Bihar Diaries Read online

  We started searching the house desperately. This time I was sure that Ayushman was somewhere inside the house itself. I went through all the rooms and suddenly saw a door bolted from the outside. I opened it and saw a hapless child, bound and gagged, coiled in a corner. A strange feeling of relief flooded my mind.

  Adil and Sanjay ran to Ayushman and set him free. The boy stretched and looked around. Clearly, he was still a little fearful.

  All of us remained quiet while we waited for him to recover. Finally, I took a deep breath and said, ‘Ayushman, I am Amit Lodha, the SP of Nalanda. The kidnappers are dead. You are safe now.’

  ‘Thank you, uncle.’

  ‘Uncle, what is the score right now?’ he asked after a pause.

  ‘What, what do you mean?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘UncIe, the match between India and Sri Lanka!’

  I just smiled. This little boy who had been through hell in the last day was asking about the ongoing Asia Cup cricket championship.

  ‘Don’t know, beta, but you can watch the highlights tonight.’

  By the time we came out of the house, the sky had cleared. I shook hands with each of my men and congratulated them. There was tremendous pride in their eyes.

  ‘Sir, good news! I’ve got the boy. Two of the kidnappers were killed in a clash,’ I told the IG, Shankar Sir.

  ‘My boy, I’m so proud of you. Come home soon. Your wife is even more anxious than we are.’

  I reached my house at night. We were swarmed by the press. I remained quiet, too overwhelmed and exhausted to speak. C.A. Shankar and Shivender Sir hugged me. It was a wonderful gesture by the two senior officers. Tanu was beaming with pride, standing in the veranda. Finally, I saw Nilesh and Madhu, Ayushman’s parents. Tears of joy trickled down their cheeks.

  The reporters thrust their mics into Shankar’s face and at practically everyone present there. My team and I were still standing with our pants rolled up, sweaty and grimy. One of my slippers’ straps had also broken. Ayushman’s uniform had been badly soiled too. Finally, they asked a remarkably composed Ayushman about his feelings. Quite an insensitive thing, but the boy answered in style.

  ‘I am happy that I was freed just before the India–Pakistan cricket match. And I want to become an IPS officer like Lodha uncle.’

  This headline was splashed on the front page of every newspaper in Bihar the next day. It felt like I was at the height of my professional success. Naturally, the only place for me to go now was downhill.

  3

  The ‘Shunting’

  19 September 2005

  ‘Why are you not getting ready? People will be waiting for you,’ said Tanu.

  ‘Tanu, nobody comes to these functions on time. I’ll go after some time,’ I said in an irritated tone.

  In the morning, Kripal Singh, one of the most dangerous criminals in Muzaffarpur, had been killed after an exchange of fire. Wanted in scores of extortion and murder cases, his elimination was a huge relief for the traders and businessmen of the town.

  My team and I had been invited by the Chamber of Commerce for a dinner. I was not even a bit excited. I had become quite used to these ‘samman samarohs’ or felicitation programmes after my numerous ‘successes’.

  ‘And why are you not dressed properly? You used to be quite a suave man, or at least that is what you told me about yourself before our marriage. Khud ki itni taarif karte the (You would praise yourself so highly)!’

  ‘What is the point of getting dressed when nobody cares? Don’t you remember what happened in Hazaribagh?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You made a fool of yourself!’ Tanu giggled.

  I recalled the incident and could not help laughing too.

  A few years ago, in December 1999, just after our training at the National Police Academy (NPA), our batch of five IPS officers belonging to the Bihar cadre had joined the Police Training College (PTC), Hazaribagh, as probationers. PTC Hazaribagh and the NPA Hyderabad were as different as a low-budget movie and the blockbuster Bahubali.

  The Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel National Police Academy, Hyderabad, is the premier institute for the training of IPS officers before they are sent to their respective cadres. The sprawling campus houses state-of-the-art facilities that include world-class training infrastructure, a shooting range, an Olympic-size swimming pool, a modern gymnasium and a huge library. Of course, hardly any of us ever visited the library.

  A regular day would begin with a gruelling run, followed by PT and parade practice. Some of us were made to run extra rounds holding our rifles over our heads. That was the punishment for a poor shave or unkempt hair. Many would opt for the ‘katora-cut’ hairstyle to save themselves from any future punishment. After a quick but sumptuous breakfast, we would head for lectures on various subjects, such as forensic science, the Indian Penal Code (IPC), investigations and so on. In the evenings, we had martial arts, horse riding, swimming and team sports. After dinner, it was a mad scramble to finish our assignments for the next day.

  Our weekends were reserved for cross-country runs, rock climbing and riot control drills. If you thought these were the only activities we had, hold on. The ‘extracurricular’ activities included debates, cultural programmes and jungle survival modules. Nowadays, activities like rafting and scuba diving have also been added.

  People like me, who were newly engaged, also had to find some time to make phone calls to our fiancées. Those were the days of long-distance calls from phone booths. Almost all of us would wait for 11 p.m. to make calls, when the rates were the lowest. Mobile phone call rates were very high at the time, and of course, social media like WhatsApp and Facebook did not exist. They were beyond our imagination.

  Most of us tried to catch a few hours of sleep in the classrooms. The director-deputed marshals in the classrooms would wake us up in case we dozed off, and report us to our seniors. Regular offenders were made to do shramdaan, or penal service, too, such as cleaning the campus, planting trees, etc.

  We cursed every minute of our existence in the NPA. It was only when we started our careers in the districts did we realize the importance of the solid foundation the NPA had laid. It had made me an officer and a gentleman.

  The PTC Hazaribagh was the exact opposite of the NPA.

  The building was in a shambles, the infrastructure non-existent. There was no swimming pool, only puddles of filthy rainwater. Instead of horses, we found some stray cattle munching on the vegetation in the campus.

  The ‘good’ part was that it did not have the rigour of the NPA. The training staff itself was poorly trained. Naturally, there were no whistles at 5.40 a.m., no cross-country runs, no checking of our uniform––basically nothing. We were on our own. Fortunately, in the new, changing Bihar, a new ultra-modern Police Academy in Rajgir is nearing completion and should be ready in 2018.

  During our days at the PTC Hazaribagh, many people, particularly the youngsters, looked up to us. For them, we were the future ‘stars’ of the Bihar Police! Some people came up with the idea of hosting an evening for us.

  ‘Sir, as per tradition, a dinner is being organized tonight by a local club to welcome you to the Bihar Police. It will be a good occasion for you to interact with the people,’ the portly mess commander of the PTC informed us.

  ‘Friends, we have to make a good first impression. Remember, people observe everything about IPS officers––the way they talk, behave and dress. We should all wear our Jodhpuri bandhgalas. And don’t forget to put on colourful pocket squares,’ said Sahil, our batchmate.

  ‘We should follow all the etiquette we learnt during the formal dinners at NPA. Remember the sequence of using the cutlery, the forks and the knives. And don’t forget to raise a toast!’ Praveen reminded us.

  We all nodded in unison.

  That evening, we assembled in the dimly lit corridor of our mess. All of us were looking quite dapper. After lavishly complimenting each other, we reached the club hall.

  It was the most grotesque sight
ever––the atmosphere was anything but formal. The hall was teeming with people. It was as if we had entered a mela. People were dressed in whatever they felt like. One gentleman was wearing a lungi and shirt. Another was in his shorts and chappals.

  A guy nudged Praveen.

  ‘Arre, thoda machchli lene do (Hey, let me take some fish),’ he said, pushing other people out of his way.

  There was a mad rush, particularly at the chicken and fish counters. Everyone’s plates were overflowing with rice, topped with dollops of fish and chicken gravy. On the edges of most plates were small mountains of chicken bones. Some men even gargled and washed their hands in their plates. We were absolutely aghast.

  The final nail in the coffin was driven in by one particular gentleman.

  ‘Arre, waiter, zara meetha leke aana (Hey waiter, get me some sweets),’ the man ordered Sahil. The gent’s pyjama strings were hanging to his knees and his vest had umpteen holes, as if it had been struck by bullets in a shoot-out.

  Sahil violently pulled out his pocket square and stomped out of the dining hall.

  All of us looked at each other sheepishly.

  ‘Bhailogon, let us leave quietly before anyone else mistakes us for waiters!’ said Praveen.

  That was the last time I dressed up like that, but Tanu and I have shared many a hearty laugh remembering that incident.

  That night’s felicitation party in Muzaffarpur was similar to the Hazaribagh dinner. There were a series of supremely boring speeches by every Tom, Dick and Harry who wanted to show his importance in the scheme of things in the district. This is typical of any district programme. Most of the time, the people sitting on the dais outnumber the people sitting in the audience.

  The speeches would go on ad nauseam. It was as if the speakers competed for the longest and most boring speech. It would have been very difficult to adjudge the winner. A standard speech would start like this––‘Aadarniya DM Sahib, respected SP Sahib, respected District Judge Sahib, respected DSP Sadar, respected Town DSP’ and so on. The speaker would address practically every official in the district. Since Muzaffarpur had a large number of officers, you can imagine my plight. I had to listen to the names of all the officers present for the function. ‘Jab se SP Sir is zille mein aaye hain (Ever since SP Sir has come to the district), crime has been finished. Criminals shudder at just hearing his name!’

  I hardly reacted to such flattery any more; I had got used to it. I had the same feeling a superstar has after delivering a number of blockbusters. But little did I know that this feeling was short-lived and soon, I was about to experience what a superstar goes through when he delivers flop after flop.

  As another speaker was singing my praises, Ajit sneaked behind the podium and whispered in my ears. ‘Sir, aapka transfer ho gaya hai (Sir, you have been transferred). You have been posted as a commandant in one of the BMP (Bihar Military Police) battalions.’

  I left the party without uttering a word. I had been shunted out. In the administrative parlance of Bihar, ‘shunted’ means anyone who is not posted in the district or someone who has been given an inconsequential charge.

  This happens often to government officers, particularly the SP and the district magistrate (DM). They are transferred all of a sudden when they think that everything is under control. Often, they don’t even know the reason for their transfer. Not many realize that they are just foot soldiers, pawns in the establishment’s game of chess.

  4

  The Fall

  January 2006

  I had been living life in the fast lane.

  I had made it to the IPS at a relatively young age. Getting the Bihar cadre had turned out to be a blessing, as there was so much a young SP could do. Even my small and routine ‘successes’ were lauded by the public. The people of Bihar idolize and adulate government officials, especially police officers. Being an IIT graduate had increased my appeal even more, particularly among the youth. I was a regular feature in all the newspapers and TV channels. I was always busy with work that ranged from making security arrangements for the visit of the Prime Minister to conducting parliamentary elections. People would gather around me to watch me at work when I would go for my field visits. The heady cocktail of success, fame and power had made me overconfident. I felt invincible. The trouble was that I had seen too many good things too early on in my career, and I thought that life was going to be one smooth ride.

  My fall was equally bad. The sudden posting to the BMP was a huge shock. It felt as if I, like the tennis champion Roger Federer, had been knocked out in the first round of a Grand Slam.

  ‘Sir, I am your reader, Surendra,’ said a sweet voice on my mobile phone.

  ‘Surendra, where do I report? Where is the office?’ I asked.

  ‘Huzoor, aaffice kahaan hoga (Sir, where would the office be)?’ he replied.

  ‘Do you have any staff, at least a cook?’

  ‘Huzoor, this battalion has only two people as staff right now––you and I,’ replied Surendra nonchalantly.

  I did not ask any more questions. My wife, Tanu, didn’t bother about any of the accoutrements that come with my service. She happily went about doing all the household chores. More importantly, she wanted to raise the kids in a very normal way. She was my strength and always stood by me. She tried her best to cheer me up, but my frustration knew no bounds.

  The battalion under my command had not been sanctioned; it existed only on paper. I was relegated to a post with no office, no phone, no house and no pay. All my fans and well-wishers vanished overnight. The media did not bother; I was no longer a newsmaker. I just could not believe it was happening to me.

  I was now totally on my own. Luckily, my most trusted and loyal bodyguard, Ajit, chose to remain with me.

  ‘Sab theek ho jaayega, sir (Everything will be all right, sir),’ he would constantly motivate me. I thanked God that I had such a loyal man by my side. He had saved my life twice already, once from a mob and once in a Naxal encounter. He used to watch over my family too and was fiercely protective of my children.

  From being a poster boy to a persona non grata, my journey was quite traumatic. For one, my ego was bruised and second, the graph of my IIT batchmates was touching stratospheric heights during the same time. Sameer Gehlaut had founded Indiabulls, which is a multi-billion dollar business today, and Chetan Bhagat’s Five Point Someone had taken the nation by storm.

  A few days after I received news of my posting, Sapra, another of my IIT friends, called from the US.

  ‘Amit, thank you so much. I have got admission for the MBA course in Wharton University. It is all because of your recommendation.’

  The irony was unbearable––people were getting admission to the world’s most prestigious universities on my recommendation and I was not even getting my salary of Rs 18,000. To make some money, I tried my hand at the stock market over the next few months. I started investing––rather, speculating––in the stock market. I lost both my money and my peace of mind, whatever remained of them.

  ‘Amit, tera sahi kataa hai (Amit, you’re screwed right and proper)! You are a disaster at sex and Sensex! Haha!’ Tarun laughed deliriously when he heard of my plight.

  When Sameer Gehlaut, a true chaddi-buddy, heard about my bad phase, he immediately called me. ‘Amit, people are earning in five figures nowadays and your sarkari naukri is paying you less than Rs 20,000. Now I have heard that you’ve burnt your fingers in the stock market too. Kya faayda aise? You can join the private sector if you want to. Let me know if you want any help.’ Sameer had become hugely successful by sheer hard work, instinct and a lot of gutsy decisions. Like most people growing up in the post-liberalization days of the 90s, he had found my idea of joining a government service quite strange.

  I imagined him sitting in a plush cabin in a sleek office, somewhere in a high-rise building, while someone brought him a steaming cup of single-estate coffee as I sat with my one-man staff in Bihar. I stared at the hair protruding out of Surendra’s
ears and had a strong urge to pull them out.

  I knew Sameer was a genuine well-wisher. I thought hard as I disconnected the phone. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong for me during that period. I seriously considered quitting the IPS to join a private sector company. I thank God for not giving me the guts to do so.

  Unable to get government accommodation, I managed to get two rooms in a small guest house in Patna. Patna was like most of our metropolises. Its basic infrastructure was crumbling because of the burgeoning population. The guest house was in the heart of Patna, the Dak Bungalow Chauraha. The so-called posh locality had a huge garbage dump right in front of my building. It was a favourite place for men of all strata to relieve themselves. Stray dogs and cattle munched on the garbage lying in the open for days. The stench and the abhorrent sight made me really grumpy. For someone who had lived in majestic colonial bungalows, it was as miserable as it could be.

  The depressing environment and my disguised unemployment exacerbated my torment.

  Tanu had just delivered our daughter, Aishwarya. My frustration made me very impatient and irresponsible as a father. I did not wake up even once to pacify my infant daughter, nor did I try to teach even the ABCs to my four-year-old son, Aditya. The wails of my daughter and the perfectly normal tantrums of my son irritated me to no end.