Bihar Diaries Page 2

  ‘Aapke dost Vijay ko achcha laga (Did your friend Vijay like the food)?’ she used to ask Horlicks whenever she got a chance to meet him.

  The delivery required some money and a sweet smile for the jail guard. That was it. The guards used to inspect the tiffin in the beginning, but after a few months, it became too routine for them to pay any attention to it. ‘What was the harm in letting a wife deliver some home-cooked food for her husband?’ they thought. On their lucky days, the guards also got their share of some litti chokha and puri bhaaji.

  Horlicks opened the large tiffin box to inspect his lunch. The top container had a number of besan laddus. He looked at Vijay and nodded.

  Vijay took the container from Horlicks and walked over to the jail staff.

  ‘Arre, sipaahiyon, aap log khaiye (Guards, please have these). These are my favourite laddus. Ghar ka banaa hai (It’s home-cooked)!’ exclaimed an excited Vijay.

  The prison guards and the staff had been enjoying many treats from Vijay and Horlicks over the last few days. After all, who could refuse those delicacies?

  ‘Dhanyawad, Vijay Bhai (Thank you, Vijay Bhai),’ said the warders while grabbing a handful of laddus each.

  ‘Aur lijiye na (Take some more),’ Vijay Samrat said as he went around distributing the laddus.

  The other prisoners salivated at the sight of the laddus, but kept a safe distance from Vijay. He was no ordinary criminal. He was the butcher of Nawada and in jail for the murder of at least thirty people.

  After ensuring that none of the four jail staff in the courtyard had missed the laddus, Vijay looked at Horlicks. Horlicks immediately opened the second container of the tiffin.

  The aroma of fish curry wafted through the air, mingling with the stench coming from the toilets. Yet, it was inviting enough to make quite a few prisoners turn their heads in Horlicks’s direction. However, Horlicks was least bothered about his favourite dish right now. His eyes were searching for something far more appetizing. He opened the next container.

  He found the desi revolver wrapped between the crisp rotis. Vijay had specifically asked for an indigenous version of a .38 revolver. It would be quite easy to use, even for a first-timer like Horlicks. Its original, the Smith & Wesson .38, is often carried by women in their purses for self-defence in the USA. The tiffin had been an excellent means to smuggle letters, and now, the gun, thought Horlicks. The revolver would come in handy if things did not go according to the plan.

  Suddenly, the jail warder felt a sharp pain in his temple. He felt as if his head would explode. He knelt down, clutching his head in both hands.

  Another jamadar was in an even worse condition. He had vomited blood and was clearly in excruciating pain. One by one, all the jail staff fell down, in no position to hold themselves upright.

  The inmates could not fathom what was going on. But one thing was clear––the laddus had some ingredient far more harmful than sugar. Vijay smiled. He was sure Shanti Devi had laced the laddus with the right amount of rat poison.

  The truck took the bypass towards Nawada Jail.

  There were a number of signboards just outside the town. They all had the same message on them––‘Smile, for you are in Nawada’––painted in garish green.

  Raushan looked at the dreary landscape and smiled. ‘We’re about to reach our destination in a few minutes. Get ready.’

  The sentry at the jail gate waved and stopped the truck.

  ‘What is it? Who all are in the Tata 407?’ shouted the guard. Another guard was busy reading Manohar Kahaniyan, a bestseller that printed sleazy crime stories. One of their colleagues had gone to buy some vegetables.

  Both of them were totally oblivious to the events unfolding inside the jail compound at that very instant. The inner wall and inner gate ensured that the two guards were isolated from the happenings inside.

  ‘Sir, we have come to repair the toilets of the prison. I am the contractor,’ said Raushan with folded hands.

  ‘Wait here. I’ll check the truck,’ the guard said in a firm voice.

  ‘Aane do. Let them come. The toilets are really in bad shape. Bahut bura haal hai. They need immediate repair,’ shouted the assistant jailer, his boss. Hurriedly, the guard came back and opened the gate.

  ‘Okay, all of you get down and go inside,’ he gestured to Raushan and his men once he had opened the prison gates. The assistant jailer curled his lips and gave a sly smile. He was retiring next month. His desire of owning a two-bedroom flat in the posh Gardani Bagh area of Patna would finally come true. The local neta had been very helpful in arranging the deal.

  Raushan just looked at him and nodded slightly.

  The ‘labourers’ picked up their ‘implements’.

  ‘Maaro, bhoon daalo (Kill them, gun them down),’ commanded Raushan at the top of his voice. The gangsters jumped down and opened fire at the two jail guards. Both of them fell down instantly. With great speed, Raushan and his men entered the jail premises.

  On hearing the gunshots, the jailer rushed to the courtyard with his two guards. He was in for the shock of his life. Four of his staff were lying on the ground in unbearable agony, their mouths spewing bloody vomit all around.

  The jailer looked towards the gate. Raushan and his men marched in like the marauding Genghis Khan and his soldiers. The jailer and the poorly trained sentries simply froze when they saw the gangsters. Their English vintage .303s were no match for the bullet-spewing AK-47s anyway. A burst of fire from Raushan had the jailer writhing on the floor. The two guards ran helter-skelter to save their lives. One of them somehow managed to crawl to the office and sound the alarm, but unfortunately, it did not work. It was not surprising since hardly anyone checked those ‘routine’ things. Luckily, the gunshots were heard by the labourers working in the nearby mine, who alerted the police.

  Raushan smiled at his seemingly easy success. The response of the jail staff had been just as Raushan expected. Vijay had briefed him well about the strength of the guards and their daily movements. He had been planning this daring operation for the past two months. Nothing, not even the minutest detail, missed his eye. There were just eight to ten staff in the jail at any given time, and only half of them were armed. The jail staff were not allowed to carry arms inside the premises for security reasons. In theory, a group of prisoners could overpower and snatch the weapons from the guards. Even the SP and other policemen had to deposit their weapons in the jail superintendent’s office before entering the jail premises. Thus, the unarmed jail staff in the courtyard were in no position to retaliate. But that day, in any case, they were all sprawled on the ground, clutching their heads and groaning in pain. The handful of armed sentries at the gate had been taken care of. Raushan and his men had memorized the sketch Vijay had drawn. They knew exactly where to go in the compound. All the letters delivered by Shanti Devi were coming to good use today.

  Suddenly, Raushan saw Mukesh Kumar, one of his men, grimacing in pain. A bullet had pierced his arm. Raushan whipped his head around, frantically searching for the source of the bullet.

  He looked up and saw the guard in the watchtower, crouching and taking aim. The guard now had a chance to prove he was good at not just making khaini. Raushan cursed. The guard was at a vantage position because of the height of the tower, which cleared his line of sight for firing. Vijay could not move towards the jail gates without risking getting shot at.

  Raushan took cover behind a chabootra, a raised platform, and gestured to Vijay to catch his attention. He pointed his index finger towards the guard on the watchtower. Vijay and Horlicks looked up. There was no way of shooting the guard from where they were standing; he was well-protected. Suddenly, Horlicks sprang into action. He took out the revolver from the tiffin and started crawling towards the watchtower. Once he reached the base, he slowly pushed the door of the staircase leading to the top. The sarkari latch came off instantly and the door opened. He climbed up the stairs in a jiffy.

  The guard heard the soft click of the revolv
er but did not have any time to react. His head exploded like a watermelon. The trigger action was quite smooth, and there was hardly any recoil. Horlicks caressed the gun with his palms, savouring the feeling of having killed someone. This was the first of the many cold-blooded murders Horlicks would commit in the future.

  The compound was in absolute pandemonium. Vijay and his men, with their superior weaponry, had won the battle easily. And they were definitely more motivated. The incapacitated warders had somehow managed to get up and run for their lives, ducking in different corners and waiting for the police reinforcements to come quickly.

  Raushan shouted at Vijay, ‘Come quickly! The district police will be here any minute.’

  Suddenly, Vijay turned around.

  ‘Bhaiyya! Where are you going?’

  Vijay looked menacingly at Raushan. He snatched the desi revolver from Horlicks and ran towards the toilets. The assistant jailer was hiding in one of the cubicles. Vijay found the hiding spot and kicked open the door. The man’s eyes were wide open in horror and shock. He realized that there were no free lunches in life.

  ‘Yeh le apna Patna ka dera (Here’s the final instalment for your Patna apartment)!’ said Vijay as he pumped all the bullets into him. Then he ran back, and both he and Horlicks jumped on to the Tata 407 and sped away.

  ‘Haha! Mazaa aa gaya (That was fun). Horlicks Bhai, you are a naturally gifted sharpshooter. Kali Mata ki kripa hai (Goddess Kali has blessed you). You showed a lot of jigar, guts and talent, in killing that sentry. Welcome to the company!’ said Vijay.

  Both of them smiled and hugged each other like long-lost brothers.

  Nine hardcore criminals escaped in the ensuing melee. It was one of the most daring jailbreaks in the history of Bihar, probably second only to the Jehanabad jailbreak on 13 November 2005. About 340 prisoners had escaped then, after 200 Naxalites had attacked the Police Lines and the jail simultaneously.

  The dreaded serial killer Charles Sobhraj had escaped from Tihar in an almost identical fashion in 1986. He had left behind him two Tamil Nadu special police sentries outside the prison, and six jail officials lying inside the compound in a drugged state. Apparently, Charles made the jail staff believe that he was celebrating his birthday and had them eat various delicacies like burfi and petha, all laced with sedatives. Both escapes had eerie similarities.

  The Nawada police, under the able leadership of SP Dayal Pratap, quickly got on to the case and after follow-up police action, three of the escapees were killed. But it was little solace. Vijay Samrat was free now, and even more dangerous. He had a lot of unfinished business.

  While all this was happening, I was busy with my office work in Nalanda, the district under my command, barely 50 kilometres from Nawada. Tariq, my telephone operator, rushed to the lawns, panting heavily.

  ‘Sahib, there has been a jailbreak in Nawada. Vijay Samrat and some of his associates have escaped from the jail after killing the jailer and injuring at least three or four guards!’

  I knew about Vijay Samrat. He was the mastermind of one of Bihar’s cruellest massacres, at Apsadh village in Nawada, which had taken place on 11 June 2000. Around 100 armed men, dressed in black like commandos, had suddenly arrived and started firing indiscriminately on the family of the independent MLA Aruna Devi, wife of Akhilesh Singh, Vijay’s arch-enemy. They then cut the victims with swords, slit their throats and stabbed them in the stomachs. Even a four-year-old girl was not spared. The conspiracy was so deep-rooted that even a DSP and the brother of a state minister were named as accused in the first information report (FIR). The DGP, K.A. Jacob, had to personally go to Apsadh village to quell the simmering tension.

  That was the age of the ‘jungle raj’, as the media called it, in Bihar. Being the SP of the neighbouring district, even I was often directed by the Police Headquarters (HQ) to ‘camp’ in Nawada.

  Still, I was not exactly worried. I knew well that Nalanda was the last place Vijay would seek refuge in. After all, he had been arrested in Nalanda during my predecessor’s time. Nevertheless, I directed Tariq to alert all the police stations in my jurisdiction.

  Little did I know that one day, both Vijay and I would be baying for each other’s blood.

  After just ten minutes, Tariq was again standing in front of me, accompanied by a lungi-clad man. Two children were clinging to his neck.

  ‘Kya hai?’ I asked, a trifle surprised.

  ‘Sahib, meri biwi apne aashiq ke saath bhaag gayi hai (Sir, my wife has eloped with her lover). Please find her.’

  ‘You should be happy; you have got rid of your wife,’ said Tariq, laughing mildly.

  I knew that the joke was in bad taste.

  ‘I don’t mind her running away. But she should have at least taken the kids with her. You have to get her back!’ the man said. ‘Or else ask her to take the kids. I can’t take care of them. Find her. This is your job,’ he continued after a pause.

  I remained quiet. It was just another day in my life as the SP of a district.

  2

  ‘What Is the Score, Uncle?’

  27 July 2004

  ‘Sir, the SBI manager who was kidnapped last week––we rescued him early this morning,’ I briefed C.A. Shankar, the Patna IG. Fatigued by lack of sleep on account of working overnight to recover the manager, I didn’t expect much from Shankar, an acerbic but straightforward officer. But today he was in an unusually foul mood. Choosing the choicest of expletives in Hindi, the urbane and ‘English-type’ IG cussed.

  ‘I don’t know what the **!& is happening to Bihar! Which manager are you talking about? When was he kidnapped? I have lost count of kidnapped people. I’m out on the roads of Patna in my pyjamas looking for a boy. Just twenty minutes ago, Ayushman, a student of Delhi Public School, was kidnapped. He was forcibly taken in a Maruti van.’

  Instinctively, I instructed my telephone operator to alert all police stations on the Patna–Nalanda highway about the incident and went off to sleep. It was hard to be fully focused on a kidnapping in Patna, at least not right now, when I needed some sleep. I consoled myself saying that someone in Patna was in charge of it and looking for the child.

  Patna had become the crime capital of the country in those days. Extortion, murder and kidnapping were rampant. Hardly a day passed when someone was not kidnapped in some part of Bihar. Lawyers, doctors, contractors, businessmen and school students were the prime targets. Things had become so bad that even a rickshaw-wallah was not spared. His own neighbour kidnapped him when the news spread that the rickshaw-wallah had sold a small plot of land for one lakh rupees.

  Hundreds of well-to-do people migrated to other states or sent their children to boarding schools outside the state. One DG, known for his outlandish statements, had famously stated, ‘Kidnapping is a full-fledged industry in Bihar!’

  Kidnapping was a low-risk, high-profit business. The algorithm was quite simple––survey the victim’s habits and schedule, wait for an opportune moment to kidnap the unsuspecting target and then make a phone call to the victim’s home. The helpless family would invariably pay the ransom amount out of fear as quite a few of the victims had been killed.

  There were many professional kidnapping gangs operating in Bihar. In fact, some groups specialized in just providing a safe passage or a safe house to the main gang. Sadly, this was an ideal example of outsourcing in Bihar during those days. The beleaguered police was extremely understaffed and had hardly any resources to tackle an organized crime like kidnapping. Though the police tried its best and was successful in quite a few cases, kidnapping continued unabated. The situation in Bihar at that time was a fitting example of the ‘broken window theory’.

  Just about an hour after I went to sleep, I was woken up by the incessant ringing of my phone.

  ‘Sir, Bada Babu Nagarnausa wants to speak to you urgently,’ said my telephone operator.

  ‘Sir, we have recovered the Maruti van and caught the driver. There’s no trace of the boy and other criminals. They prob
ably got down when they saw us checking all the vehicles at the naka,’ said an excited Mithilesh, the SHO (station house officer) of the Nagarnausa police station.

  The kidnappers had made a blunder. Apparently, on seeing the police barrier, they had got down with a sedated Ayushman. In their wisdom, they somehow assumed that the van would be allowed to cross the naka by the police and they could use it again after it crossed the post. Except, they forgot that Ayushman’s school bag was in the van. An alert constable saw the bag and immediately detained the driver.

  I promptly called the Patna IG and briefed him about the development. He was quite excited by the lead. I started off for Nagarnausa. It was almost midway between Patna and Nalanda. Throughout my journey, I sincerely hoped to find the young boy in a safe condition. I also wondered how the kidnappers could have reached Nagarnausa, almost 80 kilometres from Patna, without being stopped anywhere. As it often happened during those days, the most basic tenets of common-sense policing were overlooked. If the police had put barricades along all possible exit routes, the van might have been stopped right in the Patna district.

  On reaching the police station, I saw a hapless man. His clothes were tattered and he looked harassed, probably exhausted from the interrogation. The man was the driver of the van.

  Though kidnapping was quite common in Bihar, the abduction of a young student from one of the most prestigious schools in the state capital was too big an embarrassment to the state machinery. The opposition had got a golden opportunity to call for a Patna bandh. All the schools and colleges had also called for closure till Ayushman was recovered safely.

  The entire Patna police force, led by Shivender Bhagat, the DIG of Patna, descended on the Nagarnausa police station. Bhagat Sir, one of the most sincere officers, usually went by the book. But right now, he was desperate. He stared hard at the man and started questioning him.

  The man kept shouting, ‘Sahib, I’m innocent. I’m just a driver. I don’t know anything about the kidnapping.’