir,’ he said as they shook hands, ‘I hope we’ve both realized that there is no point being brave. It leads to mistakes.’
Amir
smiled. ‘Bravery was your baby, Uday. I’m glad you’ve grown up. I’ll call you. Bye.’
A
bhishek had been in the office since 10 a.m. but, without Amir’s presence, was not allowed into the editorial meeting. Maya, kind and mildly flirtatious, found him a desktop on which he was trying to figure out the mystery of Babloo Shankar.
A Wikipedia page provided the basics: Babloo was wanted by the police of three Indian states for several high-profile kidnappings in the 1980s and ’90s. The Central Bureau of Investigation had issued letter rogatories against him and he was on Interpol’s most-wanted list. He fled the country in 1996 after a shootout with the police in which he was severely injured. A bullet, still lodged in his spine, had paralysed him permanently from the waist down. He was reported to be staying on a yacht off the Singapore coastline. Not much was known about his present activities.
Other websites detailed the kidnappings, Babloo’s background and the profiles of his victims. Abhishek made notes.
The notorious kidnapper was born in eastern Uttar Pradesh in 1963, Abhishek read in a mildly hagiographical website, indiasmostwanted.com. His brother was the violent and dreaded gangster, Arun Shankar. Their father was a policeman in Azamgarh, a town where the distinction between cops and robbers vanished in the business of extortions, political kidnappings and gunrunning. Given his lineage, Babloo’s choice of career was unremarkable, though his crimes were not.
In his early years he had fought against what seemed preordained. To Abhishek’s surprise, Babloo had studied aeronautical engineering in Soviet Russia, had a Lebanese girlfriend and was hoping to get a job in Cairo when things took a turn. ‘Destiny,’ the web page stated, ‘would not be denied.’
In the winter of 1984, Babloo returned from Moscow to visit his family. As he came out of Lucknow airport, six gunmen fired at him. Although he was unarmed, Babloo managed to escape, crawling through drainpipes that were laid outside the airport.
He never returned to Russia. Instead, he moved to Delhi the following year. Six kidnappings later, Babloo Shankar was the first organized gangster Delhi Police had encountered.
The Price You Pay Page 3