Open Secrets: The Explosive Memoirs of an Indian Intelligence Officer (37 page)

Indira had another reason to build up a parallel reflector. She admired Dhawan’s loyalty and continued to use him deftly. But she suffered from an acute sense of loneliness. Intrinsically she did not trust many people around her. And like the durbar empress she believed in compartmentalising the channels through which her dictates flowed. She always used multi-channel dispensers and gatherers. Dhawan happened to be one of the channels and he had no other identity beyond the shadows of Indira Gandhi.

Dhawan’s alleged collaboration with Sanjay during the emergency days was not sustainable. He, like Indira herself, was sustaining his own existence and advancing his own interests by carrying out Sanjay’s orders. A postman should not be blamed for a letter that carries bad news. Most of us believed that Sanjay was a bad news for the country and Dhawan often carried the bad news to the political and bureaucratic operators.

*

A bad news he could have been, but I for one did not like him to go the way he went down with the Pitts S-2A aircraft along with Captain Saxena on June 23, 1980. A mother had lost her dear son and political heir; a young woman had lost her husband and a child his father.

It should be around 8.10 or 8.15 a.m. that I received a call from my bankrupt South Indian industrialist friend who claimed closeness to the PMH.

“Have you heard the news?”

“Which one? Who slept with whom last night?”

“Don’t joke. She has got him killed.”

“Who has killed whom, be clear.”

“Indira has got rid of Sanjay. He has just crashed along with the brand new aircraft of Dhirendra Brahmachari.”

“How do you say that? A mother cannot do that to her son.”

“It’s Delhi dear,” The fiend told in a light voice, “The durbars thrive and perish on intrigues. He had become a white albatross around her neck.”

“Don’t be silly.”

I did not have the time to reflect on the allegations made by an apparent and frustrated friend of Indira. I called up the Director to share what I had just heard and rushed to the spot of the accident. I reached there around 8. 30. Indira Gandhi and Dhawan and a few more political figures were already there. I happened to see the grieving mother from a close range, as close as a couple of feet, looking intently at her son’s dead body placed in a truck. Her face was covered with her palms and I could see tear drops rolling down her ashen cheeks.

I received instructions over the VHF hand set to follow the dead body and Indira to Lohia hospital. In the meantime I had managed to deploy my men at the site of the accident, 1 Safdarjung Road, Lohia hospital and the place where Brahmachari resided. I was no aviation expert. But I managed to get hold of a person at the Safdarjung airport to collect details on the aircraft and the precise details of Sanjay’s activities before he took off for the last thrilling flight. I was given to understand that Sanjay had not allowed sufficient time to the ground staff for routine technical check up. He loved the new bird and was in a hurry to have little thrilling exercises.

The field staff informed me that Indira and Dhawan had revisited the debris of the plane after Sanjay’s body was brought back to the Safdarjung residence. She assisted by Dhawan had rummaged through some of the debris. They were there for about 20 minutes. My interpretation of the second visit was that the mother in Indira was magnetically attracted to the site where her dear son had crashed. But the aforesaid friend close to the PMH did not agree, like many other Indira and Sanjay watchers. Sanjay had won an election but the common people did not trust him.

“How are you sir?”

The know-all friend again called.

“I presume I’m okay. Why don’t you drop in for coffee?”

“I’d be delighted.”

He came to my office and behind the closed doors he sipped coffee and tried to give a tour of the alleged cupboard skeletons of the Gandhi family.

“You’re too naive a person Dhar,” the so-called Gandhi-Nehru family friend declared pompously, “Sanjay was no Indian Oedipus. But he had access to the unpublished controversial chapters of M.O. Mathai’s book.”

“But why should he use it against his mother? A son wouldn’t like his mother to be scandalised.”

“Normally not. But we’re not talking of a normal person. Sanjay did inherit a few good qualities of his father, a lot of his bad qualities too.”

“Dear friend,” I dismissed the friend, “your story is good for some of the famous parlours of Delhi. It does not fit into the mosaic of an intelligence operator. I am programmed to get at the truth.”

“Gossip spins out of truth when the truth can not be directly seen. It’s something like the midday sunlight. You can’t afford to look at the truth, that is the sun, but you know from the gossip of the sun, I mean its heat and energy that it’s there.”

“Thanks for the valuable philosophical rendering of a very complicated matter. But don’t expect me to report it to my bosses.”

“It’s your goose. Cook it with any seasoning you like. But the documents are with Maneka now. Another cosmological event, the forthcoming solar eclipse in the Gandhi family would prove that the sun is surely there.”

“What the hell you mean?”

“Watch out the
bahus
(daughter in laws) and the big bang of annihilation and not creation.”

The towering Tamil Brahmin stood up and smiled back at me.

“You intelligence people don’t know anything about what goes on in that power house, the mind of Indira. You follow events. I follow the aroma of her character. I’ve seen Maneka’s family more closely than her father had seen. I’ve been a long time watcher of the Gandhi family. That’s how I made my millions once upon a time and that’s how I lost them.”

I failed to interpret the mysterious smile on his face. But I did not discount the fact that this man was, unlike other gossip mongering glitterati of Delhi had deep access into the family of Maneka and had uninterrupted access to the household of Indira Gandhi. Left to myself I would have not dared to investigate the matter. I have never been a cowardly person but courage is often limited by discretion, an apt English word that broadly means, save your ass. That’s what I intended to do.

*

A lot has been written on Indira’s wonderful shock absorbing capability that she displayed after the calamitous accidental death of Sanjay. A son so dear to her and her heir apparent had died and yet she was ready to see some of the important government files on the 26th of June and was back in office on the 27th. Indira had displayed extreme courage to live and function beyond the apocalyptic events.

I had chanced to see her for a few moments when she graciously disengaged herself from the swarming relatives and family friends and walked down to the corridor where I waited behind Nathu, her personal valet. Her face hadn’t lighted up with the usual smile and her eyelids were laden with tear particles. I simply greeted her silently which she returned with a sad twist of her lips, which was not a smile. Perhaps it was a mother’s expression of her infinite loss. It was a mother’s loss and only a mother could appreciate the void Indira suffered from.

Sanjay’s death did bring around appreciable attitudinal changes in Indira. The elder
bahu
had endeared herself to her mother in law not for calculated strategic reason. I had no difficulty in forming an opinion that Sonia Gandhi had identified herself with the Gandhi family and she was an honest wife and mother, who did not like the political dusts and dins that Sanjay preferred more than love and worship. Some informed sources claimed that she nursed not so mute disdain for the ways Sanjay and Maneka conducted themselves. Sonia had taken up the burden of household work and the personal affairs of Indira when she was forced out of 1 Safdarjung Road accommodation and was obliged to shift to 12 Wellingdon Crescent home of Mohammad Yunus. Sonia was fond of her private life with her husband and children and a few friends that Rajiv and she had gathered around them. Like most Italians she liked her privacy and close group of friends.

Indira’s growing dependence on Sonia was clearly perceivable. The smiling presence of Sonia and her kids immensely relieved her emotional stresses. Rajiv Gandhi too stood like supportive granite by the side of his mother. However, he maintained scrupulous distance from the marauding political hyenas that were keen to see the lamb jumping into the political abattoir.

The other person who was perceived to have nudged closer to Indira was Dhirendra Brahmachari. His closeness to Indira has been profusely commented upon by many, some based on ill information and some out of malice. Indira was a vibrant human being. She had chosen her love and married him, though it wasn’t a roaring success. The Indira, who was physically born out of the wedlock between Jawaharlal and Kamala, had defeated the Indira of simple flesh and blood. She was the spiritual inheritor of Jawaharlal and she was a product of the struggle of the Indian people for independence to which her family had an umbilical bondage. The Nehru family has been accused of dynastic ambitions. We must remember that the Nehrus were a product of the Indian ambience and to an Indian dynasty is as sacrosanct as his God is. Like most Indians Indira was matured in the juice of feudalism. She sincerely believed that she had a role to play in shaping the destiny of the country. She did not consider herself another Joan de Arch, but her faith in the field of unity between the Indian people and her family was rather fatalistic.

She was a modern and sophisticated person. But she was immersed too in the mumbo jumbo of superstition,
tantrik
rituals and fatalistic attitude towards
karma
. Her faith in such ritualistic religious behaviour had almost merged with her inner spiritual strength after Sanjay’s death. Dhirendra Brahmachari and other charlatans who were out to earn quick bucks by advertising their proximity to the seat of power exploited that shadowy corner of Indira’s psyche. Such proclivities of Indira are exemplified by the following incident.

To my amazement I was instructed to enquire if a particular minister in Indira’s cabinet was holding a
mahamaran yagna
(black ritual to seek destruction of enemy) at the banks of Jamuna off Nigambodh funeral ground. I did not entrust the enquiry to any junior staff and took it upon myself to loiter in the funeral ground for at least two days to verify the information. The particular minister had visited the crematorium to attend the funeral of a relative, but not for performing a
yagna
.

On the third night I returned home after inhaling a lot of putrid fumes, smoke and ash and told Sunanda that I should seek a transfer out of the SIB. Gathering intelligence and performing a couple of dirty tricks for the sake of the profession was one thing and chasing ghosts and goblins was another ball game. She counselled me over a nicely cooked dinner and told me to go down to the PMH and unburden my anguish by telling the truth.

My findings did not satisfy one of the aides to Indira Gandhi (not Dhawan). He claimed that the information from Brahmachari was impeccable and reliable. I pointed out that reality should exist on the grounds and not in the imagination of an individual.

That was not the end of my travails. I was summoned to the high-sounding yoga school of Brahmachari and was grilled for over thirty minutes.

“Did he not visit the
ghat
(cremation ground) on that day?”

“Yes he did.”

“Was there no
yagna
?”

“No. He had gone down to the Jamuna waters to immerse the ashes of his relative.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then go and brief Dhawan. He would inform the PM.”

On another occasion I was directed to investigate a so called
sadhu
(holy person) who had started building a temple at Chhattarpur, not far from the farmhouse where Rajiv was building a home on a piece of land purchased by his father Feroze Gandhi. The
sadhu
was allegedly involved in some esoteric exercise to invoke the evil spirits to destroy Indira. That
sadhu
, as I knew, was close to Sanjay. He claimed that he often functioned as the conduit of the younger son of Indira for collecting ‘funds’. I have no comment to make on this. The personalities involved are no more on this earth, including a member of the IAS, who bitterly opposed Dhawan after he climbed the stairs of the PMO simply stepping on the back of the gritty Punjabi from Jhang.

The
sadhu
fortunately spoke my lingo too, Bengali. It was not a problem for Sunanda and me to strike friendship with him. He had not yet gained the superlative holy status, but his alleged closeness to Sanjay coterie had already added a few shades of ‘greatness’ around him. He too turned out to be a very earthly
sadhu
who was busier with affairs other than spiritual. The majestic temple now stands witness to his entrepreneurial ability.

I have narrated these two incidents to show that it was not difficult to have access, albeit temporarily, to Indira’s closer circle if one could manage the correct stairs and had in store abundant jinns and goblins and of course seemingly believable gossip. Indira, despite her brave countenance, was a scared person. She was scared from her childhood. Her brave armour often developed leaks, which was exploited by the charlatans. The brave lady had always carried under her medulla the prejudices of Bazaar Sitaram and Anand Bhawan. That way she was a real Joan de Arc. She was brave, she had a flair for martyrdom but she was a true Indian, not above the
sanskar
of her soil. Dhirendra Brahmachari wasn’t the lone walker in this path of treacherous exploitation. There were other ‘holy men’ too, who were on the prowl to exploit her susceptibilities.