Bihar Diaries Read online

  En route, I dwelt on my childhood and IIT memories. I wondered how an absolutely timid and introverted person like me had transformed into a confident and successful policeman, that too in Bihar.

  I was a disaster in IIT. Nobody had pressured me to appear for the JEE (Joint Entrance Examination), but I saw all my friends preparing for it. Midway through class XI, I borrowed their books and started studying for the exam, more out of competition with them than any desire to become an engineer. The moment I attended the first class in IIT Delhi, I realized I had come to the wrong place. It was one thing to be good at maths, quite another to find pulleys and lathe machines interesting. I started avoiding going to the classes, flunked mathematics and just about managed to get Cs and Ds. I even wrote a letter to one of my professors begging him not to flunk me. I claimed to be the son of a poor vegetable seller from Rajasthan! I described my imaginary family––a TB patient for a father and an old woman making rotis on the chulha for a mother. The professor of thermal energy definitely must have had tears in his eyes as he gave me a D despite the fact that I had attempted just one question out of fifteen.

  I tried my hand at everything apart from studies––and failed at all of it. Though I was reasonably talented in all extracurricular activities, I used to chicken out at the crucial moment, be it a match for the selection of the IIT squash team or a quiz competition. I was also an unmitigated disaster with girls. I simply did not know how to converse with women of my age. I used to pay a princely sum of Rs 300 to attend ‘socials’ with the girls of prestigious colleges like Miranda and Lady Shri Ram. I couldn’t utter a word in the presence of anyone wearing skirts. I had two left feet and would start jogging if asked to dance. My thick moustache, heavily oiled hair and ill-fitting baggy pants did not help my cause. Naturally, I could not impress a single girl. I would amble towards a girl and turn towards the buffet table the moment she looked at me. I used to end up eating at least twenty samosas and an equal number of pastries. I could not let my father’s hard-earned money be wasted. At that time, I thanked our ancestors for the concept of arranged marriage, otherwise there was no hope for a person like me to get married.

  I appeared for job interviews with only Tata Consultancy Services (TCS) and Infosys, as both the companies preferred students with low CGPAs. According to their management, students with poor grades could not turn to greener pastures.

  I stammered during the entire interview with TCS. I did not get a call-back from them after the interview. I was rejected by Infosys despite the company’s representatives trying their best to take me. I was so disinterested that I didn’t even attempt to solve simple questions like calculating the number of diagonals in a cube!

  But all this was about to change.

  I had always wanted to be a civil servant. This was my true calling. I worked hard and meticulously for the civil services exams. From one of those ‘six-point someones’ in IIT, I became a member of one of the most prestigious and elite services of the country, the Indian Police Service. I took maths as one of my optional subjects and cracked it. It was the same maths I had failed at IIT. I cursed myself for not making any effort during my college days. My grades would have been much better. I cleared the prelims in the next attempt too, but found the lure of the uniform too strong to take the mains and probably join some other service. The civil services exams take a huge toll, emotionally, mentally and physically. Out of lakhs of young and not-so-young aspirants, only a few hundred are selected. You need to be really lucky to clear the exam and doubly lucky to get a service of your choice. I knew there was no dearth of hardworking and intelligent people in our country. I just thanked my stars and joined the National Police Academy, Hyderabad. My years in IIT had already started making me come out of my shell a little bit, but the days at the NPA accelerated the process. For all my shortcomings, I was always extremely ethical and had a strong sense of right and wrong. This also led to some trouble earlier in my career. With experience and maturity, however, I started looking at the larger picture and learnt not to see everything as black and white.

  On getting selected for the IPS, I got the Bihar cadre. All the congratulatory phone calls used to end on a slightly sombre note.

  ‘Wonderful, Amit, we’re proud of you. Oh . . . you’ve got Bihar cadre. Hard luck. Tch, tch,’ said the nosey neighbourhood aunty.

  Little did they know that I would have the best time of my life in Bihar.

  I remembered the day I took charge as an ASP in Jamalpur, Munger.

  ‘Sir, kursi sab sikha deti hai (Sir, the chair teaches you everything),’ said my trainer, SI Harishankar, when I expressed my anxiety. To take charge as a young ASP was an overwhelming experience. I had butterflies in my stomach, and I felt as though everyone was watching my next move. You stand out in a crowd because of your uniform, surrounded by a posse of men. The entire district is your workplace, your office.

  Due to sheer hard work, intelligence and some good luck, I had become very successful right at the beginning of my career. I kept getting good postings and made a name for myself. I took every crime as a challenge and confidently solved it. I became a darling of the media and the public. I was drinking the elixir of life, and my stock kept on soaring. The mix of professional success, media coverage and good postings turned my self-assurance into cockiness. My personality transformed. From a meek, gawky student, I became a ‘smart, sophisticated and conceited’ officer.

  However, I was absolutely courteous to the public and my colleagues. Though I did not stop feeling grateful for my successes, I started taking everything for granted. SI Harishankar was right. Kursi sab sikha deti hai.

  On my transfer from Nalanda, almost the entire town descended on the roads to bid me farewell. Life was like a dream. But as is true for everyone, be it a superstar or an ace sportsperson, the good times soon make way for the bad times. You fall when you are at the height of success, when you least expect to fail.

  All of a sudden, I was posted as commandant of that non-existent battalion. My world came crashing down. Everyone’s attitude changed overnight. Most people started avoiding me as I was no longer ‘important’.

  ‘Tsk, tsk, sir, bahut bura hua aapke saath (Sir, you have been treated very badly). You have been given quite a bad posting,’ mocked a few people sarcastically.

  ‘Everyone loves a fallen hero,’ said the devil on my shoulder.

  7

  Copulating Lizards

  23 May 2006

  My train of thought was interrupted when we reached Shekhpura. The town, if I may call it that, was the size of a small colony in any other city.

  ‘Sir, this is Dallu Chowk. We are in the heart of the town,’ announced my driver, as if he was taking me on a guided tour of Las Vegas.

  The streets had an eerie silence, punctuated by the barks of a few stray dogs. Shekhpura looked like a ghost town straight out of the Ramsay Brothers’ movies. A few lamps outside the decrepit buildings were constantly flickering, typical of most places in Bihar at the time. Getting an hour of uninterrupted power at proper voltage was as frequent as Pakistan beating India in a Cricket World Cup match. Thankfully, there has now been a sea change in the situation in the state.

  ‘And, sir, this is Famous Tailors––it is really famous for stitching all kinds of suits. Masterji specializes in wedding suits,’ added my bodyguard.

  ‘This is Mrigendra Babu’s clinic; he is the best doctor in Shekhpura. There are hardly any medical facilities here, not even a Sadar Hospital,’ said the driver.

  ‘O lord, please don’t let any of us fall ill,’ I prayed. I also wondered how we would find vaccinations for our daughter.

  We soon reached the circuit house. Worst of all, I saw scores of policemen who looked unshaven, famished, haggard and exhausted, standing on the streets. It often happens during a major law and order problem. A policeman of any rank, be it the DG or a constable, does not know when he will return home. There is no time or place for rest and relief during a crisis. Often, off
icers and jawans catch some sleep in their jeeps. Food is the least of their priorities. It is difficult for an average civilian to understand what all jawans go through in situations like facing a mob in Srinagar or fighting Naxalites in Bastar.

  The DSP of Shekhpura, Yash Sharma, greeted me. There was only one DSP for the entire district. Shekhpura was smaller than a lot of subdivisions in my previous districts.

  ‘Sir, welcome to Shekhpura. Let me give you the details of the situation.’

  ‘There is no need,’ I cut him short. I was in no mood for policing. At all.

  The senior police officials expected me to hold an emergency meeting with them. After all, Shekhpura had witnessed a massacre, and the SP and DM had been removed. Moreover, my reputation as a successful officer, that too, in the neighbouring district of Nalanda, must have preceded me. But to their utter surprise, I just entered my room and slammed the door shut. My fleeting joy at being posted as an SP had given way to despondency again. Why was I here in this godforsaken place? I did not want to accept that harsh reality.

  The circuit house was actually a ‘Samudayik Bhavan’ or a community centre, originally meant as a meeting hall for the local public. Shekhpura had no sanctioned circuit house since hardly any politician or senior official visited it. Not that the other circuit houses elsewhere in the country were any better.

  I surveyed the ‘suite’ and found quite a few really fat rats climbing up the rods installed around the bed to hold the mosquito net in place. I gingerly pushed open the door of the bathroom, fearing that a rat would jump at me. To my horror, I saw two lizards copulating in the Indian style-loo and a lone frog croaking in one corner. I have faced many dreaded criminals in my life, yet I start shaking the moment I see lizards. If you ever see me standing on a sofa in my house, you can safely assume that there is a lizard on the floor, ten feet away from me.

  I ran out of the circuit house, straight to the porch, at a speed that would have shamed Usain Bolt. I commanded two orderlies to get rid of the biodiversity in my room. Bemused, they succeeded in executing the first order given by me as SP, Shekhpura.

  ‘Huzoor, pakad liya hai,’ said the beaming orderly. The two poor lizards were dangling precariously on the broom. I felt bad for the lizards, for I had disturbed their passionate mating.

  With great trepidation, I entered the room again and ordered dinner. I should have guessed I would be treated to the delicacies of aloo parwal and lauki. I am sure the cook of the Begusarai circuit house had sent the leftovers to Shekhpura. After a forced fast, I tried to sleep under the mosquito net, constantly rolling and slapping various parts of my body to kill all the species of insects and mosquitoes whose habitat I had invaded. I think the two lizards and the frog were maintaining an ecological balance in that fragile ecosystem.

  The next morning, I woke up to the constant buzzing of mosquitoes. Moments later, I got a call from Kumar Sir, ‘Amit, please note down the names of these villages. They are on the radar of Vijay Samrat. Please visit these places and ensure that there is adequate patrolling there.’

  I was surprised and happy in equal measure. The DIG had also been transferred overnight and Kumar Bharat was to take charge.

  Kumar Bharat was one of the finest officers in Bihar. A man of few words, he was a thorough professional and an excellent leader. I learnt a lot from him, not only about technical and legal matters, but also on how to maintain one’s dignity in office, when I worked as the ASP, Patna, under his SPship.

  He called me again after two hours, inquiring if I had taken any measures. I categorically said no and vented my ire. Sir was remarkably patient and listened till I lamented to my heart’s content.

  ‘Amit, I know I am sounding preachy, but this is the oath we took on the Constitution. As IPS officers, it is our duty and moral obligation to the citizens to prevent crime and bring to justice any perpetrators of crime. And apart from that, you are already in the bad books of the establishment. The earlier SP was just shunted out, but you will be suspended in case of another massacre,’ he explained in as many words as possible on the phone.

  Just afterwards, Tanu called me and asked about my well-being. I ranted about the pathetic condition of the guest house and told her that there was no official house for the SP. As always, she pacified me, ‘Don’t worry. We will manage. I am happy that all of us will live together. I will reach Shekhpura in a few days.’

  8

  Back to Work

  I knew that Tanu was not really bothered about the pitiable condition of the Shekhpura circuit house. I thought back to our first night in Bihar, on 13 December 1999.

  Immediately after our honeymoon in the beautiful city of Udaipur, we had disembarked at the Jhumri Talaiyya railway station, a place famous for all its residents making requests to the All India Radio for playing songs of their choice.

  After an hour’s drive, we reached the pitch-dark campus of PTC Hazaribagh. I expected a proper reception, just like at the NPA, but was shocked to see just a fat constable emerging out of the darkness. The lantern in his hand created an eerie silhouette, just like that of the caretaker in the movie Bees Saal Baad. The portly constable scratched his huge tummy and handed me a Good Knight mosquito coil, a candle and a matchbox. I was totally flummoxed.

  ‘Why are you giving all these things to me?’ I asked angrily.

  ‘Sahib, there has been no power supply for the last six hours. How will you see in this darkness? And there are a lot of mosquitoes here. Memsahib will have a lot of trouble if you don’t use the coil. Mosquitoes love gori chamdi (fair skin),’ said the constable, adjusting his lungi.

  We somehow managed to reach our room on the first floor. Tanu lit the candle. I opened the tap to wash my hands, only to find all the water falling on my feet. I looked down and saw that there was no pipe. Even the drain was a good five feet away from the basin. I then tried to close the windows of our room, only to discover that they could not be closed from the inside. I went outside the room to check the windows. To my horror, I realized that the window latches were on the outside. That meant anyone who was in the corridor outside our room could open our window! It was absolutely shocking. Our privacy as a newly wedded couple was under threat.

  ‘Why is there no pipe in the washbasin? And why the hell are the latches of the windows on the outside?’ I demanded an explanation from the constable.

  ‘Sahib, that thekedar (contractor) has not been paid his dues for the last three years by the PWD. So as revenge, he put the windows inside out. And there was no money left to buy the pipes for the washbasin.’

  I wondered if Tanu would run away.

  ‘Come on, the “honeymoon suite” is waiting for us,’ Tanu giggled when she realized there was no solution to our problems. I was thankful she was not leaving me. Ever.

  Tanu has always been the pillar of strength in my life. Being the daughter of a senior IPS officer, she was well aware of the professional challenges I faced and would continue to face all throughout my career. She could make out a lot of what I was going through just by looking into my eyes. Apart from being highly intelligent, she has been a paragon of virtue and ethics. In fact, the first two big arrests of my career which led to my meteoric rise were purely because of lady luck––literally!

  My first posting was in September 2000 as the ASP of Jamalpur, a small, sleepy town in Munger, once famous for the railway institute, SCRA, an ITC factory and the Yoga School, but now infamous for the production of desi kattas. The British had set up a factory there to manufacture arms for the police and the provincial constabulary. Years later, the factory shut down, leaving scores of gunsmiths unemployed. Knowing no other vocation, they started making guns for the local criminals at a fraction of the cost of the original ones. So skilled were the workers that it was nearly impossible to tell the difference between the original and a country-made gun. And to give it an even more authentic touch, the guns were embossed with ‘Made in Italy’ or ‘Walther PPK’!

  Soon, word spread about
this remarkable craftsmanship, and hordes of criminals, big and small, started ordering all kinds of guns. The rising crime graph in the states of Bihar and neighbouring Uttar Pradesh further helped expand the business. The gunsmiths were thriving now. Making country-made weapons was now a ‘cottage industry’ in Bihar. And there was no need for any government subsidy!

  As it happens with any young police officer, many people came to see me when I was first posted to the town.

  ‘Sir, Kirtan Mishra is the biggest criminal of Munger. He killed the general manager of ITC just a few months ago. We’d be very happy if you arrest him. The people of Munger are fed up with his extortion. He also killed our cousin last fortnight. Please arrest him. We have great expectations from you,’ said an elderly man earnestly.

  ‘Sir, we have come to know recently that he hides in a room next to a tube well near his house. There are two neem trees near that tube well,’ said another man.

  I wondered why the police could not arrest Kirtan if his hideout was so easily known to those two. I noted down the information reluctantly. If none of my predecessors had caught him, what could a greenhorn like me do?

  The next day I raided a few places to seize some illegal arms but did not find anything. I was quite disappointed; I was desperate to make a mark for myself.

  ‘Huzoor, that big house is Kirtan Mishra’s,’ my driver, Shashi, pointed it out as we were on our way back to the circuit house.

  ‘Achcha, chalo, let us check out his house.’

  I thought I might as well put my manpower to some use. I also wanted to tell my SP that I had ‘raided’ Kirtan’s house to prove my sincerity.

  I entered the house. It was quite tidy and well-maintained.

  ‘Sir, will you have some tea?’ asked Kirtan’s wife. I was quite amused. I did not know policemen were so welcome in criminals’ houses in Bihar. I checked the entire house and, naturally, did not find the criminal. I saw the landline phone and immediately dialled the circuit house number to speak to Tanu.