Howdy!
As I said in my last mail, there was a long mail that I’d been composing but which I never got to finish since the UPS failed to act on time. A rather significant effort was wasted in an instant. It isn’t worth writing from home. The little time I get with my daughter is best spent NOT with the PC. And then wife is there to complain if I don’t take care of the kid.
Last month was a rather eventful one. As I’ve already told you Guys (and gals), there is a smart card project that I’m on the verge of finishing. A trip to our field offices in Rajasthan and MP (Close to places such as Chittor and Udaipur) was scheduled in early May. This, after a rather unsavory row in which a long planned leave had to be cancelled (along with railway and air tickets booked 3 months in advance).
Having to depart at a very short notice I was able to get a RAC ticket in 3 tier sleeper (a class, I’ve almost stopped traveling in since marriage six years ago) from Mathura to Chittor in a train by the name of Mewar Express. One needs to travel to Mathura from Gwalior via Agra if the train has to be embarked on at 9 pm. And so I took Taj Express at 5pm that afternoon from Gwalior (No reservation there, mind you)….and got into a general bogie (things can’t get worse). At Agra, after a rather stifling journey of 2 hours, I got off and went into a Seating Reservation compartment, put my luggage on the rack and went to the door to get some fresh air. Every now and then, I’d look back at the baggage to make sure it was still there. And that is where I saw him!
Just on the long berth, at the aisle edge. Nothing too significant about him. He was a Sardar of medium build, wheatish complexion, facial hair, turban on head and a mole on the left temple.
The MOLE?!
It was a prominent mole, uncharacteristically dark and very large in size. Though a very distinguishing mole, it looked rather familiar. I had seen one before, but was unable to place where and when…..it had to be a long time ago.
The man was every bit as uncomfortable with the heat as anybody else could be and was trying to keep his cool; shifting uncomfortably every now and then. I too stopped trying to guess who he could be and concentrated my efforts to getting more wind out of a rather slow moving train. A short while later I could feel the tinge of being the object of someone’s attention. That sixth sense we guys develop is actually on the back of the neck where you have soft little delicate hair that rise with impending danger. This rise generates freezing temperatures throughout the body even at 48 degrees C. I glanced at the probable direction of the source of the cool adrenalin wind and saw none who could have been responsible except maybe a turban end sneaking back behind the bunk. Maybe, maybe not. A glance in the direction of the mole revealed a vacant space. Somewhere alarm bells were ringing….wildly! Ever felt your heartbeat shoot upwards!? I did then. There was absolutely no reason for me to do so……. I was on a rather civil duty……..IT project and all that.
The turban (or was it the mole) was troubling. For a while, I thought he might have got off at Raja Ki Mandi station (just after Agra), lots of people usually get off the train there….nothing untoward in that.
The train had stopped a few kilometers outside R K Mandi station. I took a small risk (how simple when the family isn’t around) and got off the train to read…..the list of passengers with their seat / berth no.s stuck just outside the door next to the toilet (this story isn’t for those who travel just by airplanes….u gotta have plenty of imagination to visualize dirty train toilets). The list didn’t have anyone scheduled to get off at Raja Ki Mandi….but it did have a Sikh scheduled to get off at Mathura. Mathura??!! The place kept ringing as if it was not Lord Krishna’s birth place, but a location where all known flashbacks are supposed to happen. And then the bell rang…..I remembered everything.
I fished out my mobile (trousers’ pockets get shriveled with heat and dank sweat) and put a call to my most trusted batchmate at Lucknow. Sure he remembered the MOLE. Only, the turban was never there when we swooped upon a group of mona Punjabis who had purchased opium in wholesale quantities for distribution in dhabas all along the Delhi Amritsar Highway. The only local we caught, a guide and arranger….was Ismail (pronounced iss-smile). An outstanding mole on the left temple. The rest of the description matched, except the turban now. An orthodox Muslim converted to Sikhism? Can’t say……jail terms could do anything to a man. But he was fit to be booked for two full lives in jail with the kind of quantity caught on the group six years ago…..one of my very first and best cases at Lucknow. The friend revealed that Ismail had a superb lawyer who got him off on the plea that he was framed; there was nothing on his person and he had agreed to only guide the group from his village to Lucknow city for a small consideration. Since bail in narcotics cases was unattainable in those days, Ismail spent six years in jail while the case dragged on. And he was just out! Maybe gunning for me?! I wasn’t even carrying my pistol or any other weapon (even the shaving kit had a twin blade razor, not the normal blades that I loved destroying neighbours saris with on the rooftop, in the days I was studying with Nishank at St. Joseph’s Rihand….and sister Juliana used to think Nishank was naughtier than me…ha!!!).
Or was it a coincidence that he was traveling in the same train that I was! Well, I’ve read enough of Nick Carter’s Novels, hiding in the attic (again during the days with Nishank……there was a lot of adult content in those novels) to know well enough that ‘there is no such thing in our profession as coincidence’. The cold adrenalin wind was blowing fit to travel to Sahara Desert and freeze it all over. I looked at my watch and felt even more afraid……………………………………………………………………………………….of losing my next train fellows. Taj express was taking over two hours to travel a measly 30 kilometers from Agra to Mathura.
8.30p.m. and just half an hour to go before I could catch the connecting train to Chittor from Mathura. No sign of the Mole. And no sign of Mathura either. The train was stopping every now and then for longer intervals and people were getting off and on the train and the railway tracks. In my anxiety for the train, I forgot the mole. At precisely 9.00, the train limped in to Mathura. I bolted for the charts pasted on the info box on the platform to see the seat / berth no. that had been allotted against my RAC. The berth had been confirmed, but the train would be on a rather far-off end platform. I ran again, just managed to get on the right bogie and the train pushed off. No news of the mole. Perhaps it was a coincidence after all.
Saturday, 5 a.m. The train reached Chittor right on time. Having managed to get up early, I changed quickly to my ‘loafer’ dress of sleeveless shirt and capris, put on the sunglasses (looks rather odd at that early hour) and donned the baseball cap. Sufficient to camouflage facial features, eyes etc. Got off the train and looked around…..the ‘sardar’ was nowhere to be seen. The station was undergoing renovation and there was just one narrow exit. I crossed the single gate with the visor down and inspected those coming in or going out. No turban, no mole! Yep! It was just my imagination. Or was it?! Just on the inside, conveniently out of everyone’s way but well placed to observe every entry and exit was a man of the same height and build…..in a baseball cap and cheap sunglasses. ‘Camouflaged’! Just like me. Very cleverly hidden, unless you were searching for it, was a large mole just between the black plastic frame and the dark green baseball cap. It was just another coincidence that I had arrived quicker to the exit than he could manage.
No sweat! I was in my own zone now. Chittor has four large CBN offices and I have some very trusted friends out there. And so I sent a SMS to an officer at Chittor to arrive disguised at the station…..and of course, fully loaded. The mole kept scanning the entire zone and even went over me without recognizing. I turned over my shoulder to see a familiar sight of a tall well built farmer coming through to the station’s gates. It was my friend and colleague AJ and he had donned the same disguise that he had been using for every reconnaissance and seizure since the day he had joined. Same disguise for the last six years and he was not only alive and kicking, even good seizures were coming his way. In fact AJ had caught one offender twice after a gap of three years…..cos the smuggler failed to recognize him a second time…..speaks volumes of the intelligence of your everyday drug trafficker.
Just when I had made up my mind to become another Dayanayak, blasting guns up the devil’s arse with my twin shooters pardner….give it up amigo…. Your scalp is mine for the taking…………
See……
Apni gali mein kutta bhi sher hota hai!!! ………
Well! None of those things happened. AJ came close, passed me by and waited at the enquiry counter, well in view and with a couple of armed sepoys (also disguised as bus helpers, looked natural in them; they look unnatural in sepoys’ uniforms) right behind him. As I waited for the right second to make my hit, another fellow in kurta and Lungi came up to the Mole. They went right out (passing me by) to the paanwala on the station fringe. A rather animated discussion followed over three glasses of tea. The mole then caught a bus traveling to the north, the lungi wala caught one going to the south from the other side of the road. I called AJ over and told him to follow the lungi wala on the bus going south while I made a lunge for the other bus. I tried and failed. AJ was however, successful. The sepoys stayed behind. Daredevilry is not their forte.
Ruing my luck, I waited for AJ to come back. And then had an idea. Going up to the paanwala, feigning a slight limp, I started a conversation. I posed as a tourist and wanted to know everything (including why the sun rose at chittor in the east). The paanwala was talkative. And I let it ‘slip’ that I would love to have a stick of ganja or ANYTHING stronger. Not much, just for a bit of ‘time pass’. And I had the dough….rolled out a wad of bills from my inner pocket (sasur ji ka diya hua 10 Rs. Ka gaddi). The paanwala swallowed the bait…..as do hundreds of drug dealers around the world.
And then it was smooth sailing all the way. He not only provided the mole’s destination, he also provided the date of the mole’s return tickets (Mole traveled by AC…….how infuriating) and his cell number. I took down the paanwala’s name and number which he willingly provided. And recommended that I even refer his name to Rafiq Bhai (another alias of Ismail I suppose). I asked Jamaal bhai (the paanwala) to call the Mole, introduce me and set a place and location where we would meet. Jamaal obliged immediately. Overconfident of having trapped an ‘unsuspecting tourist’ like me, he spoke so loudly that I feared some police informer would overhear. And police was the last thing on my mind right then. For the uninitiated, there is a tremendous competition for booking seizures amongst the law enforcement agencies despite the very apparent bonhomie on the surface.
The mole suggested Hotel Kuber in Mandsaur (a prominent place for deals in Narcotic raw materials like acetic anhydride) for the rendezvous that afternoon.
I believe that a little geographical description of these almost unknown locations is in order; these are small towns located very close to each other (within a range of 50 Kms) crisscrossing the MP Rajasthan border. While Chittor and Pratapgarh are in Rajasthan, Mandsaur and Neemuch are in MP. Neemuch stations a complete Unit Hqrs. setup of CBN while Chittor and Mandsaur station multiple offices, thus ensuring that CBN has a significant presence in these parts. Pratapgarh is a little way off, relatively quiet and incident free most of the time.
Where was I?
Well, I agreed to meet the mole at around 3 p.m. at Mandsaur. It was not yet six and I could be at Neemuch by 8 a.m. My good friends and dashing Inspectors Addy and Kerr could be up and running even before then. I said my goodbyes to Jamaal and caught the next bus on its way to Neemuch. I first put in a call to AJ. AJ confirmed that the man he had followed was a ‘wholesale’ buyer and his informers in the region had even pinpointed the individuals who were building up his stocks this year. Opium was in short supply this season, CBN (Narcotics) sleuths had plugged in leaks and gaps in divergence of the drug and illicit growth of the poppy plant had almost disappeared. Something BIG was afoot, but what? At least, going by the looks of the ways things were shaping up, it had to be something more than merely my murder. The idea now seemed almost laughable.
The next call was to Addy. I explained the entire situation and asked him to get ready and more importantly, the raiding party would have to be big, well armed with SLRs and sniper rifles included, two very fast vehicles at least. No motorcycles. And bulletproof steel shielding for the vehicles if available. Ismail / Rafiq / the mole / whatever his name ……was extremely dangerous and would not hesitate to shoot even point blank if required. Addy got the message…loud and clear. We were on to a good case, maybe the biggest if all went well. As it happened, not everything went to the plan.
At precisely 8 in the morning, I had reached the Bus terminus on the outskirts of Neemuch. It was an additional two kilometer walk to the Narcotics Colony / Office. Fortunately, Addy and Kerr had the good foresight to know that I wouldn’t be aware of the new terminus location and so were there to receive me. After a shower, shave and breakfast at Kerr’s house, we got into the planning mode. And straight ran into a load of troubles.
The Unit Head with whom Addy had a roaring rapport, was away at Delhi and so his writ would not run unquestioned today. The next in command was the Ascom, and he would not discuss matters on phone. So we had to go to the office, provide all details and wait for his approval. The fat fellow soaked up info like a pig in a bathtub, nodding now and then and asking rather irrelevant questions. We told him what we had planned, the raiding party composition (we proposed the names of the officers, sepoys and drivers who would join us) and the timing planned. The Ascom hewed and hemmed but finally agreed after putting up some funny, often misplaced objections to the plans. And then he blurted out his own desires…………… He would lead the party himself.
Not counting the fact that this fellow was a bad manager, pompous and completely unfit to even raid a colony of ants, the risk of a ranking official being hurt or killed in a raid could be career debilitating. It is a different matter that the official could himself become eligible for a medal of honour in the process. Well we tried our best! But as they say, ‘sometimes even the best isn’t just enough’. Taking him on the party straightaway meant an extra mouth to feed free of cost and he would occupy the front passenger seat of the large Toyota Qualis all by himself, limiting our space for any informers we might have to pick up on the wayside. There wasn’t much to be argued. Unit Head was far out of reach, even his mobile had been switched off. There was no overriding Ascom.
So the machinery was fixed. We’d take two of the best drivers. One of them was crazy enough to think ……. aloud ……that a Gypsy is capable of cart wheeling and then get back on track….a railway track. No problems! He was selected for his uncanny ability to drive at very high speeds fearlessly which caused minor heart attacks to every other occupant in the same vehicle and also those that crossed his way. And he wasn’t afraid to ram the sarkari gadi into a private one if necessary. This willingness of destroying Government property so unhesitatingly made him a hero. The other one was far calmer despite being the younger one of the two and we’d prefer to travel with him in the Qualis. Unfortunately, Ascom too sought to do the same, meaning we’d be saddled with him in the lead vehicle. The armory was selected and the men who would be handling them handpicked.
I was introduced to the rest of the team. Kay, Jag, and Sandra were all Inspectors and chosen on the basis of their ability to shoot, chase and plan respectively. Sepoys Trim, Basil and Khan were agile men and Khan was a good sniper shooter. In fact, there were two others in the team who were excellent snipers……me and Kay. I would be needed to identify the mole and so my position was pretty much fixed in the front seat of the lead vehicle. That ruled out any sniper rifles (or any other rifles) for me. Regrettably so, because for me, it was very important that the mole shouldn’t go back alive from this encounter.
9.00 a.m. All set and ready to go! For the rest of the team, this was going to be just another routine operation…….Surround, Trap, catch, arrest and book the case (culprits and the drugs). For me, it might be a question of life and death. I took a .22 Beretta and slipped it into my waist band. So did Addy, Jag and the Ascom. Kerr suggested that I call up the mole and reconfirm the venue of our meet. In fact, since we were all ready, it might be a good idea to even advance the time of meeting…especially if Mole was in possession of the contraband.
Time saved would be time utilized nicely as Narcotics officers produce voluminous paperwork while making even the smallest of seizures. It is a known fact that sometimes the paperwork exceeds the quantity of the drug seized. Before grinning, you might be interested in knowing that Narcotics officers also make the best airtight cases. CBN holds a world record for getting convictions without bail in 98% of the cases booked. And that also explains why the street pushers with a gram or two in their possession are best not taken into custody. Thrash them, loot their money and let them go. Either they’ll lead you to their sources of retailers someday or live to be thrashed and looted some day again.
Anyways, I called up the Mole.
‘Rafiq bhai…..is that you?!’
‘Say your piece.’
‘Have arranged a vehicle for sight seeing around. What say we meet a little early! 3 p.m. sounds too late. I love a fag right after lunch, today you can make that a bit special.’
That was an excuse suggested by Kerr. Jag and Addy were in the background, laughing silently. They love the feeling of throwing human rights to the wind, and Rafiq was going to be their lunch for the day. A sound thrashing of the suspect is what they love to start their interrogations with.
As I said in my last mail, there was a long mail that I’d been composing but which I never got to finish since the UPS failed to act on time. A rather significant effort was wasted in an instant. It isn’t worth writing from home. The little time I get with my daughter is best spent NOT with the PC. And then wife is there to complain if I don’t take care of the kid.
Last month was a rather eventful one. As I’ve already told you Guys (and gals), there is a smart card project that I’m on the verge of finishing. A trip to our field offices in Rajasthan and MP (Close to places such as Chittor and Udaipur) was scheduled in early May. This, after a rather unsavory row in which a long planned leave had to be cancelled (along with railway and air tickets booked 3 months in advance).
Having to depart at a very short notice I was able to get a RAC ticket in 3 tier sleeper (a class, I’ve almost stopped traveling in since marriage six years ago) from Mathura to Chittor in a train by the name of Mewar Express. One needs to travel to Mathura from Gwalior via Agra if the train has to be embarked on at 9 pm. And so I took Taj Express at 5pm that afternoon from Gwalior (No reservation there, mind you)….and got into a general bogie (things can’t get worse). At Agra, after a rather stifling journey of 2 hours, I got off and went into a Seating Reservation compartment, put my luggage on the rack and went to the door to get some fresh air. Every now and then, I’d look back at the baggage to make sure it was still there. And that is where I saw him!
Just on the long berth, at the aisle edge. Nothing too significant about him. He was a Sardar of medium build, wheatish complexion, facial hair, turban on head and a mole on the left temple.
The MOLE?!
It was a prominent mole, uncharacteristically dark and very large in size. Though a very distinguishing mole, it looked rather familiar. I had seen one before, but was unable to place where and when…..it had to be a long time ago.
The man was every bit as uncomfortable with the heat as anybody else could be and was trying to keep his cool; shifting uncomfortably every now and then. I too stopped trying to guess who he could be and concentrated my efforts to getting more wind out of a rather slow moving train. A short while later I could feel the tinge of being the object of someone’s attention. That sixth sense we guys develop is actually on the back of the neck where you have soft little delicate hair that rise with impending danger. This rise generates freezing temperatures throughout the body even at 48 degrees C. I glanced at the probable direction of the source of the cool adrenalin wind and saw none who could have been responsible except maybe a turban end sneaking back behind the bunk. Maybe, maybe not. A glance in the direction of the mole revealed a vacant space. Somewhere alarm bells were ringing….wildly! Ever felt your heartbeat shoot upwards!? I did then. There was absolutely no reason for me to do so……. I was on a rather civil duty……..IT project and all that.
The turban (or was it the mole) was troubling. For a while, I thought he might have got off at Raja Ki Mandi station (just after Agra), lots of people usually get off the train there….nothing untoward in that.
The train had stopped a few kilometers outside R K Mandi station. I took a small risk (how simple when the family isn’t around) and got off the train to read…..the list of passengers with their seat / berth no.s stuck just outside the door next to the toilet (this story isn’t for those who travel just by airplanes….u gotta have plenty of imagination to visualize dirty train toilets). The list didn’t have anyone scheduled to get off at Raja Ki Mandi….but it did have a Sikh scheduled to get off at Mathura. Mathura??!! The place kept ringing as if it was not Lord Krishna’s birth place, but a location where all known flashbacks are supposed to happen. And then the bell rang…..I remembered everything.
I fished out my mobile (trousers’ pockets get shriveled with heat and dank sweat) and put a call to my most trusted batchmate at Lucknow. Sure he remembered the MOLE. Only, the turban was never there when we swooped upon a group of mona Punjabis who had purchased opium in wholesale quantities for distribution in dhabas all along the Delhi Amritsar Highway. The only local we caught, a guide and arranger….was Ismail (pronounced iss-smile). An outstanding mole on the left temple. The rest of the description matched, except the turban now. An orthodox Muslim converted to Sikhism? Can’t say……jail terms could do anything to a man. But he was fit to be booked for two full lives in jail with the kind of quantity caught on the group six years ago…..one of my very first and best cases at Lucknow. The friend revealed that Ismail had a superb lawyer who got him off on the plea that he was framed; there was nothing on his person and he had agreed to only guide the group from his village to Lucknow city for a small consideration. Since bail in narcotics cases was unattainable in those days, Ismail spent six years in jail while the case dragged on. And he was just out! Maybe gunning for me?! I wasn’t even carrying my pistol or any other weapon (even the shaving kit had a twin blade razor, not the normal blades that I loved destroying neighbours saris with on the rooftop, in the days I was studying with Nishank at St. Joseph’s Rihand….and sister Juliana used to think Nishank was naughtier than me…ha!!!).
Or was it a coincidence that he was traveling in the same train that I was! Well, I’ve read enough of Nick Carter’s Novels, hiding in the attic (again during the days with Nishank……there was a lot of adult content in those novels) to know well enough that ‘there is no such thing in our profession as coincidence’. The cold adrenalin wind was blowing fit to travel to Sahara Desert and freeze it all over. I looked at my watch and felt even more afraid……………………………………………………………………………………….of losing my next train fellows. Taj express was taking over two hours to travel a measly 30 kilometers from Agra to Mathura.
8.30p.m. and just half an hour to go before I could catch the connecting train to Chittor from Mathura. No sign of the Mole. And no sign of Mathura either. The train was stopping every now and then for longer intervals and people were getting off and on the train and the railway tracks. In my anxiety for the train, I forgot the mole. At precisely 9.00, the train limped in to Mathura. I bolted for the charts pasted on the info box on the platform to see the seat / berth no. that had been allotted against my RAC. The berth had been confirmed, but the train would be on a rather far-off end platform. I ran again, just managed to get on the right bogie and the train pushed off. No news of the mole. Perhaps it was a coincidence after all.
Saturday, 5 a.m. The train reached Chittor right on time. Having managed to get up early, I changed quickly to my ‘loafer’ dress of sleeveless shirt and capris, put on the sunglasses (looks rather odd at that early hour) and donned the baseball cap. Sufficient to camouflage facial features, eyes etc. Got off the train and looked around…..the ‘sardar’ was nowhere to be seen. The station was undergoing renovation and there was just one narrow exit. I crossed the single gate with the visor down and inspected those coming in or going out. No turban, no mole! Yep! It was just my imagination. Or was it?! Just on the inside, conveniently out of everyone’s way but well placed to observe every entry and exit was a man of the same height and build…..in a baseball cap and cheap sunglasses. ‘Camouflaged’! Just like me. Very cleverly hidden, unless you were searching for it, was a large mole just between the black plastic frame and the dark green baseball cap. It was just another coincidence that I had arrived quicker to the exit than he could manage.
No sweat! I was in my own zone now. Chittor has four large CBN offices and I have some very trusted friends out there. And so I sent a SMS to an officer at Chittor to arrive disguised at the station…..and of course, fully loaded. The mole kept scanning the entire zone and even went over me without recognizing. I turned over my shoulder to see a familiar sight of a tall well built farmer coming through to the station’s gates. It was my friend and colleague AJ and he had donned the same disguise that he had been using for every reconnaissance and seizure since the day he had joined. Same disguise for the last six years and he was not only alive and kicking, even good seizures were coming his way. In fact AJ had caught one offender twice after a gap of three years…..cos the smuggler failed to recognize him a second time…..speaks volumes of the intelligence of your everyday drug trafficker.
Just when I had made up my mind to become another Dayanayak, blasting guns up the devil’s arse with my twin shooters pardner….give it up amigo…. Your scalp is mine for the taking…………
See……
Apni gali mein kutta bhi sher hota hai!!! ………
Well! None of those things happened. AJ came close, passed me by and waited at the enquiry counter, well in view and with a couple of armed sepoys (also disguised as bus helpers, looked natural in them; they look unnatural in sepoys’ uniforms) right behind him. As I waited for the right second to make my hit, another fellow in kurta and Lungi came up to the Mole. They went right out (passing me by) to the paanwala on the station fringe. A rather animated discussion followed over three glasses of tea. The mole then caught a bus traveling to the north, the lungi wala caught one going to the south from the other side of the road. I called AJ over and told him to follow the lungi wala on the bus going south while I made a lunge for the other bus. I tried and failed. AJ was however, successful. The sepoys stayed behind. Daredevilry is not their forte.
Ruing my luck, I waited for AJ to come back. And then had an idea. Going up to the paanwala, feigning a slight limp, I started a conversation. I posed as a tourist and wanted to know everything (including why the sun rose at chittor in the east). The paanwala was talkative. And I let it ‘slip’ that I would love to have a stick of ganja or ANYTHING stronger. Not much, just for a bit of ‘time pass’. And I had the dough….rolled out a wad of bills from my inner pocket (sasur ji ka diya hua 10 Rs. Ka gaddi). The paanwala swallowed the bait…..as do hundreds of drug dealers around the world.
And then it was smooth sailing all the way. He not only provided the mole’s destination, he also provided the date of the mole’s return tickets (Mole traveled by AC…….how infuriating) and his cell number. I took down the paanwala’s name and number which he willingly provided. And recommended that I even refer his name to Rafiq Bhai (another alias of Ismail I suppose). I asked Jamaal bhai (the paanwala) to call the Mole, introduce me and set a place and location where we would meet. Jamaal obliged immediately. Overconfident of having trapped an ‘unsuspecting tourist’ like me, he spoke so loudly that I feared some police informer would overhear. And police was the last thing on my mind right then. For the uninitiated, there is a tremendous competition for booking seizures amongst the law enforcement agencies despite the very apparent bonhomie on the surface.
The mole suggested Hotel Kuber in Mandsaur (a prominent place for deals in Narcotic raw materials like acetic anhydride) for the rendezvous that afternoon.
I believe that a little geographical description of these almost unknown locations is in order; these are small towns located very close to each other (within a range of 50 Kms) crisscrossing the MP Rajasthan border. While Chittor and Pratapgarh are in Rajasthan, Mandsaur and Neemuch are in MP. Neemuch stations a complete Unit Hqrs. setup of CBN while Chittor and Mandsaur station multiple offices, thus ensuring that CBN has a significant presence in these parts. Pratapgarh is a little way off, relatively quiet and incident free most of the time.
Where was I?
Well, I agreed to meet the mole at around 3 p.m. at Mandsaur. It was not yet six and I could be at Neemuch by 8 a.m. My good friends and dashing Inspectors Addy and Kerr could be up and running even before then. I said my goodbyes to Jamaal and caught the next bus on its way to Neemuch. I first put in a call to AJ. AJ confirmed that the man he had followed was a ‘wholesale’ buyer and his informers in the region had even pinpointed the individuals who were building up his stocks this year. Opium was in short supply this season, CBN (Narcotics) sleuths had plugged in leaks and gaps in divergence of the drug and illicit growth of the poppy plant had almost disappeared. Something BIG was afoot, but what? At least, going by the looks of the ways things were shaping up, it had to be something more than merely my murder. The idea now seemed almost laughable.
The next call was to Addy. I explained the entire situation and asked him to get ready and more importantly, the raiding party would have to be big, well armed with SLRs and sniper rifles included, two very fast vehicles at least. No motorcycles. And bulletproof steel shielding for the vehicles if available. Ismail / Rafiq / the mole / whatever his name ……was extremely dangerous and would not hesitate to shoot even point blank if required. Addy got the message…loud and clear. We were on to a good case, maybe the biggest if all went well. As it happened, not everything went to the plan.
At precisely 8 in the morning, I had reached the Bus terminus on the outskirts of Neemuch. It was an additional two kilometer walk to the Narcotics Colony / Office. Fortunately, Addy and Kerr had the good foresight to know that I wouldn’t be aware of the new terminus location and so were there to receive me. After a shower, shave and breakfast at Kerr’s house, we got into the planning mode. And straight ran into a load of troubles.
The Unit Head with whom Addy had a roaring rapport, was away at Delhi and so his writ would not run unquestioned today. The next in command was the Ascom, and he would not discuss matters on phone. So we had to go to the office, provide all details and wait for his approval. The fat fellow soaked up info like a pig in a bathtub, nodding now and then and asking rather irrelevant questions. We told him what we had planned, the raiding party composition (we proposed the names of the officers, sepoys and drivers who would join us) and the timing planned. The Ascom hewed and hemmed but finally agreed after putting up some funny, often misplaced objections to the plans. And then he blurted out his own desires…………… He would lead the party himself.
Not counting the fact that this fellow was a bad manager, pompous and completely unfit to even raid a colony of ants, the risk of a ranking official being hurt or killed in a raid could be career debilitating. It is a different matter that the official could himself become eligible for a medal of honour in the process. Well we tried our best! But as they say, ‘sometimes even the best isn’t just enough’. Taking him on the party straightaway meant an extra mouth to feed free of cost and he would occupy the front passenger seat of the large Toyota Qualis all by himself, limiting our space for any informers we might have to pick up on the wayside. There wasn’t much to be argued. Unit Head was far out of reach, even his mobile had been switched off. There was no overriding Ascom.
So the machinery was fixed. We’d take two of the best drivers. One of them was crazy enough to think ……. aloud ……that a Gypsy is capable of cart wheeling and then get back on track….a railway track. No problems! He was selected for his uncanny ability to drive at very high speeds fearlessly which caused minor heart attacks to every other occupant in the same vehicle and also those that crossed his way. And he wasn’t afraid to ram the sarkari gadi into a private one if necessary. This willingness of destroying Government property so unhesitatingly made him a hero. The other one was far calmer despite being the younger one of the two and we’d prefer to travel with him in the Qualis. Unfortunately, Ascom too sought to do the same, meaning we’d be saddled with him in the lead vehicle. The armory was selected and the men who would be handling them handpicked.
I was introduced to the rest of the team. Kay, Jag, and Sandra were all Inspectors and chosen on the basis of their ability to shoot, chase and plan respectively. Sepoys Trim, Basil and Khan were agile men and Khan was a good sniper shooter. In fact, there were two others in the team who were excellent snipers……me and Kay. I would be needed to identify the mole and so my position was pretty much fixed in the front seat of the lead vehicle. That ruled out any sniper rifles (or any other rifles) for me. Regrettably so, because for me, it was very important that the mole shouldn’t go back alive from this encounter.
9.00 a.m. All set and ready to go! For the rest of the team, this was going to be just another routine operation…….Surround, Trap, catch, arrest and book the case (culprits and the drugs). For me, it might be a question of life and death. I took a .22 Beretta and slipped it into my waist band. So did Addy, Jag and the Ascom. Kerr suggested that I call up the mole and reconfirm the venue of our meet. In fact, since we were all ready, it might be a good idea to even advance the time of meeting…especially if Mole was in possession of the contraband.
Time saved would be time utilized nicely as Narcotics officers produce voluminous paperwork while making even the smallest of seizures. It is a known fact that sometimes the paperwork exceeds the quantity of the drug seized. Before grinning, you might be interested in knowing that Narcotics officers also make the best airtight cases. CBN holds a world record for getting convictions without bail in 98% of the cases booked. And that also explains why the street pushers with a gram or two in their possession are best not taken into custody. Thrash them, loot their money and let them go. Either they’ll lead you to their sources of retailers someday or live to be thrashed and looted some day again.
Anyways, I called up the Mole.
‘Rafiq bhai…..is that you?!’
‘Say your piece.’
‘Have arranged a vehicle for sight seeing around. What say we meet a little early! 3 p.m. sounds too late. I love a fag right after lunch, today you can make that a bit special.’
That was an excuse suggested by Kerr. Jag and Addy were in the background, laughing silently. They love the feeling of throwing human rights to the wind, and Rafiq was going to be their lunch for the day. A sound thrashing of the suspect is what they love to start their interrogations with.
Mole was too experienced to fall for a bait like that. Even
though this looked like a straight simple case of selling some retail dough to
an unsuspecting tourist and outsider, Mole didn’t fail to tick off the items
that must have been in his standard checklist. Checklists are the very essence
of any operations that have to be carried out by specialists and it was
apparent that Mole was as methodical with his SOPs as we were. SOPs or Standard
Operation Procedures are practiced by the military and specialized enforcement
agencies or other Government officials or the Corporate world in the form of
checklists that are prepared well in advance and in anticipation of the theory
that when situations turn out badly, ‘On a bad or crucial day, when so much may
be at stake, anything that can go wrong will go wrong’.
And it will DEFINITELY go wrong. Mole’s very first question
was, ‘Who brought you to Jamaal bhai?’ A very incisive and pointed question;
the first and the most important part prior to handing over the material to the
buyer is to establish the credentials of the tout who brings the client in
touch with the retailer, in this case Jamaal bhai, the paan wala. Once
satisfied with the credentials of the tout that introduces the client, he is
grilled for the process that the tout adopted to bring in the client. It often
so happens that to maintain an elaborate distance between the stockist and the
end user or the big time trafficker and the end user, there is an elaborate
mechanism in place.
It begins with a small time pusher, who is most likely an
addict himself out to earn enough money to pay for his daily smoke. Unless the
client is another small time addict like himself, he introduces
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