Bihar Diaries Page 5

  All I did was listen to the sad and melancholic songs of my favourite singer, the legendary Kishore Kumar. I asked Ajit to get a special compilation from the music shop right across the street. The shopkeeper probably even gave me a discount out of sympathy!

  I felt as if I was the most troubled person on this planet, and that everything was an absolute mess. ‘How can you become so depressed just because of a posting? These are temporary phases, quite natural in anyone’s career,’ admonished Tanu. I knew she was right. But I was still finding it difficult to accept my change of fortune.

  I had hardly any friends in Patna. My circle was limited to policemen alone. I decided to get out of the house and meet my colleagues. I roamed aimlessly in the gloomy corridors of the Bihar Police HQ and entered the room of any officer who was free at that time. Of course now we have a swanky, state-of-the-art Police HQ. How times have changed!

  I preferred to call on officers who were themselves posted to nondescript departments. I used to take solace from the fact that I was not the only one who had been wronged.

  Some of the ‘shunted’ officers were quite cynical. The problem with a senior police officer is that after one has such a heady feeling of power and authority as the SP of a district, it is difficult to come to terms with any other office job, that too, a ceremonial one. It’s as if an ageing superstar is forced to play the roles of a character artist in his or her twilight years.

  Over endless cups of chai and files kept pending deliberately to create the impression of being busy, I was subjected to their favourite pastime.

  ‘When I was the SP of so-and-so district, I did this and that. People still remember me there. You must have heard. Blah, blah, blah . . .’

  Some of us have this delusion that there was and will be no one better than us.

  After I had absorbed all the gyan from my equally ‘wronged’ colleagues, I started knocking on the doors of some ‘influential’ officers to at least get my salary released.

  A decent soul like Shivender Bhagat Sir even took out his wallet and offered me some money. ‘Kuchch paise doon tumhe (Should I give you some money)?’

  Taken aback by his benevolence, I politely refused his offer and requested the rightful release of my salary.

  The one officer who stood by me and did his best to help me was Kumar Bharat. He somehow arranged a septuagenarian maid, Manju Devi, to work as a nanny for my daughter. She looked even older, like she was touching eighty, but she had managed to work as a staff member by getting a fake age certificate. Getting a fake age certificate was quite common at the time. Whenever I asked a criminal his age, his reply would be, ‘Sir, certificate ya asli umar (Sir, the age in the certificate or my actual age)?’

  Manju Devi used to change two buses to reach our house and promptly doze off the moment she entered our guest house, fatigued by the travel. I would fervently pray to God that she should not die in her sleep. At least not in our guest house. I already had enough problems.

  ‘Now that we are in Patna, at least get Avi admitted to Noble Academy. It is excellent for nursery students. All your colleagues’ children study there,’ coaxed Tanu.

  I made three rounds of the school but was denied even an appointment with the principal. I felt quite frustrated and angry. Finally, I asked the SHO of Patliputra station, Lalit, to help me with Avi’s admission. Noble Academy fell under his jurisdiction.

  ‘Sir, you should have told me earlier. Getting admission to any school is very difficult, but I will get it done for you,’ said Lalit.

  Eventually, Avi was admitted to the school. That day, I realized the importance of the SHO, the thana in-charge, or Bada Babu, in Bihari parlance. He is the most important cog in the police hierarchy. According to Gangadhar Pandey, one of my trainers, an SHO is an ‘ashtabhujadhari’, someone with eight arms. Senior officers expect SHOs to be able to do seemingly impossible tasks with ease.

  On the other hand, I had become an aam aadmi, a common man, who had to grudgingly collect milk in a utensil from the milkman. My frustration knew no limits.

  To make matters worse, I was made the officiating SP of Begusarai around May 2006. My batchmate Rajesh’s father-in-law was seriously ill, so I was asked to look after the challenging district in his absence. It felt like I had no power but great responsibility.

  I reached Begusarai in an extremely irritable mood. The circuit house was dingy and squalid. The one-man staff would constantly scratch his unmentionables and wipe his paan-stained hands on any curtain within his reach.

  ‘Sahib, what will you have for lunch?’ he would ask every time before serving me aloo parwal and lauki. I have a strong suspicion that he had made a month’s supply at one go. Anyone eating so much parwal and lauki would go crazy.

  I went to the office in the SP’s sprawling bungalow every evening to drop off files. I would see the beautiful gardens, the cars parked in the garage and the sentry at the gate. I yearned for the day when I would also become the SP of a district again.

  After a week, I called Tanu and the kids to Begusarai to make sure they had a break as well. Suddenly, the Begusarai circuit house became lively. I had still not become a perfect father, but now I enjoyed the shrieks and laughter of my children. Staying away from my family had probably made me realize their importance.

  Just a few days later, while walking with Tanu in the Indian Oil Corporation (IOC) campus, Begusarai, I saw Ajit running towards us, saying he had a message for me. As soon as I was back in the residential office, he blurted out, ‘Sir, sixteen people have been killed by Vijay Samrat in the area bordering Nalanda and Shekhpura!’

  5

  The Massacres

  21 May 2006

  Ram Dular had just lit the Kachhua Chhap mosquito coil, hoping that the hundreds of buzzing mosquitoes would spare him that night. It had been a long and tiring day, typical for any farmer in Bihar. His entire clan was sleeping out in the open as it was too humid to sleep inside. There had been no electricity for the last two days. Yet, he was happy––all his closest relatives had assembled for the grihapravesh, the housewarming. The ceremony would take place the next morning. He looked at his new house with great pride. He had worked very hard to construct it. He strolled around the courtyard, surveying his labour of love. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks.

  To his utter shock, he saw at least ten armed men staring menacingly at him.

  ‘Boss, yehi hai (Boss, this is the one). This swine has been informing the police about our gang’s movement,’ snarled one voice.

  ‘And he got Lakha Samrat beaten up the other day. What for? Just because Lakha snatched his sister Rekha’s dupatta!’

  ‘Five of our brothers were also killed on his information to our enemies, those bastards, Raju and Krishna,’ shouted Birju.

  A thin, gaunt man came forward, his face covered with a gamchcha, a small towel. Ram Dular was petrified when he saw the unmistakable silhouette. It was Vijay Samrat. Who didn’t recognize those beastly eyes?

  ‘Sahib, what have I done? I would have come personally if huzoor had called,’ said Ram Dular.

  ‘Bahut police se dosti ki hai (You have become quite friendly with the police). Let me see if those bloody policemen can save you today,’ growled Vijay.

  ‘Sahib, there must be some confusion. I don’t know any policeman. I am simply a poor farmer,’ pleaded Ram Dular with folded hands.

  Vijay dragged Ram Dular by his arm and waved to his henchmen to get his remaining family members.

  ‘Go, get all the family members,’ shouted Raushan.

  One by one, the family members were rudely awoken from their slumber.

  There was a deathly silence, except for the sound of crickets. All eight of them were lined up in the courtyard, too groggy and shocked to speak. They were yet to comprehend what fate had in store for them. It was a scene straight out of the iconic Sholay.

  ‘Dekh le in sab ko aakhri baar (Look at all of them one last time),’ said Vijay, holding Ram Dular by his throat.


  The ganglord then looked at them and fired with an imaginary gun.

  All hell broke loose. Horlicks, now Vijay’s trusted lieutenant and an ace sharpshooter, fired bullets from his AK-47 at Ram Dular’s kith and kin. They started falling like ragged dolls.

  Ram Dular was aghast. He started shrieking wildly, trying to break free from Vijay’s stranglehold. Vijay gestured towards Sukha Singh, who cut Ram Dular’s neck with surgical precision. His head was found around ten feet away from the torso when the police arrived the next day.

  Happy with the mess his gang had created, Vijay sat in his jeep, his leg dangling out to mark his authority.

  A man came running furiously towards the jeep.

  ‘Huzoor, we have made a mistake. You came to the wrong Ram Dular’s house. The traitor we are looking for has gone to Mannipur village, Shekhpura, to attend a wedding,’ shouted a sweating Vakeel Yadav, his informer.

  ‘Boodbak!’ shouted an exasperated Horlicks. Raushan slapped him hard.

  ‘Leave him! Koi baat nahin. Shekhpura is not far. Let us gatecrash the wedding there. Come on, hop on to the jeep,’ said Vijay. For him, it was just another day on the job. Killing people made him happy; it satisfied his bestial instincts.

  Not one villager in Goachak dared to tell the police what happened that night. Nobody wanted to be the next target of Vijay Samrat.

  The jeep stopped outside the marriage hall. There was a lot of drunken revelry and nobody paid any attention to the gun-slinging men entering the pandal. It was quite common for people to display their machismo by firing in the air. So what if one or two dancers died?

  The indifference soon turned to fear when the guests realized in the middle of the wedding that it was Vijay Samrat!

  The wedding rituals were stopped midway, and beads of sweat started trickling down the pandit’s forehead. Vijay smiled, grabbing a chicken leg from the plate of one of the baraatis.

  ‘Don’t worry, I am just looking for Ram Dular. I have some business with him,’ announced Vijay.

  Ram Dular was shaking violently, absolutely terrified. He hid under one of the tables like a child playing hide-and-seek, hoping that somehow or the other, he wouldn’t be found.

  When no one answered him, Vijay dragged the groom by the collar and pointed his finger at the groom’s temple.

  ‘I’ll blow his head to smithereens if you don’t produce Ram Dular by the count of five! No one, I mean, no one, will leave the venue. All you baraatis, stay put!’

  The baraatis froze out of fear; they did not dare move a muscle. They knew Vijay’s penchant for violence. Out of sheer desperation, the groom’s father pushed a toddler towards Samrat.

  ‘Sahib, this is Ram Dular’s grandson. Please don’t harm my son. It’s his wedding today,’ he pleaded, hoping this barter would save his son’s life. Vijay looked at the toddler, neatly dressed in a pyjama-kurta, looking like a young prince who was about to be butchered by a monster. Vijay patted the boy’s head and shouted for Ram Dular. His booming voice sent chills down Ram Dular’s spine.

  Unable to see her son held captive by Vijay, the boy’s pregnant mother rushed forward and fell at Vijay’s feet. She pleaded with him to spare her son’s life. Now Ram Dular’s entire family converged around Vijay, praying fervently.

  ‘We’ll give you anything you want––we will sell our house, our land. We’ll wash your utensils, be your slaves. Please let Golu go. He has done you no harm. He is just a four-year-old child,’ wailed Golu’s mother.

  Ram Dular knew why Vijay was looking for him. He had been providing information about Vijay not only to the police, but also to Raju and Krishna, Vijay’s arch-enemies. In fact, when Vijay’s henchman, Lakha, tried to molest his sister, Rekha, Raju and Krishna had thrashed him black and blue. Not only that, just a few days ago, they had dared to get five of Vijay’s trusted lieutenants killed in their sleep.

  Ram Dular had no choice now. He knew his time was up, yet he hoped that Vijay would let some of his family members off. At least his grandson.

  He emerged from under the table. ‘Sahib, I have broken your trust. Do whatever you want to do with me. Please let my family go,’ he pleaded with folded hands, tears trickling down his cheeks.

  ‘Abe gadha, we killed another family just because of you. For no fault of theirs. Bekaar hi mar gaye (They died in vain).’

  Vijay thwacked him really hard, bursting his eardrum instantly. He was now bloodthirsty. Within an hour, he had lined up an entire family once more for a massacre. He looked at Ram Dular’s family and gestured with his imaginary gun. The always trigger-happy Horlicks opened fire with his AK-47 on Vijay’s cue, killing Ram Dular’s family members instantly. He was about to shoot Golu when Vijay stopped him.

  Everyone was surprised. Would Vijay, the terrible murderer, spare the life of the innocent child? Did Vijay really have a heart?

  All hope vanished when Vijay hoisted the toddler by his ankle. Golu was crying furiously. Vijay took out his desi katta, a country-made pistol, and pointed it at the boy’s head. He looked at Ram Dular with a cruel smile. Ram Dular felt as if his heart had been cut into a thousand pieces. He did not utter a word, but his eyes were pleading. There was a click and a bang. His face was splattered with blood and tears. He collapsed on the ground.

  Horlicks pointed his gun and emptied his bullets into Ram Dular’s body. But his life had already left his body.

  ‘Arre, pandit! Why have you stopped the wedding? Come on, it’s time to indulge in festivity! Everybody, enjoy! Drink and be merry!’ roared Vijay, grabbing another chicken piece.

  The gang boarded the jeep, leaving behind a wedding and seven funerals.

  6

  ‘Kursi Sab Sikha Deti Hai’

  Begusarai, 22 May 2006

  I got a call from Lakshmi Chandra, a political leader: ‘Congratulations, Amitji! You have been posted as SP, Shekhpura.’

  I was absolutely devastated. For someone who had been the SP of big and important districts like Nalanda and Muzaffarpur, Shekhpura was the pits. It was like shifting from Miami, Florida, to Mogadishu, Somalia!

  Shekhpura is one of the smallest districts in Bihar. In 2006, the Ministry of Panchayati Raj included it in the list of the country’s poorest districts.

  Some years ago, I had visited Shekhpura to meet my friend and batchmate, Ramnathan, who was posted as SP there.

  ‘Boss, we have to get bread from your district, Nalanda. Even the newspapers come two days late,’ Ramnathan had said candidly.

  I had felt very bad for Ramnathan on my way back to Nalanda. The road had huge craters, the size you find on the moon. I’m sure the non-stop jolts caused permanent damage to my already precarious back. And now I was to join the same district, that too, in an hour of crisis. I could not believe it––things were just getting worse.

  I got a call from the ADG, A.K. Prasad.

  ‘Lodha, the CM wants you to join immediately. We are releasing your salary. We are giving you some Secret Service (SS) funds too,’ the ADG said.

  I sent my family back to Patna. Tanu had always been remarkably brave, particularly during crises. She wished me luck.

  ‘Ajit, dhyaan rakhna madam ka (Ajit, take care of madam),’ I told my bodyguard as I bid goodbye to my family.

  Outside the Begusarai circuit house waited a rickety, old Ambassador car. Heck, it even had a red beacon and a bold embossing on the plate––‘SP SHEKHPURA’. The letters ‘SP’ somehow rekindled my spirits. At least I was posted as the head of a district.

  The joy was short-lived. As I started my journey to Shekhpura, I realized that the road was not meant for driving at all. An erstwhile leader of Bihar had promised to make the roads as smooth as the cheeks of Hema Malini. Unfortunately, the roads became as pockmarked as the cheeks of Om Puri over the years. However, this changed too, albeit after my tenure, and by 2007, Bihar had shown remarkable improvement. Almost all villages and towns are now connected by excellent roads.

  The journey got more and more depre
ssing as the evening set in. The atmosphere was quite gloomy and dull, with no lights visible anywhere. It was particularly embarrassing to see women get up from the side of the road and tidy up their saris on seeing the lights of my car because they were forced to relieve themselves along the roads to avoid rodents and snakes.

  No wonder our country needs to ensure that the Swachh Bharat Abhiyan is a success. I instructed the driver to switch off the headlights to avoid any further embarrassment to myself and the women.

  ‘Sahib, bina light ke gaadi bahut slow chalega (Sahib, the car will go only slowly without the lights),’ complained the driver.

  ‘Don’t worry, you can drive faster after this stretch,’ I replied sternly.

  Our car moved forward like a bullock cart, lights or no lights.

  I tried to sing Kishore Kumar songs, particularly the all-time classic ‘Zindagi Ka Safar’. The driver put on a CD in the car after a few minutes. I took that as a signal for me to shut up. The poor driver could probably not tolerate the murder of music any longer.

  I got a few congratulatory calls on the way, telling me that at least I was back in the scheme of the establishment. In any state, the worth of an IPS or Indian Administrative Officer (IAS) officer is measured by the number of districts he or she heads.

  ‘Sir, the government needs officers like you. Only an officer of your calibre can bring law and order back to Shekhpura,’ were the statements I heard, typical of the flattery that an officer hears in his or her career, particularly on joining as a district SP. A few officers fall prey to these grandiloquent ideas about themselves. But all good and genuinely successful officers believe in teamwork, delegating power and giving due credit to even the lowest ranked constable. They take bouquets and brickbats stoically, stand by their men in hours of crises and show strength of character in troubled times, à la M.S. Dhoni.