Open Secrets: The Explosive Memoirs of an Indian Intelligence Officer (8 page)

“No problem sir,” He grinned as he spoke, “My friend Jibraj Porel has come. He has important information.”

“Why so early in the morning? Ask him to come around 7a.m.”

“Please try to understand
huzoor
. This man has walked down four miles from Singidara village to talk to you. He can’t afford to see policemen in daylight. He knows the dacoits.”

I jumped out of the bed and asked Dhanbir to brew some tea and closeted myself with Jibraj Porel. Dhanbir returned with a glass of rum for our guest and a cup of tea for me.

Singidara, he explained, was a hilltop forest village on Bhutan border. Samsing, the nearest tea garden was located three kilometres downhill from his village. Rate Magar, a factory hand in the Samsing tea garden and a trade unionist, owed allegiance to the Communist Party (Marxist). He was the local leader of the dacoit gangs, which collaborated with the gangs from Bhutan and the neighbouring district of Jalpaiguri.

Jibraj was a clever guy. He was not motivated by any higher ideal. Rate Magar, in his capacity as a trade union leader had terminated the services of twenty female leaf-pickers, who were hired to pick the early winter pekoe flush. The labourers supplied by Rate substituted them and he had become richer by rupees 3,500. Some of the retrenched pickers belonged to Singidara village and two of them were Jibraj’s daughters.

Rate Magar lived in Phulbari, a neighbouring hilltop village. It was rather impossible to arrest Rate from the tea garden factory. The militant unionists surrounded him and his office was well fortified by the flags of the Communist Party. It was equally difficult to walk up the narrow hill stretch to his Phulbari home that was girdled by a thick forest. Like most other villages Phulbari too had a fairly large population of dogs, a few domesticated and the rest scavenging types.

We worked out the information and in a daring night raid managed to capture Rate Magar after he was immobilised by a musket shot, which had hit his buttock.

Literally speaking the operation was successful. But the complications started thereafter. We realised to our horror that Phulbari was out of my jurisdiction and it was under Odlabari police station in the neighbouring district of Jalpaiguri. The first information report was to be recorded there and technically the presence of an officer from Odlabari was essential.

I did not panic. But I did not fail to realise the complications that had arisen from my daring raid on the den of Rate Magar. I had overshot my jurisdiction by one kilometre and I was at the mercy of the Station House Officer Odlabri for framing a foolproof legal structure to justify the raid and use of firearms and to support the subsequent prosecution.

I rang up the SP at about five in the morning and requested him to speak to the SP of the neighbouring district. I have no idea of the action he had taken. Probably he had ignored my call and left me to my own resources.

In desperation I called the residence of the DIG at Jalpaiguri at six a.m. I narrated the incident as succinctly as I could and requested him that I required the assistance of an experienced DSP to draw a foolproof First Information Report (FIR) and to entrust the investigation to the SHO Gorubathan. My DIG was known for his ill temper and impatience. I did not expect much from him. But I had no other option but to depend on him.

The incident haunted me for quite some time. Rate Magyar had in the meantime expired from the gunshot wound. His political mentors became active in 1967 polls when the communist party became a part of the new coalition headed by a rebel Congressman. The new administration had ordered a magisterial enquiry into the ‘killing of a communist leader, by a ‘congress minded’ police officer. The young magistrate exonerated the police party that had taken part in the raid and me.

But the communist party was not satisfied with the decision of the magistrate. In the meantime the gentlemen Commissioner Ivan Suita had expired and his replacement S.C. Bonnerjea was directed by the Writer’s Building to enquire into the incident. Mr. Bonnerjea was supposed to be a tough person with a reputation behind him. One fine morning he turned up at Kalimpong and interrogated me on the Rate Magar case. It came as a surprise and a shock. I was not warned by any of my superiors.

He visited Gorubathan police station to interrogate the staff and to check the records. I did not know how to tackle the situation. But I did not fail to call the SHO up and instruct him to receive the Commissioner well and to show him all the records of the case. I remember I had added a few words of encouragement to the police station staff. We would cross the bridge together, I said.

We did it. After about a few days of my marriage, I think around February 16, 1968, I received a fat mail by post. It contained the findings of S. C. Bonnerjea, the Commissioner Jalpaiguri Division. He had not only exonerated my officers and me but he had added a lengthy paragraph about the skill and bravery that I had displayed in nabbing the notorious robber. His observation was qualified with the remark that because of my untiring efforts robberies in the tea gardens had gone down by 70%. The report was submitted to the Chief Secretary and copies were marked to the IGP, DIG Jalpaiguri range and SP Darjeeling.

*

The wild Himalayan forests of Kalimpong bordering Bhutan and Sikkim presented many surprises. Some of the satisfying jobs did not relate to copybook police work. Nonetheless, some of these events scintillated my imagination and broadened my understanding of the meaning of achievement.

Kalimpong and the foothills forests of Jalpaiguri boasted of wonderful flora and fauna. The orchids on top of the mossy trees as well as the spotted cheetahs, striped tigers, spotted deer, and mammoth wild elephants abounded the forests. These beautiful creatures resented human incursion into their habitat and on occasions they strayed into tea gardens and other human concentrations in search of food. I do not intend to give a tour of the magnificent Himalayas to my readers. But the amazing behaviour of a herd of wild elephant at Kumai tea garden was a challenge to my personal and professional capabilities. It was a kind of clash of personality between men and nature.

I was in the midst of a dinner at the home of Justice. S. R. Das, when I was directed to immediately proceed to Kumai to tackle a herd of wild elephant that had strayed into the tea garden habitat. Wild elephants caused serious damages to tea plantation and annually killed a large number of plantation labourers.

Way back in 1967 there was no direct blacktopped road to Kumai. There was no bridge over the rivulet that divided the Chalsa and Kumai tea gardens. I had crossed that rivulet on numerous occasions. But tonight driver Nima had to apply the emergency breaks and bring the jeep to a sudden halt.

“What makes you to stop here?”

I shouted at the stricken face of the driver.

He raised fingers at a herd of tuskers huddled in the gravel and sand of the rivulet. Some of the beasts were busy drinking water and the rest were frolicking by sprinkling water at the direction of a herd of spotted deer, which had gathered around the hole to quench thirst.

“What should I do?”

I asked Dhanbir and Nima for their expert advices.

“Let’s turn back,” Nima was forthright in his views, “This is the rogue herd. Let’s go to the Chalsa
dak bungalow
(rest house). We’d try to cross tomorrow morning.”

“That’s correct
saab
.”

Dhanbir added his opinion.

But my orders were clear. I was supposed to scare the herd away and remove the stricken labourers to safer areas. The herd of tuskers had moved down from Bhutan and rampaged through the shanty coolie habitat, killing two persons.

I was obsessed with the idea of scaring away the herd and making my way and drive the rogue herd of elephants back to the Bhutan forest across the Jaldhaka River.

I reversed the jeep and kept it ready for emergency escape towards Chalsa. After the completion of the tricky manoeuvre I alighted from the jeep, borrowed a .303 rifle from a constable and fired in the air. The herd of spotted deer leapt up into the air and disappeared into the thickets. The elephants did not bother to acknowledge that they had heard the booming sound. I fired another round.

A huge animal reluctantly slithered out of the shallow water and pointed its trunk at the possible source of the noise. The beast, the raja of the herd, to use Dhanbir’s vocabulary, shook its head a couple of times and finally fixed its gaze at the red tail lights of the jeep. A loud cry from its angry oral cavity sent warning signals to the rest of the herd. They too, two calves included, slithered out of the gravel and sand and lined up in a solid phalanx.

“Get into the jeep sir.”

Dhanbir pushed me towards the front seat. But I declined to be intimidated by the frozen dark patch that was getting ready to come alive into motion. I fired another round into the air, just above the head of the leader of the herd. A chorus of angry cry rent the air. Dhanbir jumped into the back seat. Nima grabbed me by my arms and pushed me into the front seat and kick-started the jeep, as if it were a formula one-racetrack car. I looked back in anger. Something, probably the ecstasy of holding the gun and my injured ego prompted me to take out the service revolver and fire two rounds at the direction of the dark patch of cloud that had started rushing towards the red tail lights of the jeep. The ground below had started vibrating as if a minor earthquake had hit the immediate geographical area. We rapidly climbed up the Chalsa tea garden hillock and stopped the jeep for a breather.

The angry elephant herd broke out into a riot of destruction. The animals uprooted tea bushes and pulled down a few rest huts. The commotion and the sounds of firing had alerted the tea garden personnel, some were armed with .12 bore shotguns. A sizeable labour force too came out with lit torches, spears and bow and arrows. I gathered an impression in the flashlight that a force of about 70 had gathered behind me. That gave me an idea. I radioed the police and forest guard party at Kumai and directed them to charge the herd from the rear. They rushed in.

A hurried conference with the Chalsa forest ranger and the manager of the tea garden helped me to work out a battle plan. We divided the Chalsa party into three charging groups and directed the Kumai party to guard the left phalanx. Thus surrounded the herd suddenly came to a halt. On my signal simultaneous shots were fired from about a dozen firearms over the head of the herd. The tribal labourers fired flame-tipped arrows directly on the herd. Some enterprising people had started beating the drums and blowing the horns. The loudest possible human challenge unnerved the leader. He raised his trunk and bellowed out three short cries. The herd members responded with similar cries and turned their trunks towards the bed of the Jaldhaka River, which meandered past a hydroelectric station and melted into the forests of Bhutan.

We smelled victory and advanced while firing into the air from my revolver. The Chalsa and the Kumai legion followed me. Initially it was a slow movement. But the herd suddenly gathered speed. We too rushed in a body hurling arrows, spears and beating drums. The guns had fallen silent on my order. Victory was in sight. We were required to chase the herd for another kilometre across the international border into Bhutan. I knew that the Bhutan forest guards would drive them back into India at the earliest opportunity. The Bhutanese were at high risk too. Only a month ago a rogue herd had demolished the staff quarters of the Royal Bhutan Brewery at Samchi. But the war was won momentarily and by itself it was a great achievement without causing any diplomatic row.

I spent the rest of the night at Rongo medicinal herb garden guesthouse, which produced cinchona, an essential drug for treating tropical malaria.

Next morning, while seated at Gorubathan police station I received a few unexpected calls. The first call came from Ivan Surita, the Commissioner of Jalpaiguri Division. He used a few choicest vocabularies, which I always accepted as endearing words and finally thanked for exporting the rogue herd to Bhutan. The SP too called to congratulate me. The Deputy Chief Conservator of Forest called to enquire about the number of rounds fired and description of injuries that might have been inflicted on the retreating beasts. I had failed to satisfy him. It was later compensated by a written report with heaps of assurances that only five rounds were fired from the regulation weapons and the animals were sent off as cordially as possible.

The most rewarding call came at about ten a.m.

“Sir the DIG is coming on the line. Please take the call.”

A panicked sub-inspector rushed to me, where I was busy meeting a delegation from the nearby villages.

I rushed back to the phone and by instinct addressed the caller as sir. I was greeted by a faint laughter and plenty of good wishes. My fiancé was on the line. It was the greatest reward that I hadn’t expected. I assured her that I wasn’t a dragon killer and I wasn’t going to expose myself to unwarranted danger. She knew it was a hollow promise. Danger and I were the most intimate bed mates.

*

The destiny moves according to a predestined speed. That’s what a Hindu is taught to believe from his childhood. I was not a firm believer in many of the fatalistic dicta that ruled over the lives of common Indians, Hindus, semi-Hindu animists, converted Muslims and Christians, in fact everybody, who happened to grow up on the soil of this ancient land. My non-conformist attitude displeased many and invited derision from others. But gradually I had started learning the tricks to keep my trap shut and lock away my social views and views on religion.