The Price You Pay

by Somnath Batabyal

  ‘Chai, anybody? I need to stretch.’ Ombir declared, jumping out rather nimbly, Abhishek thought, considering his size.

  At the shop, they ordered cigarettes and four cups of tea. Ombir sat down next to Abhishek, bending the road-side bench with his bulk. While both the other cars were visible at some distance, Abhishek couldn’t see the policemen. Mayank, he knew, would be somewhere in the crowd. A faint sense of dread started to trickle through him. The sight of the hotel, the marketplace teeming with people and deemed unsuitable for a shoot-out, and the sudden alacrity in Ombir’s eyes. This was really happening – he was on a mission to rescue a kidnapped teenager.

  ‘Our six have checked in.’ Rana came up behind them. ‘The father and uncle should be here any minute and once they deposit the money, we’ll reassess the situation.’

  Abhishek’s hand shook as he sipped his tea.

  ‘Meanwhile, Abhishek,’ the cop turned to him and grinned, ‘relax. You look like you are the one who’s going to be shot.’

  Abhishek smiled back weakly, his enthusiasm for bullet-related jokes fast waning.

  ‘There they are,’ Ombir said, nodding towards the hotel.

  A grey Pajero stopped at the entrance, and from it emerged the two elderly gentlemen Abhishek had met that afternoon in Uday’s office. One of them carried a suitcase which must have contained the money. They entered the hotel and came out in less than a minute, without it. ‘Good,’ Rana muttered and, once the men began to drive away, called the father. ‘Sir, Rana Sen here. Did everything go okay?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Just one man at the reception or was there anyone else? … Okay, sir, I will be in touch. Please do not call me; if there is anything you need, call Uday sir.’

  Rana turned to the others. ‘Okay, baggage has been delivered. I expect to hear from our couples soon. Once we know the layout of the hotel and the number of people, we can plan further.’

  Abhishek lit another cigarette and studied the man who was leading the operation. Rana Sen was of above-average height. His glasses and long, slightly unkempt hair made him look more like a college lecturer than a policeman. During the afternoon briefing, Abhishek had got the distinct impression that Uday was relying more on Ombir than on Rana, his senior.

  ‘Sir, look!’ Ombir leapt up suddenly, pointing towards the hotel. ‘What the hell is this?’

  Abhishek watched as two large police vans pulled up outside the hotel. Uniformed men leapt out and charged inside. Rana was already sprinting towards the building with Ombir behind him. Abhishek had to fight his way through the crowded street to keep up.

  Just outside the hotel, Rana paused and turned to his junior officer: ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Go in and see,’ Ombir replied and, without waiting for assent, led the way in.

  ‘Stay here,’ Rana commanded Abhishek over his shoulder.

  Abhishek stood aside as the rest of the team, including Mayank, barged past; the door to the hotel lobby swung open and shut. He could hear Rana’s shouts. Frightened, but overcome with curiosity, the reporter slipped in.

  Ombir had a man pushed up against a wall, with a pistol stuck at the back of his neck, and Rana was screaming obscenities at the perplexed men.

  Finally, Rana identified the group leader and advanced towards him, waving his ID in the man’s face. ‘Who the fuck are you? How did you get here? Who called you? Quickly, motherfucker, tell me quickly!’

  The policeman, wrestling with the indignity of being abused in front of his team, said quietly, ‘We were called in by the hotel staff.’

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Rana shouted, confusion getting the better of his anger. Pushing past the policemen, he sat down on the sofa. ‘Ombir, get that manager here. I need to understand what just happened.’

  Ombir released the man he had pinned against the wall, whose trousers bore the shameful piss-smelling evidence of his fear, and gestured for him to speak to Rana.

  His name was Gaurav Kumar Chaturvedi. He had received a call a few days back from a man who had booked a room for tonight and tomorrow. The caller had said that he would arrive late, and a business associate would deliver his suitcase at some point during the evening. Chaturvedi had agreed to put it in the room the man had booked.

  ‘This evening, sir,’ the manager told Rana, ‘three couples checked in, one after the other. I was surprised, as that hardly ever happens here. An hour later, the suitcase arrived. The men who delivered it seemed terrified and ran away before I could say anything. I was suspicious, so I forced it open. There are stacks of cash in it, sir. I immediately called the police. I did not want trouble.’

  Rana beckoned to the police team leader. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Inspector Rajiv Ranjan, sir.’

  ‘Rajiv-ji,’ Rana said, his voice now controlled, ‘there has been a kidnapping. That was the ransom money this man found in the suitcase. The boy was kidnapped from Delhi and therefore in our jurisdiction. We are trying to get the kidnapper. All of you must leave right now and not show up again. It’s possible that the kidnapper is somewhere around and if he has spotted you, the boy’s life is in grave danger. I’ll speak to your superiors later, but gather your men this instant and go away. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ranjan replied and the chastened policemen left the reception, escorted by two of Rana’s men.

  The rest of the hotel employees were gathered in the reception. Abhishek felt sorry for the manager. Chaturvedi was embarrassed at having wet himself and still scared out of his wits. Ombir’s insistent, almost violent, cross-examination was not helping. Chaturvedi’s subordinates were relishing the spectacle. Every insult or hurt the man had ever dealt them was being deliciously avenged.

  By now, Abhishek had deduced that the Crime Branch team had severely erred in its planning. The operation had been built around the premise that the hotel staff were involved, either directly or otherwise, in the kidnapping. In any case, checking three couples, almost simultaneously, into the Moonlight was not a subtle move.

  Rana was in damage-control mode. ‘From now on, no one leaves the hotel without my permission,’ he told the hotel employees. ‘Call home and say a wedding party has arrived suddenly. Mayank, can you see that these calls are supervised, and then take away the mobile phones.’ He then instructed the manager to put up a ‘No Vacancy’ board at the entrance.

  ‘We don’t have one, sir,’ the manager mumbled.

  ‘Then make one,’ the officer snapped. ‘And go and change your clothes … Ombir,’ he said, turning towards his colleague, ‘everyone stays in tonight. And we’ll put a couple of men at the reception with the manager. We have to be very careful.’

  Since no other rooms were occupied, things moved quickly. The suitcase was placed in a corner room on the first floor, with Mayank and Abhishek opposite and Ombir and Rana next door. Four policemen designated for night duty occupied the ground floor.

  It was a little past 9 p.m. by the time all the arrangements were completed. The manager, humiliated and shaken, was put to work. He had to procure several bottles of whisky and some tandoori chicken. ‘Get mutton kebabs too,’ Ombir called after him.

  T

  he bathroom tiles were cracked and, to Abhishek’s bare feet, felt like slippery ice. The cold water came down in a gush, the hot water in a trickle, and the two wouldn’t mix. After standing naked for a while, shivering beside the shower, he gave up. He dressed hurriedly and washed his face at the dirty sink; the water, muddy at first, stinging his face and eyes. He wet his hair and armpits. Mayank had taken a shower and Abhishek wanted to at least pretend he had done the same.

  When he tip-toed out, his friend was already dressed. The room was tiny and miserable, its wretchedness accentuated by the chill. By way of furniture, there was a double bed with a dirty blanket on it, a sofa fraying at the edges, two chairs and a table. A framed picture of mountains, a river and a quaint old cottage only served to emphasize the joylessness of the present surroundings. A cupboard stood
in the corner, useless to the two men. None of the team had brought luggage, not even those who had checked in.

  After a half-hour break, the men were to reconvene on the ground floor. Rana had told the manager to serve the women constables their dinner separately. They had been dismissed for the night and, Abhishek presumed, from the operation. Their role had backfired and now they were a liability.

  ‘Major mistake.’ Mayank frowned. ‘We should have staggered the check-in of the couples. This area doesn’t look like a place where people come for a quickie, does it?’

  He began lacing his shoes. ‘Plus, we had kind of assumed that the hotel guys were in on the whole thing. That blew up in our faces.’ He checked his pistol and put it into his pocket. ‘Let’s go. I want to get this drinking business done with.’

  As the two young men joined the gathering, a constable pulled up chairs for them.

  ‘Sit, sit.’ Rana waved them in. ‘Whisky and soda?’

  Abhishek nodded, reaching for the fried chicken on the table.

  ‘Mayank, Coke again?’ Rana asked his junior officer, smiling.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mayank replied, embarrassed. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll help myself. Thank you.’

  Rana gulped down two shots. Pouring his third, he asked Ombir, ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘Can’t say, sir. Depends. If someone was watching, this operation is over.’

  ‘What will happen to the boy?’

  Ombir remained silent.

  ‘Very wrong planning,’ Rana muttered, to no one in particular. His phone rang and he stepped out to take the call.

  ‘Everyone,’ Rana said, re-entering the room. ‘We seem okay. The kidnappers called the boy’s father. He has confirmed the delivery, and they don’t seem to have noticed anything.’

  Abhishek sensed the collective sigh of relief. A kidnapping rescue gone wrong usually meant death for the victim, and second chances were rare. Glasses were refilled. Ombir and his fellow policeman Surinder were remarkable raconteurs and, as quickly as the whisky dried up, the anecdotes flowed.

  Ombir had married a girl from a lower caste and his family had disowned him. His three brothers had stripped him of the family property. ‘I had no option but to join the police to get my land back. I could have become a gangster, I guess, but then one of you might have arrested me.’

  Amid the laughter, Ombir turned to Rana and added, ‘I know what these men do to keep themselves amused in the lock-up, sir. I prefer not be face down on the floor every time one of them gets drunk and starts missing his sister-in-law.’

  Rana let out a loud snort, slamming his glass down on the table and slapping his thigh. The Central services officer had allowed himself to join in the bawdy banter. Abhishek noted the beaming policemen. The barriers that class erected, whisky battered down.

  ‘Get some more drinks, someone,’ Ombir told his constables. The hotel manager whom Mayank had invited to join the group had been sitting in a corner, sipping from his glass, a look of terrified gratitude on his face. He jumped up to fetch more whisky.

  A little past 1 a.m., Rana pushed back his chair with an air of finality. The party was over.

  Abhishek went to his room and got into bed, fully clothed. He was exhausted. Just as he was dropping off, Mayank walked in, dragging the suitcase with him.

  ‘For tonight, you and I are the caretakers of fifty million rupees. Rana sir did not want to risk keeping so much money in that room. If the kidnappers show up, they can be stalled downstairs and we’ll put the suitcase back,’ Mayank said, pushing it under the bed.

  Abhishek sat up. ‘That will really help me sleep.’

  ‘It’s intended to keep you awake.’ Mayank laughed. ‘Uday sir was right, you know,’ he added. ‘The father is one of those really rich stingy types. If he had put the money into a decent suitcase, the lock wouldn’t have broken so easily. All this might have been avoided if the manager hadn’t seen the money. It’s such terrible quality, the wheels just came off. Fifty million in a five-hundred-rupee suitcase.’ He cursed under his breath, checked his pistol again, and put it under the pillow.

  ‘So what do you think will happen?’ Abhishek had come along to witness an Uday Kumar success story, but so far the operation had proved disastrous.

  ‘Can’t say. We only stand a chance if the kidnappers show up. But even then, we won’t know whether to attack or not. It might put the boy’s life in danger. That will be the thing to decide: to go for it, or wait.’

  Mayank got under the covers and shivered. ‘Hey, have you told your parents that you won’t be home tonight?’

  ‘I stay alone. They are in Benares, remember? But I should have called the office. No one knows why I have vanished.’

  ‘You’re smiling,’ Mayank remarked, as he stretched to turn the lights off.

  ‘Yes. I was just imagining what my parents would say if they knew. For them, this is absolutely unthinkable. I was not even allowed to get into playground scuffles. And rescuing kidnapped children … I think my mother would have a heart attack.’ Abhishek chuckled in the dark.

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Mayank laughed. ‘My parents talk of the police as if it’s all promotions and parties. That pistols are involved, and lock-up beatings and mild torture, doesn’t cross their minds.’ He paused. ‘I really didn’t think I would ever join the police.’

  ‘Oh? You said you were always obsessed with the civil services?’

  ‘Yes, but not necessarily the police. In fact, when I first took the exams, I could only get into Customs. I quit in the third week of training. Anyway, that’s an altogether different story.’

  ‘Go on, tell me. I don’t think we are getting much sleep tonight anyway. Let me turn on the bedside lamp.’ Abhishek fiddled with the switch for some time and then gave up. ‘Not working.’

  ‘The dark tale of Customs must be told in darkness.’

  ‘That bad?’ Abhishek laughed.

  ‘Depends. For some, it’s a windfall. You see, in the police you can survive if you are honest; in Customs you cannot. The police have a workable model. An honest cop will not leave you; a corrupt one will negotiate. Customs is different. It’s impossible not to be part of the system.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘At the end of my first day of training, at the Chennai port, I was offered a brown envelope. I refused and it didn’t come back. The first two days, my seniors paid for lunch. On the third day I told the orderly, I would pay and ordered a soft drink. It cost seven hundred rupees. I was shocked. In the next few days, I came to learn that the orderly got a massive cut every time something was ordered. So six hundred and fifty went to him for the soft drink.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘He was part of Customs. He got a cut like everyone else and this was the way to pay him. My colleagues used to collect together all the bribe money they’d taken over the last twenty-four hours and put it in a kitty. After they paid for their extortionate lunch they split the remaining cash between them, each taking away a fat envelope. I didn’t want to eat lunch with the bribe money nor could I afford those rates on my stipend. On the fourth day, I brought my own sandwiches. I was ostracized, of course. Beginning of the third week, I went to the Customs commissioner and handed in my resignation.’

  ‘Now I understand what my father always said about this cousin of his,’ Abhishek mulled aloud. ‘Baba told Ma that he never came for family lunches because he would lose his day’s cut. But I am sure there are a hundred more ways for a policeman to make money, no?’

  ‘There are more ways but also more risks. The difference is a policeman forces someone to pay; in Customs, people want to pay, especially at ports.’

  ‘Why would people want to pay?’

  ‘Convenience, boss. Bypassing demurrage, for example.’ Mayank paused to drink from a bottle of water. ‘Demurrage basically means holding charges. The longer a consignment is held in port, the more an importer has to pay. So he pays speed money to the Customs officials to clear his c
onsignment. The bribe is always less than demurrage charges, so the importer is more than happy to pay. And there are millions of consignments. The money is unimaginable … Damn, I am going to have to brave it and go to the loo.’ Mayank rushed out from under the covers.

  Abhishek checked his phone. It was nearly 2 a.m. There were several missed calls from the office and a text from Amir asking about his whereabouts. He replied: ‘All okay. Will explain.’

  Mayank came out of the bathroom, checked under the bed and smiled at Abhishek. He switched off the bathroom light and slipped back under the covers.

  ‘Besides this demurrage, what other ways?’ Abhishek was enjoying Mayank’s casual exposé.

  ‘Well, Customs guys like certain kinds of consignments. Benzene, for example, has a very high import duty. Toulene, with almost the same chemical component, is far cheaper to import. Passing off Benzene as Toulene is a major earner. Importers pay handsomely and it’s difficult to detect.’

  Both men fell silent. The windows rattled as a truck rumbled past. The resident hotel dog barked somewhere in the corridors. In response, an unending echo was taken up by every street cur in the vicinity. Another truck followed, continuing the cycle of rattles and shakes, barks and yelps.

  ‘You know, I’ve never met a man like Ombir,’ Abhishek said.

  ‘I hope you understand that he is the real team leader. Not Rana Sen. Rana and I are both senior to Ombir, but we don’t have his street credentials or knowledge.’

  ‘Yes, that’s quite clear.’

  ‘Men like Ombir and Surinder are a strange breed. They can buy Rana and me ten times over. You think they do our dirty work for the measly amount the government pays them? They wouldn’t put their lives at risk for peanuts. When they are not working for the force, they are hired goons for the biggest property developers, the top industrialists. The police job provides them with immunity.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Abhishek asked suddenly. ‘I am a journalist.’