Open Secrets: The Explosive Memoirs of an Indian Intelligence Officer (34 page)

T. V. Rajeswar was steadfastly loyal to her. He supplied her with regular election assessment, especially on the peninsular states. R. N. Kao, the R&AW chief too had maintained discreet ties with her. His private assessments were, I believe, very useful. I was not sure if she liked my input. Though I flaunted the Dhar family name I was not a Kashmiri and my dark skin and Bengali-English hadn’t perhaps impressed her.

One night, perhaps about 10 days before the polls, Vincent George came to my home and conveyed that ‘madam’ wanted to see me urgently. I met her late in the night and was confronted by my own reports about the election forecast that I had supplied. My assessment, which was again rejected by the IB bosses, had indicated that Indira Congress was likely to bag around 320 to 350 seats. I had given, if I recall correctly, a state-wise break up of the seats her party was likely to gain.

She flipped over the pages and looked up at me.

“How are you so sure about the count of seats?”

“I’m not sure ma’am,” I replied, “These are based on calculations derived from the field operators. And these calculations include caste and community factors too.”

“But I’m told by other sources that I may only get about 200 seats and heavily depend on the Communists and a few regional parties.”

“I don’t think so. The country wants a change and they want you to lead them again. I think they are opting for you.”

A thin smile lighted her face momentarily and she again went back into her cocoon of silence. Dhawan signalled that it was time for me to go. We shifted back to his room and discussed the report seat by seat. My final count was 335 and nothing below it. He too was not very hopeful about the accuracy of my calculations and cautioned me that Indira was in a desperate mood. She might finally breakdown if she lost the election.

“What happens if she succeeds?” I asked.

“We will make you a big man.”

“You can’t. And I don’t want any favour. Only see that Sanjay does not run riot again and derails the country..”

As usual we shared tea and cigarettes and parted with hopes that my report would boost up Indira’s moral and she would intensify her election campaign in some of the identified weak constituencies.

The result of the election had gone the way I had calculated. Indira Congress bagged 351 seats and Sanjay too made his entry to the Parliament from Amethi. Indira was sworn in for the fourth time as the prime minister of India.

An invitation card sent over to my home by Dhawan honoured me. It was an emotional moment for me too. Indira again adorned the South Block room and Dhawan occupied his usual place as the Special Assistant to the Prime Minister. Like the majority of the electorate I too hoped that Indira had emerged as a wizened person from the tragedy and trauma of the emergency and she should be an improvement upon the factious and vain Janata leaders.

Indira moved back to her Safdarjung Road home to prepare herself for another chapter of history that was replete with cruel tragedy. She was born as a tragic child, attained her youth through tragic and tormenting circumstances and ended up in somewhat Greek Tragedy style.

IN THE FRYING PAN

Nothing splendid has ever been achieved except by those who dared believe that something inside them was superior to circumstances.

Bruce Burton

Indira Gandhi was catapulted by the sorcerers of democracy, as some Janata leaders liked to say, ‘from the dustbin of history’, to the pinnacle of power. The mandate was clear, in absolute black and white; black for the discredited and rejected alternative that the people of India wanted to give themselves and the white again for Indira, the Durga turned demon, they had rejected barely three years ago. The event proved that Indian democracy was maturing and the people were not yet maimed and paralysed by the money and muscle power and they exercised their verdict decisively whenever the crisis-ridden country required them.

Indira, as a link person to India’s independence struggle and the carrier of the genes of a family that made remarkable contribution to the cause of the nation was called upon time and again by her countrymen in the fond hopes that she was the best inheritor of the vision of Indian unity; the vision that was spun by Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal, Sardar Patel, Subhash Bose and Shyama Prasad Mukherjee.

She had successfully extricated the country from its political and economic morass and gave it the first taste of warfield victory in 1971. She had undone, albeit in an ironical way, the act of partition that her father and other national leaders were forced to accept when the British escaped from India. The country at large and I, as a minor Indian and a nondescript intelligence operator, hoped that Indira would bring about structural and thematic changes to put India on the path of economic progress, war against poverty, and the struggle for social equality. The fractured India of 1980 needed a healer and not a distant podium fencer.

There were others who earnestly believed that Indira would never again be able to come out from under the evil influence of Sanjay and his goons and the crafty and puny political bureaucrats those had grown as fungus around her, but claimed to be the members of her kitchen cabinet. I had on a couple of occasions discussed this point with Dhawan and a couple of friends in the Congress party. They were mighty disturbed with the emergence of Sanjay as a powerful force in the party and the government and they indirectly expressed that Indira Gandhi too was not unconcerned about this factor. But she was deserted by most of her old Congress colleagues and she was desperately in search of seasoned and stabilising personalities around her. She, a few of them frankly opined, would not like to mortgage her political rein to Sanjay. Rajiv Gandhi did not entertain the idea of lending shoulder to his mother at this critical point of time. However, at home Indira was more dependent on Sonia Gandhi than Maneka. The younger
bahu
(daughter in law) had developed various other interests, which Indira did not approve.

People expected a lot of changes and changes were galore. I do not intend to delve into the wider bureaucratic and political changes that cascaded down the country soon after Indira Gandhi’s fourth coming as the Prime Minister.

The Intelligence Bureau too faced the axe. S.N. Mathur, the amiable and ever smiling Director Intelligence Bureau made way for T. V. Rajeswar, an IPS officer of 1948 vintage from Andhra Pradesh cadre. He was not new to the IB. He had befriended. R. K. Dhawan and he professed loyalty to Indira Gandhi. Rajeswar was the first DIB, many of us felt, with modern outlook and vast understanding of the virtues of ‘operational work’. I appreciated his sharp and penetrating approach.

I did not have any opportunity to work with Rajeswar, as I spent my first 10 years of tenure in difficult field stations like Manipur, Nagaland, and Sikkim. I was known for my operational skills but not as a desk decoration piece, which was essential in developing equation with the rising stars and suns in the agency. The DIB is supposed to be the Galactic Core of the IB’s stellar system. But a few major planets managed to attract satellites around them, mostly on the basis of regional and linguistic affinities, if not caste commonalities. Many amongst us were expert astronomers, who could precisely calculate the apogee and perigee of the rising and collapsing stars and planets. They adjusted their compass accordingly frog-leaping the barriers of loyalty. They were adept in changing colours more than the chameleons are alleged to be.

I was, in fact, a new commodity in the vast stellar system of IB. Only a few officers knew my name and face. My most amazing encounter was with. Mathur, when I called on him to announce my arrival from Gangtok on transfer. He lapped me up with an indifferent and perplexed look and demanded to know my identity.

My modest identity did not evoke any interest in him. Perhaps he was too preoccupied with the ruins of the Janata government and the uncertain clouds that hovered over his head. Perhaps I was wrong in devoting myself single mindedly to intelligence production and not endearing myself to the eyes and minds of the pillars of the IB. I was wrong in assuming that my work would speak for me. In the bureaucratic jungle of Delhi, I learnt at great cost, rather late in my career, that excellence in work was not an essential accessory for surviving and thriving in the oddest chemical concoction of Indian bureaucracy. Belonging to the right club and having ticket to the right coterie were the greatest manures.

I was an unknown commodity to the new DIB. It was not beyond his knowledge that I had drifted closer to Dhawan and Indira Gandhi. He had the right political linkage from his Congress patrons of Andhra Pradesh and from behind the cover of his insignificant post at the Andhra Bhawan he had continued to assist Indira Gandhi through the Dhawan route. He was immediately rewarded and I must admit that Rajeswar was the correctly tampered intelligence technocrat to lead the organisation, which required revamping and reorientation. As a leader of men he was second to none. He had excellent grip on the macro and micro vistas of the problem areas in the country and he was in possession of the right radar to navigate in the murky waters of fourth reincarnation of Indira Gandhi. In a sense he was the first modern-minded DIB. He had been exposed to the modern techno-gadgets and new formats of operational tactics required to combat insurgency and terrorism. He was the best the crucial period of history could produce from the storehouse of the IB.

Rajeswar did not feel comfortable with me. He was not to blame. In an organisation like the IB, that enjoyed the lack of constitutional accountability, only the top man mattered. His closeness to the Prime Minister and the Home Minister determined the credibility and saleability of the organisation. A mid-ranking officer like me could, under no circumstances, afford to emerge as the alternative eye and ear of the chief executive of the nation. I understood his problem, but I could not auto-declutch from my connectivity with Dhawan and Indira Gandhi. It was a complex connectivity.

I was in no position to seek a transfer out of Delhi. The boys had secured admission in a good school and we hoped that after a strenuous tenure of 10 years in difficult stations we would be allowed to bring up our children in a big city. Sunanda required a break and the kids too deserved quality education. Sunanda advised me to consult Dhawan. But I resisted the temptation and waited out for my orders. A little joy came in the way when I was promoted to the next rank of Deputy Director and was awarded Police Medal for meritorious service, though it was as routine a decoration.

The crucial question of fitting a square peg like me in a round hole was temporarily solved. Rajeswar called me to his room and told me that he was deputing my services to the Ministry of Finance, as a Director to assist the just constituted Gold Auction Enquiry Committee, headed by K. R. Puri, a former Governor of the Reserve Bank of India. Enquiries revealed that my deputation was co-terminus with the life of the Committee. My future, thereafter, would depend on the whim of the DIB. He might, I feared, revert me back to my state cadre after my tenure with Puri was over. I thought that was the time for me to consult Dhawan but I did not have to. I stood up to Rajeswar and told him that as an earmarked officer I cannot be sent on deputation to a ministry. I had accepted intelligence as the anchor of my career and I intended to hone up my professional capabilities in the fields of counterinsurgency, counter terrorism and counterintelligence fields.

We had a heart to heart talk. He was convinced that I hadn’t volunteered to help Indira out of my desire to grab plush postings and earning extra bucks through questionable means. I did, what I had done, out of my conviction that India required a change for the better and Indira was the best bet. Rajeswar understood my point of view and asked me to see Dhawan before I reported to K.R. Puri. I was allowed to continue on the IB’s strength and draw my pay and allowances from its acquaintance roll. I think that was the time when I developed some kind of friendship and understanding with Rajeswar that still continue to be very warm. Our friendship did not arise from our so-called common loyalty to Indira.

My meeting with Dhawan at 1 Safdarjung Road office was brief. He broadly hinted that they had great expectations from the Gold Auction Enquiry Committee and the team headed by Puri should find out enough dirt to blacken the faces of Morarji Desai and his son Kanti Bhai.

*

K. R. Puri was one of the nicest souls I had encountered. His Committee was not formed under the established law of the country. It just had an administrative sanction and its reports were only to be submitted to the Finance Minister. As an investigating body the GAEC (pronounced Ga`-e`k) was not endowed with the powers that were enjoyed by the Shah Commission. I was not empowered to summon witnesses, conduct raids, seize material evidence and even interrogate the alleged suspects. I was left with no doubt that Puri Committee was yet another tool of political vendetta and no one at the top were interested to find out the truth about the questionable action of Morarji government to fritter away the country’s gold reserve. With that kind of scissor it was not possible even to shear a mere strand of hair of Kanti Bhai. I was not interested either in digging out the skeletons from his cupboard. That was not the essence of democracy. That was simply autocracy given a fashionable garb through the manipulated electoral process.

With this realisation I prepared myself to assist K.R. Puri. The Faridkot House office and the Commission’s work did not enthuse me. The job, I felt from day one, should have been entrusted to the CBI which was empowered to carry out investigations into the financial irregularities involved in the auctioning of gold reserve. But the genial personality of Puri and the lively company of Sunil Khatri and S. K. Mishra, two other officers, compensated my boredom. We were able to trace down the bulk buyers of the auctioned gold in Delhi, Bombay, Ahmedabad, Surat, Baroda and subsequent flow to the bulk jewellery manufacturing markets in Amritsar, Calcutta, Proddattur, and Vishakhapatnam in Andhra Pradesh and a couple of other places. Our investigation could confirm the open flow of the gold amounting to 1500 kilograms. The rest of the gold lifted by the bulk buyers had simply evaporated. Some broad hints and fragile linkages indicated that the auctioned gold had found way to a Gulf country. But the committee did not have the instruments to probe those leads.

At that point of time I felt the necessity of a serving uniformed police officer to assist me in field investigation. Puri was prompt in writing to P. S. Bhinder, Delhi’s Commissioner of Police, and a known Sanjay Gandhi acolyte. My experiences with the police forces were limited to my Darjeeling days and later day operational association in the North East. I never imagined that Bhinder would drag his feet on a minor request. He was busy with bigger tasks and responsibilities and old friend Sanjay was still around. His wife too was preparing to launch her political career from Punjab.

After about a month’s prodding I was accosted by a tall and burly Jat police inspector at my Faridkot House office. His salute was smart and his demeanour not too polite. I made him to take a seat and started explaining the task ahead.

He did not have patience for my laborious unfolding of the complicated linkages between the bulk and the retail buyers and the jewellery manufacturers.

“
Saab
,” He stopped me in between, “Have I done anything wrong to you?”

“No. Why should you? In fact I have seen you for the first time today.”

I replied.

The burly Jat followed by unfastening his bag of woes. He had just managed a posting at a coveted police station in central Delhi after defraying an awesome expenditure of Rupees 500,000. He got it because he was the highest bidder. His collections were yet to equal the expenditure incurred by him.

“You tell me sir,” he concluded by asking a potent question “Is it fair to drag me out of that police station at this stage? Should I not earn at least an additional 1500, 000?”

“What for?”

“Some I would keep for the rainy days and some would go for bagging my next promotion and an equally good posting. Excuse me sir,” he finally stood up, “You’re not a real policeman and you won’t know these things. But please write me off.”

He presented me another smart salute and a broad grin and left.

I appraised Puri of my encounter with the police officer and decided to carry out the job between S. K. Mishra and myself. My report was ready by April and my findings did not match up to the expectation of the persons who had entrusted me with the job. It was a jinxed enquiry. A cabinet minister from West Bengal and his special assistant, an IAS officer, and one of their Bombay based industrialist friends had brought upon pressure on Puri and me not to push the matter too far. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. The committee had the right to sniff around and formulate some broad findings but it was not legally empowered to dig deep into the sordid affair.