Open Secrets: The Explosive Memoirs of an Indian Intelligence Officer (4 page)

The present system is not good enough to ensure free democracy and constitutional liberty. Mere government notifications are not good enough to give legal status to the prime intelligence organisations, which have evolved along with the political system of the country and democratic aspirations of the people. If the systemic evolution has made the administrative services and other spheres of national activities accountable to the elected representatives of the people why the most powerful tools of the state machinery should be kept under the wrap of secrecy and the hazards of informality that can be misused and manipulated by a few politicians?

Democracy is a defined entity. Constitutional liberty is a concept that keeps on defining and redefining itself according to the aspirations of the people living in a democratic Nation State. One common feature that bonds both the concepts is the rule of law and total accountability of the entire system to the democratically passed Acts of the sovereign body, the Parliament and the written constitution that enshrine all the guarantees of liberty, equality and freedom to the citizen.

However, the Indian system planners, political thinkers and activists and the opinion makers among the intellectuals, media world and even the judiciary have not yet come out with concrete proposals to empower the Intelligence and Investigation Organisations of the country with adequate Acts of the sovereign body and free them from the machinations of the rulers of the day.

This national lapse has given unbridled opportunities to the political class to misuse and abuse the intelligence and investigation agencies of the Union and the States. Thousands of examples can be cited to prove that the ruling class of India, which manages to get elected through the ballot boxes, are not real democrats, who believe in liberty, equality and freedom of the people. The ruling elite has grossly misused the Intelligence Bureau, the Research and Analysis Wing of the Cabinet Secretariat and the organisations like the Central Bureau of Investigation

I do not intend to dig out instances of flagrant violation of the constitution and other provisions of the laws of the land by these organisations only to serve the end interests of the political masters of the day. Every act of irregularity has been committed in the name of protecting national interest. This is bogus claim.

I have made a humble effort to narrate a few instances of illegal activities, which I had committed to protect the interests of the ruling masters of the day and to earn my bread. I was all the while aware that I was doing something, which I should not do as a believer in constitutional democracy. One does not enjoy the rape of his body and conscience. Certain circumstances compel the sufferer to live with it, when there is no remedy available that can take the sufferer out of the dark tunnel of compulsion. An involved officer in any intelligence and investigation agency almost becomes a member of the organised mafia. He can afford to get out only at the cost of inviting a few fatal bullets or an accidental hit by a running truck at a lonely intersection. He is like a ‘prostitute’ who enjoys the human rights of being raped, simply for the keep.

But, unlike the unfortunate woman, he enjoys certain aberrant facilities: the facility of pursuing his own agenda that can either be illegal money making or following his ideological commitments and political preferences. The most alert boss remains satisfied with the finished product of the task with which the officer has been assigned. He may not ever get to know if the officer pursues his own agenda without being very blatant and ostensive about it.

I had been an errant officer, as far as the acts of pursuing my personal political preferences and idiosyncrasies are concerned. This should never be done without an official mandate. I strongly feel that some inbuilt system should be there to keep an in-service check on all officers, even very high-ranking officers. A particular unit of the IB is supposed to take care of in-service verification. However, this job is done in perfunctory manner. I must admit that I was not the lone traveller. There were and still are several senior officers, who pursue their own agenda; some make money out of the sacred national trust, some advance career prospects and a few dabble in ideological pursuits. This is a likely breeding ground of Goerings and Himmlers in the backyard of constitutional democracy.

It is not impossible for an ambitious officer to build up his own empire inside the organisation. Some senior operators elk out their living by expanding their areas of influence in a given sector of activity and establish total hegemony. Such aberrations have taken place in the North East operations, Punjab, and Kashmir operations and are still taking place in arenas related to Pakistan’s proxy war against India. This has given rise to a system of hegemonistic overlordism in the IB-all in the name of specialisation.

The Director IB is supposed to be the most powerful person. But he is also a prisoner in the hands of his officers, especially the officers who are efficient and ambitious. Such officers are exclusive chefs, out of whose kitchen the Director is compelled to eat day in and day out. Simply because he has to earn his daily bread by catering to the needs of the Home Minister and the Prime Minister and he does not have, in most of the cases, direct linkages with the ground level operators.

It happens very often when weak Prime Ministers and tottering Home Ministers have to eat out of the hands of the Director IB. They use the IB and other agencies to supplement their political apparatuses. The IB is tasked to carry out election prospect study, verify credentials and suitability of the ruling party candidates and to meticulously study the weaknesses of the opposition candidates. The IB is used to monitor all communication arteries of the opposition leaders and other individuals considered inimical to the leadership. The political breed has of late started using the R&AW also to carry out such exercises.

Surprisingly the Home Ministry and often the office of the PM have also encouraged Para-Military organisations like the Border Security Force (BSF), Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) to gather internal intelligence in addition to whatever operational intelligence they are required to collect in a given operational theatre. The chiefs of these central police forces vie with each other in supplying classified political intelligence to the political masters. This is a sheer game of double-dealing and constitutes flagrant violation of the intelligence-gathering mandate given to the IB.

Over years the political system has misused the intelligence organisations. A glaring example of misuse of the assets of the R&AW and the BSF is the private use of the ARC and BSF aircrafts by the politicians, their family members and the senior bureaucrats. Such material misuse is a part of the feudal system. What is more insidious is the misuse of the agencies in interfering with the elected governments, indulging in toppling games and spying on every conceivable individual and groups of individuals including the members of the bureaucracy, judiciary, Bar Councils, university professors, and members of the media.

Blanket communication monitoring including cell phones, fax and Internet communications have seriously compromised the liberty of the citizen. The officers and bodies who are entrusted with such jobs do not supervise the checks and balances. Most of such monitoring is done in the name of tracking down the terrorists. In a number of cases the unscrupulous officials of the IB, R&AW and the CBI blackmail innocent citizen.

What is more appalling is the misuse of the tool of ‘enquiry.’ The subject under enquiry is often squeezed for pecuniary benefits by the officers of IB, R&AW and the CBI. Some IB officers, in the centre and in the SIBs, carry out private business enterprises in collaboration with people of questionable integrity. In Delhi one of them was engaged in illegal manpower export. Complaints from the victims very rarely reach the superiors as common people in India suffer from the impression that ‘gratis is shared from top to bottom.’ Mostly this allegation is applied to the police. That the central intelligence and investigative agencies are also affected by this principle is unbelievable.

The State is entitled to carry out certain security exercises to ensure law and order and to prevent internal and external threats to the security and integrity of the country. But in several cases the innocent and unsuspecting people are victimised. IB alone does not monopolise this dirty area of operation. The R&AW, CBI, DRI, Revenue Intelligence, State police forces and a couple of other agencies are involved in these exercises. The instances are innumerable and the operating field is expanding at a pace as faster as the expansion of the Universe.

This game is not peculiar to India. Such are the practices world over. But in ‘real free democracies’ there are strong checks and balances and often an errant Nixon, Bush and Blair are called upon by the system to give account of their activities to the sovereign bodies of their respective countries. Even acts of war and peace are scrutinised by such bodies.

In case of India neither the politicians nor the bureaucrats of the general administration and the intelligence community are accountable to anyone. The intelligence agencies get away even after mercenaries drop arms at Purulia and a Kargil happens to the country and the top men of such organisations are rewarded with gubernatorial assignments. It happens because the buck stops with the Home Minister and the Prime Minister.

It is not difficult to get past the systemic safeguards and please a HM and a PM, and a few advisors to them. An agency like the IB is not responsible to any elected body of the country. They prosper if they can keep two ‘key consumers’, the HM and the PM happy and if they can grease the palms of certain key officials. Such greasing act is not difficult as the intelligence organisations have sufficient unaccounted resources to keep hungry mouths happy.

Should not a ‘free India’ enact laws to administer its intelligence community both at the Centre and in the States? Should not the country safeguard its future from errant leaders like Indira and Sanjay Gandhi, who mercilessly used the intelligence and enforcement machineries to execute the dictates of national emergency? Who can prevent the fundamentalist political entities to use these functional agencies to impose on the nation their brand of nationalism? Only the constitutional system can do that.

I have been advocating this for near about a decade. I would like to draw the attention of the discerning members of the opinion makers, the judiciary, the media, the academia and the intellectuals to think over this loudly and to start a national debate in and outside the Parliament. Such acts are essential for the politicians too. Some day or the other, taking advantage of the weakening fabric of our democracy, some unscrupulous intelligence men may gang up with ambitious Army Brass and change the political texture of the nation and give IB the colours of the Inter Services Intelligence of Pakistan. That will be the most unfortunate day for Indian democracy. India cannot afford to suffer that indignity from which most of the postcolonial regimes in Asia and Africa are suffering. Appropriate legislations to make the intelligence fraternity accountable to the constitutional system are necessary to stop their abuse by the politicians and the insider professionals. It is required for the safety of the democratic system, which has conferred upon us some aspects of liberty, equality and freedom.

I am not a Satan turned saint. It is not that I woke up one night and felt the bite of conscience. I have tried to explain that I have been a victim to two quarrelling squirrels inside me. The bread earner mostly defeated the dream merchant. I have suffered and I still suffer from the indignity of carrying out orders, which I would have not done had I continued in my teaching and journalistic profession.

‘Open Secrets’ is not an autobiography. It is an attempt on the part of a backer and wrecker of the system to share his anguish with his countrymen. An inside sinner is honestly trying to share his pains. I will be immensely happy if the discerning sections of the people wake up to the need of democratising these key institutions of the nation and safeguard the constitutional liberty of the people.

There are instances of transmission of garbage over the carrier wave. If the ‘I’ in ‘Open Secrets’ has carried any flow of garbage the responsibility is mine.

I understand that most elected lawmakers and bureaucrats, past and present, will accuse me for breaching the limits of service rules. I appreciate their likely reaction. I have been one of them and I fully understand that ‘servitude’, ‘submission’ and ‘infinite tolerance’ are some of the psychological transformations that are brought about by the “SYSTEM” in bureaucrats/operators like me. They learn to ‘sublimate’ the palpable wrong doings of the people in power. They learn to live with it. People like us become fatalistic and start believing that scams, scandals, political debauchery, legalised robbery and plunder and criminalisation of the society and polity are some of the evolutionary traits of a people and a nation.

I had opted for the golden dream and lived in that ambience but refused to be hypnotised by those mantras. I would not mind if my friends consider me a later day hypocrite. I care more for the country and the people and not the “SYSTEM”, which should evolve keeping pace with the expectations and aspirations of the people. The “SYSTEM” should not devour the people. The people of India aspire to have an honest constitutional democracy and accountability from everyone they pay for running the affairs of the nation—the politicians, bureaucrats and other system managers and servants.

THE ACTION BEGINS

We are face to face with our destiny and we must meet it with a high and resolute courage. For us is the life of action, of strenuous performance of duty; let us live in the harness, striving mightily; let us rather run the risk of wearing out than rusting out.

Theodore Roosevelt

September 1, 1965.

The Darjeeling Mail slowly clambered into the platform of Phansidewa railway station exactly at 0740hrs after a night long huffing and puffing like a drained out warrior. It was a great relief to think about the prospect of climbing down from the hell-hole, the crammed compartment, which carried, besides the human passengers, a couple of bamboo-thatch coops full of fowl, about 20 container load of milk and several baskets of fresh vegetables. I too felt like an exhausted trench fighter, with the singular difference that he could afford to fire a few rounds at his invisible foe in the other trench and vent a little bit of his frustration and anger. The steam inside me kept on gurgling like an overheated broth.

For a budding officer of the Indian Police Service (IPS), the journey was anything but glorious. The barrage at Farakka, on the River Ganges was a far dream in 1965. The train terminated at Tildanga and we were required to cross the mighty Ganges/Padma River by a steamboat ferry and remount the train compartment at Jagannathpur.

Our travails had started from there. The wet-market suppliers pulled and pushed us around and forcibly occupied almost half the space, supposed to be reserved for the overnight passengers. The policeman that I was, just out of the training institutes at Mount Abu and Barrackpore, decided to maintain the law and restore the order.

I had great faith in my quality of leadership. To reassert my conviction I exhorted my co-passengers to pick up courage and off load the intruders.

“Are you new in this line? Is it your first journey by this train?”

An aged person, who was mightily distracted from the Bengali newspaper he was reading attentively, looked up and almost snubbed me.

“Yes. I’m new. But this is no way to travel. We all have paid our fares and our seats are reserved.”

“That’s correct. That’s the real position. But there is nothing called reality. The most important real state of the matter is perception.”

“I can’t follow you.”

Baffled as I was by the great philosophical reply of the gentlemen next to me, I replied in a rather stupid voice.

“Look around. Have you seen the ticket checker? And have you noticed those police constables?”

“Yes. I’m a policeman too, an IPS officer.”

I proudly declared my identity.

“Must be. But you’re a rookie. You haven’t grown roots as yet. The vendors are regular travellers in this train and the ticket checkers and the policemen collect their “
chai pani
” (graft money) as an extension of their pay and allowances. Look and keep your eyes open.”

The elderly person again buried his head in the newspaper pages.

He was not far from the truth.

First appeared the ticket checker, attired in an oil smeared and crumpled black coat and an equally spotted white trouser. The fowl, milk and the vegetable vendors made an orderly queue and paid rupee one each to the representative of the Indian Railways. The ‘ticket-
babu
’ counted the money and picked up the fattest hen.

“Don’t rob the poor man sir.”

The fowl vendor begged.

“It’s my
upri
(extra income),” The long arm of the Indian Railways swung the hen, estimated its weight, and left the compartment, “Don’t you want to travel in this section?”

“
Shala
.” The fowl vendor scowled.

The rail-robber was followed by a pot-bellied policeman in battered uniform, with a mouthful of betel leaf and a cigarette dangling from a corner of his lips.

“Hey Ramjan Ali,” he shouted at the fowl vendor, “Prices of things have spiralled up. Isn’t it?”

“Yes sir. Pakistan has blocked the flow of raw materials like fowls, fish and milk.”

“This fucking Pakistan is stupid. What’s their problem? Why can’t they allow their merchandise to our side?”

“Sir that’s a political matter and I’m a poor
murgiwala
(fowl seller).”

Ramjan Ali wrenched his palms to prove that he wasn’t responsible for the foolish economic policy of the neighbouring Bengal, now called East Pakistan.

“Yah. Politics isn’t my forte too. But now onwards you people have to increase the tax amount by four annas (one quarter of a rupee).”

The policeman announced in a grave voice.

“Sir we’re poor vendors.”

A milkman tried to register a mild protest.

“Don’t bother. Mix a pint of water to a kilo of milk. Any water you like. I don’t mind that. But you must pay the increased tax.”

“Sir,” Ramjan Ali tried to intervene.

“That’s all. Fill in my cap.”

He took out his cap and placed it before the vendors, who poured their tax contributions with grumbling murmurs. The keeper of the law pocketed the amount and stepped out of the compartment with royal elegance.

“So sir,” The elderly gentleman lifted his head and spoke to me, “You’re a rookie policeman. What’s the meaning of being a policeman if you aren’t a
daroga
(police station chief)?”

“What do you mean by that? That’s a lowly police job.”

“That’s the mightiest job I’ve known in 55 summers. He’d licked me when I was a student way back in 1945, and when I tried to storm the sub-registrar’s office with the tricolour in my hand. We wanted to proclaim an independent India. He broke my bones. He has not changed since then. He is paid from the exchequer and he earns a fat
upri
.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s the Bengali terminology for looting and grabbing under the cover of the law. He drives in fear and people pay him as they pay offerings to their gods to keep the malevolent divinities at bay.”

“That’s funny.”

“Well son!” The old man shrugged, “Once upon a time I had resolved to fight against the
upri
system. I thought it was an evil of the British system. No it’s not. We Indians are a stinking corrupt people. Our religion is corrupt and we try to survive by corrupting our gods. It’s in our philosophy, taught by our great Aryan ancestors, the Muslim invaders and the British imperialists.”

He stood up and collected his luggage. He was getting ready to disembark at Phansidewa.

“May I know your name sir?”

“I’m Jagadananda, the Headmaster of a school.”

“Which school?”

“Naksalbari. That’s a far off place on the Nepal borders.”

*

The journey was gruelling but the education was enlightening, especially the lesson imparted by headmaster Jagadananda. I tried to shrug off the encounter by rationalising that the views of a disillusioned cynic should not be accepted as the gospel truth. Much later, when I encountered Jagadananda again at Naksalbari I felt the need for re-educating myself. I was a chronic greenhorn, just out of the university and the exalting realms of journalism and teaching in a degree college. I was full of dreams and the job I landed in the Indian Police Service gave me the feeling that I had acquired the correct broom to clean up the society and to fight injustice.

My solemn thoughts received a few jerks. The coal fired rail engine entered the platform of New Jalpaiguri station with painful grinding and panting sounds and finally came to an exhausted stop releasing clouds of vaporous steam. The other jerk, rather jerks came from the fellow passengers. They jostled and pushed us with a view to stream out of the iron cage. In exactly two minutes, the fowl, fish and milk vendors had disembarked. We trudged along the narrow aisle and disembarked as if we had just returned from the frontier trenches.

The first thing I did was to run for the waiting room for a change of clothes and to brush up my appearance. I simply wanted to make myself a little more presentable before I looked out for the transport, which was supposed to take me to Darjeeling, the headquarters of my Superintendent of Police (SP) and the person who was supposed to shape up my first initiation in superior police service.

I was very proud of the uniform and I caressed the fall and the creases and the dusted my brown boots as I emerged out of the waiting room and looked out for the police jeep. The stiffly starched uniform and the early October chill air from the hills buoyed up my sagging morale. This was my first trip to the queen of hill stations.

The immediate vicinity of the open space, where I stood, looked lush green. The verdant vegetation was disturbed only by the squatting human figures evacuating their bowels. I jerked my head up to disengage from the naked buttocks and the ugly truth and careened my neck out in search of the driver and the jeep, which was supposed to pick me up for the most scenic journey to Darjeeling. The driver was nowhere to be seen. Not yet a hardened policeman I hadn’t learned to curse the subordinates. I lighted a cigarette and looked around. A pair of
doels
(Bengal magpie) twittered from a nearby guava tree and a couple of green parrots with red beaks performed their mating exercises from a spruce tree nearby. Music emanating from the natural apiary amused me.

As I turned around to look out for the driver I was struck by the most wonderful vision. Between the gaps of the verdant and misty hills stood before my eyes the elegant views of the Kanchenjungha and a slice of the Mount Everest peaks. The heavenly whites were silhouetted by dark edges where sunlight failed to light up the sparkling ridges, gullies and shoulders. The dance of light on the mighty mountains had added a fairy tale beauty to the distant peaks. I fell in instant love with the majestic mountains. My mind transcended beyond the half naked human figures dotting the grounds ahead of me. I forgot the bovine creatures munching and mulling the green grass. I forgot the
doels
and the parrots filling my heart with music. I forgot the finches, maynas, and storks pecking at the human and bovine defecations for insects and larvae. My eyes and senses were riveted to the distant snow peaks. I thought I had discovered my real love.

The dream sequence was disrupted by a smart metallic clicking sound and a swashing salute.

“Welcome to Darjeeling sir.”

I returned the salute and looked up at the short Gorkha.

“
Kee naam ho timro
(What’s your name)?

The flabbergasted Gorkha returned a melted smile.

“
Mo
(I)
Ang Bahadur ho
(am)
sir. Tapaiko
(your)
driver.
Hujur le ramro Nepali bhannu hunchan
.
(Your honour speaks good Nepali)”

“Shall we go?”

This time I spoke in Hindi and explained that I spoke a smattering of Nepali that I was taught at Barrackpore Police Training School, by none other a man than B.C.Roy, the Deputy Inspector General in charge of training. Ang Bahadur assured that he would teach me Nepali in two months.Reassured that my Nepali was not bad I leaned back on the seat and lighted another cigarette and focussed my mind on the impending first interview with the Superintendent of Police.

September 18, 1965.

The first few days in Darjeeling completely deflated my ego bag.

The Superintendent of Police (SP), a kind middle-aged person, made it clear that I was a rookie. No officer could claim his rank-badges by simply passing out from the training colleges. The training colleges, he emphasised, simply exposed the raw materials to certain casting process. The real anvil, where the rookies were finally shaped out, was in the field-stations. He lighted a cigarette and indulgently offered one to me. As an old world social creature I politely declined the offer and patiently waited. He spoke slowly rather in a hushed tone. His big eyes spoke more than his lips. I was given to understand that my mastery in law, horse riding and my excellent record of sportsmanship would have to be pushed to the backburner. As a police officer I was supposed to learn the works performed by the constables and the
darogas
. The Indian policing system, he emphasised, hinged on the
daroga
. An inheritor of the Muslim
kotwal
(police chief) the institution of
daroga
was fine tuned by the British as a tool of criminal administration and as a mighty coercive arm. Mastery of the functioning of a police station and ground level revenue administration were the forte of a successful police chief.

His lectures continued for about three days after which I was consigned to the
Burra Babu
(chief clerk) of the police office and to the care of the DSP (Deputy Superintendent Police), headquarters. While the former was supposed to teach me the intricacies of record and accounts maintenance, the later was assigned to teach me the functioning of man management, provisioning, mastery of the logistics, maintenance of armoury and inspection.

Subodh Tarafdar, the
Burra Babu
, was a hated and dreaded creature. He was supposed to act as the gatekeeper of the SP in all matters related to logistic procurement, deployment, transfer, posting, promotions, leave and what not of the men he commanded. Subodh was not interested in teaching me the tricks of the game he played. He disliked, I suspect, my eagerness to learn the magic that helped a successful police chief to keep his force well trimmed and motivated.