Zulfein toh utha, Raju

A year ago, I had come ambling into the office on my weekly off because there was supposed to be a belated celebration for our chief’s birthday.

So I saunter inside, cool as ice, and my chief turns and gives me a look.

“Are you a crime reporter?” he asked.

“I like to think I am,” I replied, ever the wise ass.

“do you have any idea what has happened?”

of course I didn’t. back then, I believed that a weekly off was meant for purely uselss purposes and hence refused to touch newpapers on that day. No wonder then that the crime branch had arrested five men for their alleged role in the serial blasts in the country, and i knew nothing about it. We had a new terrorist outfit: the Indian Mujahideen. I was clueless.

Five minutes later, me and a photographer were on our way to Cheetah Camp, Trombay, to the residence of one of the accused. I was to interview his family – something I had never done before.

We got to Cheetah Camp, which was overflowing with outside broadcast vans, reporters, cameramen, photographers and curious onlookers. An enthusiastic local yokel guided us to the house of Mohammed Sadik, alleged computer expert for the IM.

We spoke to Sadik’s father and elder brother, trying hard not to be intimidated by the hostile looks we were attracting from the 100-odd men and women gathered outside the small hut, or by the buzzing of my cell phone – it was 9:30, way past deadline, and the editor himself was calling.

The crowd was getting damn near mutinous by the time we started to leave. There were shouted allegations of communal discrimination, and some of them were openly baying for blood. A few social worker types were trying to calm the crowd to no avail.

In the midst of all this, as I am concentrating on getting the hell out of there, shaking my head to get my then long hair out of my face, a eunuch in the crowd says, “Zulfein toh utha, Raju!” – a legend that still lives on.

My lensman kick started his bike and zoomed out of Cheetah Camp, only to realise that he had a flat tyre.

I cursed a blue streak, called up the office and dictated the story over the phone while the tyre was being mended. When we got to office, the editor patted my shoulder and told me to keep up the good work.

I look back over the last one year and realise how much I have changed, professionally as well as personally. I don’t get nervous before interviewing families of victims or arrested accused as often as I used to. Whenever a tip off comes in, I am no longer clueless as to how I go about confirming and getting more dope on it. Not having the number of the concerned officer is no longer an obstacle, just a minor wrinkle.

On that day, when my Mom learnt that I had been sent to work on my weekly off, she said that The Asian Age doesn’t deserve hard working people like me (I had laughed for half an hour). Now, she’s given up hope as I eagerly spend half my weekly offs at work.

To all my friends, Zulfein toh utha Raju is something they can use to make fun of me. For me, it signifies one wonderful year of addictive crime reporting.

Addiction

The familiar atmosphere of the police stations. The way they look from outside, forbidding but laden with curiousity nevertheless. The camaraderie and espirit de corps under the official veneer. The friendly banter across desks, sometimes across the room. The smell of old files. The expletives punctuating one sentence in three.

The taste of the tea, served in small helpings, always on account. Aaropi, panchnama and station diary. Remand and jail custody. PSI Shinde and API Patil. The surprise at discovering a PSI Patel or an API Sharma. Senior saheb and his orderly. Peter One and bandobast duty.

Double murders, gang rapes and housebreakings and thefts. The pleading with officers for at least a confirmation. The complaining to seniors about officers who won’t speak. The ever-present question, “Ajun kay vishesh?”

The daily vists to at least three police stations. The kick that comes from violating a DCP’s ‘post-4:30 pm’ visiting hours. The haggling with cops over quotes, photographs and contact numbers of complainants and victims. ‘Reliable informants’ and tapas chalu aahe.

The jokes shared with cops after the cameras stop whirring. The scraps of info ‘between you and me’ and ‘don’t quote me.’ IPC, CrPC and Arms Act. First time offenders and history sheeters. Gavthi katta, chopper and preparation to robbery.

The mind work that begins from 4:45 pm. Wide angles and special stories. Construction of a brief to help ‘sell’ the story. The pressure of having a good story before the ‘kuch hai?’ telephone call.

Word counts and stylesheets. The myriad things that police officers say on conditions of anonymity. The daily game of chess with over inquisitive reporters who refuse to respect the words, “I’m filing a special.”

When I began as a crime reporter, it seemed a very difficult task, enormous and intimidating. But it sort of grows on you.