Open Secrets: The Explosive Memoirs of an Indian Intelligence Officer (5 page)

At the very first look one could say that Subodh was a bandicoot, an expert in stealing and thieving and taking graft from the subordinate officers. My impressions were fortified by discreet advices from Dilman Subba, a sub inspector attached to the headquarter office of the SP. After gathering some tangible evidences I took the earliest opportunity to share a rare cigarette with Mukherjee and apprised him of what I was told by Dilman. I received another invitation to dinner at the residence of the SP and at the end of the nice evening he thanked and directed me to report to Maity Dewan, the DSP headquarters.

Maity Dewan wasn’t a bright officer but he was a sincere person. He told me in plain language that to perform well in the hill district of West Bengal I must learn Nepali and he directed me to a head constable, Padam Singh, to pick up the language in its spoken and written form. I must say that Dilman, Maity and Padam had done me a great favour. My entry to the magic world of Nepali language convinced me that it wasn’t a less sweet and lilting a language than my mother tongue Bengali was.

But Maity was caught in the
Dusserah
(Durga Puja) ceremonies, like most of the Nepalis were. October was the major festive season for the Bengalis and the Nepalis, who were culturally addicted to Durga Puja (mother worship).

The Darjeeling police lines staged one of the most gorgeous
Dusserah
ceremonies. The Nepali rituals for the mother worship were vividly colourful and the police force turned out in all its regalia for a breathtakingly beautiful Master Parade. The officers and constables turned out in their best tunics and uniforms, brass and silver flashing all around and the enchantingly beautiful Gorkha cap shining against the blazing whites of the Mount Everest.

The eventful day arrived on October 25. As advised by Maity Dewan I dressed up in the best tunic I had and the shiniest boot that my orderly constable Dhanbir Magar could produce after a grinding hour-long labour.

As the youngest ASP (assistant superintendent of police) I was supposed to lead the parade and pay
salami
(salute) to the Deputy Inspector General Police, who had turned up with his family of four to grace the occasion. I felt nervous, despite the finest tricks of the Master Parade that I had learnt from my
ustad
(trainer) Gopal Ram at Mount Abu.

The turnout of the participants was excellent and movements of the parade formation went out flawlessly and the final moment of truth arrived when I was supposed to march up to the DIG, offer him a sword salute and invite him to inspect the parade.

My training did not fail me. I marched up in steady steps, raised and lowered my sword, offered a mighty salute and declared; ‘sriman
parade nirikshan ke liye taiyar hain
’ (the parade is ready for inspection sir). For a fraction of a moment my eyes missed the eyes of the DIG. They were locked with another pair of eyes. Those were the most loveable eyes I had ever seen. Nobody required telling me that the soul and heart behind those eyes belonged to the eldest of the three daughters of the DIG.

My SP, the discreet and watchful person, standing next to me whispered in an inaudible voice.

“Go back to the parade. Lead the DIG.”

I forced my eyes back first, for a fleeting moment, at the SP and later at the DIG and conducted him down to the parade ground. I must say that he was a lousy inspector. His footsteps did not rhyme with the drumbeats. He walked like a lousy white-collar
babu
. I escorted him back to the rostrum and ordered the parade to stand at ease.

I dismissed the parade and climbed up the rostrum and took a back seat and prepared to witness the wildest and goriest part of the ceremony. Like some Bengali worshippers they offered live sacrifices, mostly buffalos and goats. The broad and shining swords of the police line butcher severed heads of over fifty animals. A couple of mutton legs, blood still oozing out, were brought up in a huge platter as part of the sacred offering to the mother goddess.

It was not a new fun. Such large-scale animal slaughters during Durga Puja were common to some of the Hindu aristocratic families of Bengal and in the princely courts of Tripura and Cooch Bihar. I was not unduly worried either over the gory rituals. My mind had drifted away from the blood covered slithering carcasses of the sacrificed animals. It resumed my search for the eyes I had just encountered.

I went back to my quarters at Rup Naraian Dahal Road with a heart that was lost in the labyrinth of memory. The evening came and went past and the nightfall enwrapped me like the yonder clouds had lapped up the Everest afar.

*

I did not sleep. My restlessness did not escape Dhanbir’s notice,

“What are you thinking sir?”

Dhanbir, my orderly constable, asked as he cooked a chicken and rice dinner for me.

“Just like that.”

“Remembering home sir? Puja is the time for visiting home”

“That’s correct.”

I repeated after the orderly. This was the first Durga Puja I was forced to spend outside my small hometown.

“Would you like to have a little rum sir? We Nepalis can’t live without several
toaks
(a measure) of
roxy
(local brew) everyday. But I’ve some rum for you.”

“Give me one.”

I sipped the rum and slipped back to memory lanes in search of the missing link.

Yes, the owner of the eyes at the parade ground was the same I had chanced to meet at Bali Jute Mills ground at a neighbouring town way back in 1963. Her eyes had not changed though she had put on a little weight. I closed my eyes and placed the two frames against the canvas of my mind. I suddenly jumped up on the bed with an exhilarating shout.

“
Kee bhaoya saab
(what’s happened sir)?”

Dhanbir shouted back.

“I got it Dhanbir, I got it.”

“What have you got? What did you lose?”

“No Dhanbir, I didn’t lose anything. I have rediscovered a diamond.”

“
Kaha payao huzoor
(where from did you get it?”)

“Don’t bother Dhanbir. Please lay down the dinner and leave me alone. I want to rest.”

I ate the hot dinner with great satisfaction and hit the bed. I slept like a pig after a long time. But I did not dream those magic eyes. Perhaps the eyes were lodged inside me, in my own compartment of love.

The rediscovery of love at the parade ground had transcended my young sensual perceptions. It was, I thought, a love of different kind. Events finally rewarded me in 1968 with the hand of the wonderful lady, whom I spotted way back in 1963 and had rediscovered in 1965. We were finally married in February 1968, thanks to the initiative of my SP and a couple of Kalimpong based friends.

*

Maity Dewan wasn’t a good teacher, but he was a warm-hearted hill tribal. One cool morning, after the lights of the
Deepavali
(festival of light) were nipped and the sounds of the crackers were drowned in daily routine, he called me to his room.

“There is a big job for you.”

He offered me a cup of tea and a cigarette.

“What’s that?”

“There is a strike in Pankhabari tea estate. You would accompany DSP Haren Banerjee with a posse of force and maintain the law and order.”

“Is there any fear of breach of the peace?”

“There are many. The labourers did not get bonus during the festival season and the stingy
marwari
(a person hailing from the Marwar region of Rajasthan) has declared a lockout. Have you heard of Deo Prakash Rai, the Gorkha League leader?”

“Yes.”

“He’s camping at Pankhabari. We expect big trouble. Your fire walking starts from today. Get going.”

Therefore, I, the assistant superintendent of police on probation, boarded the jeep accompanied by Haren Banerjee, the seasoned DSP. Haren was a loveable person. I discovered that talking in a hushed voice was the forte of his character, which he had assiduously cultivated as a resident donkey in the DIB (district intelligence branch). He was the designated officer who carried out most of the shadowy and dirty works of the district police.

Much later my Intelligence Bureau instructors at Delhi’s Anand Parvat training centre told me that charming glib tongue wasn’t the best attribute of an intelligence officer. After serving the prime intelligence organisation for about 30 years, I know that they were wrong. No set formula can be prescribed for a spy and a spymaster. Both glib talking and reticence were equally important forte of the trade. In fact, a successful spymaster is a consummate actor and communicator. Voice modulation is a part of the script he is called upon to characterise as one of the consummate dramatis personae.

“You’ve to be careful sir. Deo Prakash is a dangerous fellow.”

Haren tried to educate me about my task ahead.

“Is he a killer?”

“Not exactly. But he is a drunkard and he can incite the workers to violence.”

“What is our role? Are we supposed to break the strike and help the management?”

“You’re new to the job sir,” Haren spoke as if he was quoting out of the
Hitopodesha
(collection of Indian fables), “Motiram Bagaria, the owner of the Pankhabari estate is a personal friend of the Deputy Commissioner.”

“That’s fine. But what are your orders?”

“To arrest Deo Prakash and take him down to Siliguri jail.”

“Why?”

“He’s a trouble maker and that’s the order.”

“Where are we putting up for the night?”

I asked Haren anticipating that I wouldn’t have to spend the cool Himalayan night in the open.

“Don’t worry sir. Manager Rat Basu has fixed us up in the Pankhabari tea garden’s guesthouse.”

“I would like to stay out. Drop me at the circuit house.”

“What’s your problem sir?” Haren looked at me with confused eyes, “The nearest government guesthouse is at Kurseong, five miles from the tea garden. There are no good hotels nearby.”

“Suppose I stay at the Kurseong circuit house and join you tomorrow morning.”

“As you wish.”

I changed over to my own jeep and trudged the hill up back to the government rest house that overlooked a school run by the Seventh Day Adventist Church. My sleep was disturbed rather late in the night. Dhanbir woke me up with a sharp push.

“Wake up
saab
. There’s a call from the SP.”

“Hello Maloy,” the SP spoke in his usual soft voice, “I believe you’ve not accompanied the DSP.”

“That’s not correct sir. I have accompanied him. But I’m spending the night at Kurseong rest house.”

“Any reason to stay there?”

“Sir,” I replied rather officiously, “I cannot give an impression to the labourers that I’m a part of the management.”

“I understand. Good night.”

A.P. Mukherjee disconnected the line without giving me a chance to return his benign wishes. I thought over his style of dialogue delivery and tried to dig out the finer nuances. I was foxed. However, I decided to stick to my decision and asked Dhanbir to fix an early breakfast at 7a.m.

Sleep was the last thing destined that night. Dhanbir again woke me up with rather a violent shake up. This was accompanied by another tremor outside. I heard several voices arguing amongst themselves and some of them taking my name in loud inebriated voices.

“What’s happened Dhanbir?”

All that he told me in Nepali was that Deo Prakash Rai, the Gorkha League leader, and two others waited for me in the drawing-dining room and they were drunk and armed with
khukri
(sharp and stunted machete).

“Have you got your pistol?”

Dhanbir asked in a nervous voice.

I ignored his panic. I was taught the cultural trait that to be a worthy Nepali one must be dressed in
dawra-surual
(Nepali upper and lower dress) with a
khukri
dangling from his cummerbund (anglicised version of a tight clothe belt) and have a few ounces of intoxicant in his stomach.

I asked him to put the woollen dressing gown around me and to help me with a cigarette. So armed, minus the pistol, against the wishes of Dhanbir, I entered the room where the three stalwarts of the Gorkha movement were seated.

“Are you the new sub-divisional police officer (SDPO)?”

Deo Prakash Rai shot the question in a gruffly voice.

“No. I’m the new ASP on probation. Can I help you?”

I managed to speak the sentence in grammatically correct Nepali, but with atrocious accent.

“Ho..ho..ho…” Deo Prakash brought out laughter from the depth of his stomach, “This
keta
(boy) will go far.”

He directed the remark at one of his associates. He was, I learnt later, Sange Pradhan, a right hand man of the Gorkha leader.

“I’m happy that you haven’t taken the hospitality of the Pankhabari management. You’re new to this place and I know it’s easy to walk through fluffy snow than permafrost.” He continued his narration in his usual flowery language, in mixed Nepali, English, Hindi and Bengali, “The workers of Pankhabari have not been paid for last six months. Rat Basu, the manager, is a friend of the Deputy Commissioner, and the Commissioner in Jalpaiguri is very chummy with the owner, Motiram Bagaria.”