‘But you are one of his favourites, aren’t you?’ Abhishek asked.
‘Don’t know about that, but yes, we get along. He misses Vivek. Can’t imagine why. The man is such a snake.’
‘Vivek really helped me, Maya.’
‘Well, you better watch out. He is no one’s friend,’ Maya warned as she settled the bill.
‘I know what you are scared of,’ she said, once outside. ‘You have had this sudden high. The fear of fall is natural.’
Maya was right, but it was more than that. Not only was he scared of falling short of the standards that he had inadvertently set himself, Abhishek was desperately struggling to act like he belonged. Mediocrity had always shielded him; in the throes of attention, he was both lustful and shy.
Maya linked her arm through his. Despite the layers of clothing, the proximity felt good. Abhishek did not have the audacity to think further; just the momentary closeness to this woman seemed enough.
‘Sorry I went into that rant earlier. I do it every time I am drunk.’ She laughed and pulled him closer. ‘Let’s hang out soon again.’
As they entered the car park, she asked him, ‘Will you be able to ride back home? I live quite close by or would have given you a lift.’
‘Yes-yes,’ Abhishek said hurriedly. ‘I need the scooter for the morning anyway.’
‘OK then, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ he replied and, kick-starting the scooter, began the cold ride home.
A
t the Crime Branch, the deputy commissioner and his assistant had reached an impasse. ‘Yes, it is a gamble, Mayank. And I have been telling you this,’ Uday tried to reason. ‘I have just two options: I could tell the whole world about Babloo’s possible plans; alert Interpol, the CBI and Mumbai Police and have him not turn up – and rest assured he would not – or I could play this absolutely quiet. Let him take the bait, do what he is planning, and then get him. Once he plays his hand, you can take all the bloody help you want, from whom you want. This is not about me arresting him,’ the cop said, looking his younger counterpart in the eye. ‘This is about Babloo Shankar being arrested.’ Uday hoped he sounded convincing.
Mayank Sharma did not talk back to his seniors. If he had been a different sort of man, he might have enquired if his boss remembered that many years ago such an operation, shrouded in similar secrecy, had dramatically backfired. But Mayank’s police training and upbringing restrained him. His dissent remained within accepted boundaries.
‘Till now, sir, an attempt to narrow down a possible list of victims in just three of the districts has thrown up over five thousand names. It is impossible to even start monitoring this.’
‘Yes,’ Uday agreed. ‘I think the only credible route left before us is to pursue Amir’s. Meet that guy he told us about, and see what he says. Right now, I can’t see any other way.’
Mayank remained silent. Uday knew this sharp young man – he would put his money on Mayank occupying the commissioner’s chair someday – was thinking that he was being given pointless exercises to stay busy. And that was not far from the truth. But Uday also knew that one did not admit to such things. Apologizing to a junior was also a breach of protocol.
Mayank played along. ‘Right, sir. I will contact Mr Akhtar and see when I can talk to his source. I’ll make a full report. By the way, sir,’ he added, as if as an afterthought, ‘will I be included in this evening’s operation?’
They both knew it would be hard for Uday to refuse. ‘OK,’ said the officer, shortly. ‘Rana Sen is in charge. Get a briefing from him at the afternoon team meeting.’
As Mayank saluted and left, Uday felt annoyed with himself. This was his first big case since he’d joined the Crime Branch, with a high probability of a shoot-out. He wanted to send only his toughest men; it was not a Mayank Sharma sort of job.
W
hile the two policemen were locked in polite combat, Abhishek was having morning tea with Vikram in the press office downstairs. ‘Boss, the commissioner has invited you for lunch next Wednesday,’ Vikram told the young man, whose delight was evident. ‘He is absolutely impressed with your work, Abhishek. Congratulations.’
It was a tradition, Vikram explained, for the commissioner of police to meet a few reporters individually at the end of each year. It gave him an opportunity to present his viewpoints and also listen to what journalists had to say about policing and its reportage.
‘I must say, I was not expecting this,’ the press officer admitted. ‘I have never known any reporter to be invited so soon. Only the seniors are called, and only a select few at that.’
A cheerful face appeared around the door. ‘Hi Vikram, how are things? Thought I might get a cup of tea with you. Haven’t seen you in a while.’
Abhishek hadn’t met the policeman before and Vikram did the introductions. ‘Abhishek, meet Rohit Bansal, deputy commissioner of the Special Cell. Rohit, meet the new talent. Just got invited for lunch with the commissioner.’
‘Really? That’s quite something. I have read your stories. Yesterday you interviewed that murderer, didn’t you? And the sleeping cops story; that was excellent.’
Abhishek smiled, embarrassed and happy.
‘Listen, I have a scoop for you,’ Rohit said suddenly. ‘Why don’t you come with me for a minute, if you are not doing anything right now? Vikram, is that OK?’
In his office, Rohit explained that the Special Cell had registered a First Information Report against a company producing faulty transformers. ‘This might not sound out of the ordinary, but the transformers are similar to the one which caused the Uphaar tragedy. Over fifty cinema halls and hotels now have them installed in their basements. So potentially there are many tragedies waiting to happen.’
Although he was barely in his teens at the time, Abhishek could remember the tragedy well. For months, it had been headline news. On 13 June 1997, fifty-nine people had been killed and more than a hundred injured when a fire had broken out during a film screening at Uphaar cinema in south Delhi. A faulty transformer in the basement had been identified as the cause. The incident had scarred the public psyche, sparking off a debate about health and safety standards across Indian cities. It did not take exceptional intelligence to recognize the newsworthiness of time bombs ticking away in the capital’s public buildings.
Rohit was meticulous, showing Abhishek the report filed against the accused and making sure that he noted facts and figures correctly.
Abhishek, at the end of the meeting, thanked the policeman profusely.
‘Always a delight to help someone Vikram recommends,’ Rohit said. ‘I am sure we will work together in the future. One thing – don’t mention my name anywhere. Just quote me as a source.’
Vikram’s office had filled up while Abhishek was away. He cheerily called out to a few reporters as he walked in and took a seat. The response was frosty.
A journalist from the Hindi newspaper Sahara Samay looked at him accusingly, ‘Boss, what you did yesterday was not right.’
‘Why, what did I do?’ Abhishek asked, as other reporters turned to watch the exchange.
‘That interview which you did with the murderer, Baldev Pujara; any of us could have done that. But it is not right to give a murderer’s version of the events.’
‘Why do you think we do not put a criminal’s version?’ another senior reporter added, and then answered his own question expansively: ‘Public sympathy must not go out to them. Imagine every criminal starts using the media as their mouthpiece. We all can do such interviews, but we don’t. Anyway,’ he looked at Vikram and shrugged dismissively, ‘too many new kids with no proper training, and this is what happens.’
Abhishek did not argue. These men were a bunch of lazy and contented fools whom he had off-footed. He had turned a routine story into a front-page exclusive. What they were claiming was absolute rubbish. If getting interviews or meeting criminals was that easy, they would all do it. Their asses must have been thoroughly kicked by their
bosses. Abhishek remembered what Amir had told him during their breakfast chat: ‘How successful you are is reflected in how much your peers hate you. You should only be bothered if they ignore you.’
‘Well, fuck them,’ Abhishek thought. ‘I’ve got an exclusive, and an invitation to lunch with the commissioner.’
‘Singh sahab, I have to run,’ he loudly interrupted a conversation. ‘What time should I be here on Wednesday for the commissioner’s lunch?’ The room went silent.
Vikram had seen a few journalistic ego clashes in his time, and he enjoyed the young man’s guts. A fighter, Vikram smiled. Well, he would learn his lesson soon. ‘At twelve thirty, Abhishek. Meet me here.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Abhishek relished the dismayed expressions of the reporters as he all but skipped from the room. It was in this jubilant and defiant mood that the journalist thought of dropping in on Uday Kumar.
T
here was a time not so long ago when police shoot-outs were common, even encouraged, in Delhi. the press glorified the men in uniform as crusaders and the public seemed happy to see gangsters dead rather than wasting tax money in jails. But that time had passed.
In a case of mistaken identity, a team of cavalier policemen, greedy for out-of-turn promotions, had gunned down three innocent businessmen in one of the city’s busiest markets. A lame attempt to plant weapons on the victims and claim that they belonged to some criminal gangs in Haryana was swiftly exposed. Delhi Police’s reputation took a severe knock. In less than twenty-four hours, five policemen were arrested and the prevailing commissioner transferred. While appointing V.N. Pratap, the home ministry had warned him that they did not care for a repeat performance. Naturally, the commissioner was now cautious and absolutely adamant that he should be briefed on any operation that might involve a shoot-out.
Uday Kumar, for over three decades, had mastered the art of getting around bosses. The commissioner listened to his flawless presentation that minimized the risks and hinted at the glowing press tributes of the planned kidnapping bust. Despite being fully cognisant of his officer’s guile, Pratap gave in.
That settled, Uday dropped in at the home ministry. He had been promised a new official residence for three years now, but something or the other always seemed to crop up. A new secretary in the personnel department, a Bihari whom he had once assisted on a minor matter, had promised to help.
Uday had only five years of service left; not much time, Alka often reminded him, if they were ever to live in an independent bungalow. She had gone to visit her parents a week back, and he was hoping that she would stay there all winter. He was enjoying the attentions of a busty woman provided by a Rolls Royce dealer whose showroom encroached on public space.
His morning errands over, Uday returned to his office and ordered lunch.
‘Sir, Abhishek Dutta is here,’ Mishra informed. ‘Shall I tell him you are busy?’
Uday thought for a while. A bit of afternoon banter might help take his mind off things. ‘No; send him in. And can you order a few more dosas from the canteen? he might want some food.’
Abhishek was having quite a day. Even though he had turned up unannounced, the senior policeman not only seemed pleased to see him but had also invited him to lunch.
Uday was in full flow, slurping sambar and delivering an unending stream of success stories when Abhishek decided to offer his opinion: ‘It is a great story, sir, but doesn’t it bother you that most of these shoot-outs are staged? I mean, everyone knows you stage encounters.’
The only compensation for what followed, Abhishek thought later, was that no one else had been there to witness it.
After the first moment of absolute incomprehension, Uday flew into a rage that turned into an almost physical assault. ‘Bhenchod! You are telling Uday Kumar that he stages encounters? Do you know whom you are talking to? Who are you? How old are you? What have you seen?’ Uday thumped the desk with every question.
Abhishek, struck dumb, wanted to curl up and make himself as small as possible.
‘In every district where I worked, children in the streets knew my name. Every fucking resident knew me. And you come here, eat my food, and tell me that I fake encounters? You sons of bitches, you fucking journalists – you people should be lined up and shot!’
Abhishek did not know what to say, how to retract his question and defuse the anger.
Uday suddenly stopped and stared at him for what seemed like a long time. The corners of his mouth slowly twitched and a sly smile spread across his face.
Abhishek, extremely uncomfortable, looked away.
‘Enough of this,’ Uday said, lowering his voice. ‘Let me show you how Uday Kumar works. We are sending a team to rescue a kidnapped boy this evening. And you, impudent fucker,’ he said, pointing a fat finger at Abhishek, ‘are going with them. See what happens, and then open your bloody mouth and tell me that I stage encounters.’
11
A
bhishek was in the car with Ombir Rathi, a top Delhi Police shooter, his radio operator and the driver. They were following two other unmarked police vehicles heading towards a hotel in Meerut. A reconnaissance team led by Mayank had just informed them that a crowded evening market made the area unsuitable for shoot-outs.
It had taken Abhishek a while to piece together what was going on. The sixteen-year-old son of a well-to-do cloth merchant in west Delhi’s Karol Bagh had disappeared three weeks ago. After all possible inquiries with friends and relatives had drawn a blank, the parents informed the police.
Four nights later, they received a telephone call on their landline. A man’s voice informed the father that their son had been kidnapped, which both parents had suspected but refused to acknowledge. As an assurance of the boy’s well-being, the kidnapper allowed the father to hear a hoarse whispery cry. The motive was money and the ransom demanded was five crore rupees. They would cut off the cry altogether if the police got involved.
The frightened mother forced her husband to cease conversations with the authorities. The district police apprised the Crime Branch, which discreetly took over the investigation. They tapped the family’s phones and recorded discussions of how and where the ransom was to be paid.
With the exchange imminent, Uday contacted the father and persuaded him that the Crime Branch would be able to pull off a rescue. Without his wife’s knowledge, the man agreed.
‘He’s a fucking businessman. If he can help it, he won’t pay,’ Uday told his men.
The kidnappers had told the father to deliver the money at the hotel in Meerut where the police were now heading. The instructions had been clear: ‘Bring the money in thousand-rupee notes. Give the suitcase to the hotel manager, then leave. The boy will be home the next day.’ If the police or anyone else was informed, or the kidnappers were given any cause for suspicion, the parents would never see their son again.
The police had decided to stake out the hotel before the money was delivered. Three couples, police personnel under cover, had already checked in and would report on developments. Rana Sen, who was leading the operation, would decide with Uday the next course of action; most importantly, when, and if, they should attack.
Ombir was on the phone with Uday. ‘Sir, do you know that it’s the twenty-ninth of November today?’
‘What about it?’ Ombir’s phone was on loudspeaker, and everyone in the car could hear the exchange.
‘Three years ago today, sir … the Mehrauli shoot-out?’
‘Arre, yes-yes. Make sure you take care of yourself. I don’t want you shot again.’
‘Ha, ha, yes sir, I will. The wife gets scared these days. We are becoming old.’ Ombir put the phone down and looked at Abhishek. ‘We should have got a bullet-proof vest for you, Abhishek-ji,’ he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
The reporter wondered if he should play along with Ombir’s slightly morbid sense of humour or would it be interpreted as actual nerves? ‘What was the Mehrauli case?’ he
deflected, allowing Ombir the opportunity for a bit of self-promotion. In his short stint as a journalist, Abhishek had quickly learnt that the best way to gain a policeman’s confidence was to give ample space for stories.
‘You have not heard of the Ramala case?’ Ombir asked with mock incredulity.
‘No. I just joined the profession.’
‘But you must have watched the news, no? Every channel covered it. Ramala was the biggest gangster of Uttar Pradesh. Involved in over twenty murders. No one knows how many people he kidnapped and threatened. There were cases of robbery, armed intimidation, everything. We cornered him in Mehrauli. He was tough, I must admit. He didn’t go down quietly or surrender. I was shot in the stomach.’ Ombir looked at Abhishek, waiting for a reaction
‘Really? How did it happen?’ Abhishek offered.
‘We stopped Ramala’s car at a police checkpoint. He shot first. I went down but fired back. There were two others with me. Ramala opened the car door to get out. That was his mistake. We got clear shots at him. Spot dead.’
‘Sir was in hospital for three months,’ the driver contributed, his eyes wide in the rear-view mirror.
‘Ah, no-no, it was nothing,’ said Ombir, approving of the interruption. He looked at Abhishek. ‘It could be an omen. The same date. Who knows?’
Hotel Moonlight stood at the very edge of Meerut, just west of the Delhi highway. It was a pink two-storey building, surrounded by similarly unimaginative structures of varying shades. The evening bazaar was under way; in the cacophony of buying and selling, no one noticed the three cars pass by within minutes of each other and stop a few hundred metres from the hotel.
Abhishek and Ombir’s vehicle was the last to arrive. They glided past the others and parked by a row of tin-roof tea shops that stood a little way from the main market.
The Price You Pay Page 13