Open Secrets: The Explosive Memoirs of an Indian Intelligence Officer (7 page)

*

It was a late December afternoon. I was deeply engrossed with the pages of
India’s China War
when Netai Pal, the assistant sub-inspector, triumphantly entered the police station with two armed constables guarding his flanks. A midget sized black goat tied to a rope occupied his left hand and the other held the rope that was tied to the waist of an angry looking man with a head-full of curly hair. His square face, big flat nose, red shot eyes and a deep laceration on the forehead told me that Netai had returned after arresting a dreaded criminal.

My attention was diverted to the angry man in dirty cloth and the visible injury when Netai greeted with a smart salute.

“What’s the matter Netai?” I asked.

“Sir, this man is Jangal Santhal. I’ve arrested him in a theft case and recovered the stolen property.” I stood up.

Jangal Santhal, I was educated by Haren Banerjee, was the third face of the Left Extremist Trinity. The first two were Charu Majumdar and Kanu Sanyal. It was difficult for me to believe that Jangal Santhal would commit a petty theft. However, he was put behind the lockup, and in the absence of a lockup for animals; the goat was tied to a bamboo pole, next to the banyan tree. It munched at the greens without any concern for the gravity of the case just detected by Netai Pal.

I didn’t feel it prudent to question the veracity of the claim made by Netai.

I walked up to the lockup and sat down next to the cage in which Jangal Santhal was incarcerated.

“I’m M.K.Dhar,” I introduced myself rather officiously; “I believe you’re Jangal Santhal?”

“I’m Jangal Santhal. But I don’t care if you are an ASP or DSP. Get lost.”

“What for have you have been booked by Netai? Can you tell me the truth?”

“What’s the hell are you going to do? You’re as good a lackey of the
jotedars
as Netai is.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

“You can’t. Charu master and Kanu have gone underground. Police has no charge against me. That’s why they have booked me in a theft case.”

“But it’s a bail-able case. You can get out in no time.”

“Who would be my guarantor?”

“Your party men.”

“Police wouldn’t allow them anywhere near the court.”

“Should I talk to the headmaster?”

“No. Don’t put him in trouble. Go and get prepared to meet me in the battlefield.”

Jangal raised a few slogans in praise of Chairman Mao of China and in support of his struggle for the proletariat. That did not deter me in offering him a cup of tea and a cigarette. The head constable on duty explained that I was not supposed to share food and drink with a criminal under the provisions of Police Regulation of Bengal, drawn up about 70 years ago. I brushed off his objections and shared a joke or two with Jangal.

Shailen Mukherjee enlightened me further at the dinner table.

The instructions to arrest Jangal had come from the top. They did not want him to go underground and lead the crudely armed tribal peasantry. Charu was the brain, Kanu was the planner and Jangal was the fighting arm of the movement.

Jagadananda explained the things better. The politicians back in the Writer’s Building (state secretariat) were determined to maintain the law and order. They wanted to assure the tea magnets and the forest contractor lobby that under no circumstances the left extremists would be allowed to bare their fangs.

India’s second round of engagement in Kashmir with the Pakistani aggression had concluded inconclusively. But, China was still breathing on India’s neck from across the Sikkim borders and the presence of the Chinese troops and air formations in the Chumbi Valley gave a grim reminder of the humiliating defeat of 1962. China had plenty of ideological supporters amongst the Indian communists. They were keen to emulate and implement the tenets of violent Cultural Revolution in India. The breakaway communist faction headed by maverick Charu Majumdar and Kanu Sanyal had found a human tornado in Jangal. He was their front paw in the Naksalbari belt. Neutralisation of Jangal Santal was a priority.

The logic was good. But I felt ashamed to think that the police force could stoop down so low to temporarily immobilise a revolutionary of a sort. I, as a member of the establishment, did not support the pro-Chinese slogans and abhorred the idea of pushing the country into another phase of uncertain bloody revolution. But I agreed with Jagadananda that this social twister was not going to be over with Naksalbari. The entire country would be infested by the gangrenous struggle between the establishment and the proletariats. The have-nots would be striking back with greater ferocity. No particular ism could brand and bridle them.

The gathering storm was not a simple struggle between the landowners and the sharecroppers and the landless peasants. Deeper rural-economic issues were involved. However, the governments in Delhi and Calcutta had no time to look into the economic woes of the rural populace and they had no intention to divert budgetary funds to the remotest corner of northern Bengal, Uttar Banga in Calcutta lingo. Nobody could blame either China or Pakistan if they took advantage of the developing situation and provided it with ideological and logistical support. Which hostile neighbour would not like to see his enemy’s house on fire? Why should he run with bucketful of water to extinguish the fire if it ensured better security to his own house? Vast majority of human neighbourhood had not taken Jesus Christ’s gospel seriously enough. The logic was irrefutable, but the big establishment refused to see either the smouldering fire or the ready faggots and the gleeful faces of hostile neighbours. They thought they had done a great job by booking Jangal Santhal in a petty theft case.

That wasn’t my last encounter with Jangal Santhal. I had the unique chance of meeting him again in 1967 at Jhoru Jote, an indefinable revenue location near Naksalbari. But I must return to the pregnant events, which preceded that encounter.

GETTING INTO THE ACTION

I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meetin g me is another matter.

Winston Churchill

January 8, 1966.

Two surprise communications waited for me at the office of Deepak Ghosh.

The first letter was from the deputy secretary home, government of west Bengal appointing me as the Sub Divisional Police Officer, Kalimpong. I was to replace Mr. Gossain, who was promoted out to Jalpaiguri.

It was indeed good news. Kalimpong was a dream hill station and my batch mate Deepak Ghosh of the Indian Administrative Service had just been posted there as the Sub Divisional Officer (revenue cum judicial) on the civil side. We had joined the service together and had spent part of the training at the Indian Administrative Service Academy at Mussourie. We were not buddies, but it was good to know that I would not be at rough sea.

The second communication was from the Principal Police Training College, Barrackpore. It directed me to appear before the DIG northern range for my final examination in sword drill. I thought I had completed that ceremonial drill at Mount Abu itself. But I was told that in the absence of any record there was no other option but to clear the examination.

Deepak again came to my rescue. He produced a ceremonial sword from the police
malkhana
(store) and requisitioned the services of a junior commissioned officer from the state armed constabulary. I was to appear for the test on January 12. I had only two days in between to refurbish the intricate ceremonial movements of the sword.

The paraphernalia for the sword drill was laid down at the sprawling courtyard of red brick lined colonial mansion that doubled as the camp office cum residence of the DIG. I was lined up on a white marker and the
subedar
(junior commissioned officer) shouted certain commands to acquaint me with the complicated motions of the sword.

The DIG appeared sharp at 10.00hrs synchronising his steps with the sounds of a bugle.

He stood at the designated marker and I went through the motions of raising, dipping and kissing the sword. It took me exactly seven minutes to complete the drill and the exalted DIG disappeared inside the building. We too prepared to leave.

“Please don’t go. Come and have a cup of tea.”

A cute young girl, about five, ran out of the house and invited us. We were foxed. We didn’t expect a cup of tea at the residence of the top boss and the invitation from the cute kid fortified my anxiety.

My anxiety was unfounded. Later I discovered that the invitation was from the wife of the DIG and his eldest daughter, the girl for whom I had started painting my dreams with rainbow colours. The tea was flawlessly Darjeeling, the pastry delicate and the eyes behind the curtains alluring. The deadly sword drill had finally ended in a warm exchange of glances. ,

Before proceeding further I must make a confession. I had joined the Indian Police Service, a covenanted and constitutional position, as a reluctant policeman. I have taken keen interest in life and activities around me since my childhood. I was an activist, be it on the soccer and cricket fields or the percussion drums or social events around me. I was never rated as a disciplined child. I did not cherish happy memories about the police force.

The British police had repeatedly tortured my father and gaoled him for his participation in the non-Gandhian way of independence struggle. I thought I was cut out for a teaching job or journalism. I had taken to writing poems and short stories from my childhood and I had finished a Bengali novel
Bejanma
(Bastard) in 1954, the year I passed out from school. The story set in the tea gardens of North Bengal could not go to the publisher’s desk as my elder brother one day thrashed me up thoroughly for indulging in illicit adult activities at a forbidden age. He had succeeded in destroying some parts of the manuscript. The remaining part is still with me.

I did not have fascination for a government job as I was already in touch with the Hindu activists headed by Gurucharan Chatterjee, a senior leader of the Rashtriya Swayansevak Sangh. I was in touch with the Jan Sangh activists also, especially Tushar Kanti Chattopadhaya. At the same time I came under the influence of Birendranath Sadhukhan, a saintly person who headed local unit of the Indian National Congress. I was attracted to the RSS because of my hatred for the Muslims who had taken away my birthplace in East Pakistan. My attraction to Sadhukhan was prompted by his egalitarian worldview. I was caught in the midst of emotional whirlwind. Over a period, I thought, I would find out the correct bearing and set sail for correct political port.

Another small incident had increased my aversion for the policemen. A fat
havildar
(junior officer) had beaten and prosecuted me for riding a bicycle without light at 5p.m. in the month of July. On contesting he asserted that he had the right to decide if it were day or night. That policeman had left a deep scar in my mind. That’s why I had opted for the Audit & Accounts Service and expected to join the Simla training centre after completing the Mussourie stint.

I received another shocking blow when my mother expired on August 20, 1964. I had decided at her cremation that I would initiate a proposal with the Home Ministry to draft me to the Police Service. I was sure to be allotted my home cadre West Bengal, as I stood second in the IPS and first in the Central Services. Mr. S.C. Dutt, a veteran ICS and a distant relation of mine, was the Director of the Mussourie Academy. Initially he was reluctant to my changing over to Police Service. Nevertheless, he yielded to my submissions and Delhi gave the green signals in November 1964

I was, I said, a reluctant policeman, but not a recalcitrant one. I remained an activist. Perhaps the training that I had received at the Police Training Colleges had sharpened that trait. I was ever ready to meet the darkest shadow in the next turn of the road. I was ever ready to meet my Maker. I believed in the prophetic saying of Churchill.

Besides being an activist I had assiduously built up a cocoon inside me from my childhood. I believed that behind every life there was a Mission. It was not synonymous with the goal of life, which is often touted as the driving force. I had been a successful soccer-field goalkeeper. I understood that defending the goal was a part of the war of life.

I was aware of the fact that I was born with two quarrelling squirrels inside my mind. One was related to the animal instinct of survival and the other to human attributes, which are described as finer sensitivities. I had been a victim, not very infrequently, of the scratching match between these two squirrels. I was not a straight social creature, but I was not a crooked one.

In my service with the government, the police and the intelligence I had adopted two approaches. I was determined to secure my post and at the same time I had taken each and every assignment and task as a mission pregnant with human values. I knew that the textbooks did not support my approach. But I was brought up more as a free born child left to fend for himself at an early age. The fast currents of the Meghna and the Ganges and the bountiful nature around them had shaped my life differently. The seeds of activism and achievement were sown very early in my life and having seen the ‘anti-life forces’ from close quarters I had developed the disability of living with the forces that exceeded the reasonable limits of tolerance prescribed by the system around me.

All that I wanted to emphasise here was that my short stint in uniformed police was fairly eventful. My childhood inhibition did not deter me in discharging my duties faithfully and endeavouring to ensure as much as possible clean policing in my area of responsibility.

*

Kalimpong, the frontier post between India and Tibet, had run into bad times, by the time I had taken up my duties. The Chinese trade centre was in a dilapidated condition. Only the Queen Mother of Bhutan, some members of the Afghan royal family in exile, and a few Anglo-Indians had added to the old flavour of the once glamorous hill station. I was, however, fortunate to be blessed by two towering personalities. Justice Sudhi Ranjan Das, the retired Chief Justice of India, lived one hill feature above my modest quarters at 3rd mile Teesta Road. Kazi Lendhup Dorji Khangsarpa, the pro-democracy leader of Sikkim, and his European wife Kizini Eliza Maria Khangsarpa lived only two kilometres up hill.

I don’t have a brilliant police officer’s record because I simply did not have the chance to prove my mettle as one. Kalimpong urban area had very little to offer to an activist like me. But my hands were full with the robbers, who committed cruel robberies in the tea gardens and the small trading hamlets along Nepal, Bhutan and Tibet borders. Most of the robbers forayed in from Bihar, Pakistan, Nepal and Bhutan. I was more occupied with the tea gardens and medicinal plantations on India-Bhutan borders. Another set of actors also demanded my time. The wild Himalayan tuskers, the cheetahs and the Royal Bengal tigers often played havoc with the lives and properties of the villagers in and around the tea gardens and on the fringe of the verdant foothills forests. The third category of creatures that kept me occupied was the stream of bureaucratic VIPs and their families, for whom Kalimpong was a coveted tourist stop.

I did not have difficulty in blending my time between the robbers, the wild animals and the urban VIPs. It wasn’t much of a tight rope walking. But three incidents in my short police life had left deep impression on me. Fortunately all these came my way before I got married.

A series of cruel armed robberies with murder in the tea gardens on Bhutan and Jalpaiguri borders had rattled the state administration. The powerful tea lobby had prevailed upon the Writer’s Building that some extraordinary measures were required to save the industry from running into recession.

I was summoned to Darjeeling and was given a pep talk by my SP and the Deputy Commissioner, emphasising the need for tackling the robbers firmly.

I plunged into the job with my usual enthusiasm.

But, Dawa Norbu, my Circle Inspector of Tibetan origin cornered me at the Gompu’s restaurant, where I had gone for a delicious Chinese dinner.

“Careful sir. The fields are spiked.”

Norbu liked to talk in broken but flowery English.

“What’s the problem Norbu?”

We talked as we shared the dinner.

“The government in Calcutta is shaky. The Congress Party is sure to be defeated. The likely coalition of the Bangla Congress and the Communists may come to power.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Be it known to you sir,” Norbu spoke like a typical Tibetan, “Most of the tea garden labour unions are affiliated to the Left groups. The pro-Chinese communists too have started spreading tentacles to the Indo-Bhutan borders. The Jaldhaka Hydel Project Employee’s Union is a hub of the followers of Charu Majumdar.”

“These are known facts Norbu. Tell me what you are hinting at!”

“Go slow. It’s a time for change. You’re a restless person. You may run into trouble. These politicians are dirty.”

“Thanks Norbu.” I assured my veteran Circle Inspector. I had developed a stout respect for him. He was lethargic and his policing instincts were shallow. A sly police station in charge could easily throw dusts into his eyes. But Norbu was a gem of a man and he wasn’t wrong.

My assumption of charge of the Sub-Division was greeted by a spate of robberies and murder in the tea gardens bordering the neighbouring district of Jalpaiguri and alongside the international borders with Sikkim and Bhutan. I lorded over two full police stations, Kalimpong and Gorubathan, and a couple of posts along the international borders, with nominal manpower and nonexistent logistical support. The officers and the men virtually did very little to perform their duties as the keepers of the law and upholder of the order. It was a funny situation. But I declined to go by Norbu’s advice. The government jeep was converted as my temporary home, in which Dhanbir Magar carried his mobile kitchen and two armed guards ensured that I was not trampled by wild elephants and shot by the dacoits. Driver Nima was rather a piece of decoration. He reluctantly occupied my seat and I did the perilous driving, logging 60 to 70 kilometres per hour in the hill section. I knew they all cursed me. But they were a disciplined lot. Only Dhanbir dared to stand and politely pointed out that a man like me should live longer.

“What do you mean by that?”

“
Huzoor
,” He would add, “It’s fun to drive fast, but it’s no fun to die fast.”

“Do you mean that I drive too fast?”

“Very fast sir.
Alik dhilo janu hos
(drive a little slowly). You can run for a longer time.”

I did not listen to him. Keep running was the motto of my life. Dhanbir cared for me and I liked the piece of advice only to ignore it.

I was out most of the nights visiting police posts, deploying police and Village Guard patrols and cultivating potential informers who could give definite leads to the gangs, which devastated the tea gardens.

A lucky break came when I was woken up well after 2a.m. from my cold bed in the Gorubathan forest rest house. Dhanbir, woken up from his
chhang
(millet beer) induced sleep, came in and whispered.

“Wake up
saab
.”

“What’s the problem?”