Top Dog

Have continued the Loco story further. Please refer to two earlier posts for background

They called him Top Dog.

In the shady world of assassins where loyalty is a commodity and trust is a joke, nobody revealed their real names any more.

He ran a tightly knit band of expert killers and made sure they were happy. Happy meaning well paid. He prided himself on being super-efficient and ruthless when it came to managing them.

As Top Dog stepped out of the travels agency that served as a front for his real profession, he mulled over the phone call he had received half an hour ago.

“Catfoot’s been taken care of. It’s a small brief in a couple of newspapers today,” Loco told him.

True enough, the brief was about a man found dead in his car on the western express highway. Top Dog had particularly liked Loco’s touch of claiming the dead body himself, posing as Catfoot’s brother.

Top Dog locked his office and began walking along the row of shops to his right, taking care to stay on the pavement. It was harder for snipers to get you that way, with all the telephone and electricity poles and lamp posts lining pavements. He would only have to leave cover once, to cross the street to get to the railway station, which he would do with a quick dash. Nobody could shoot that fast or accurately.

Top Dog didn’t drive. Stupid people took the risk of being run off the road or bombed by using cars. he preferred the crowded public transport, which drastically reduced the chances of a hit. As for surprise attacks, he could still put up a mean fight and was ready for one all the time.

As he walked on, he mulled over Loco. The rascal had successfully interpreted his intentions and come out alive. However, Top Dog was willing to bet that Loco was at this moment planning to kill him. He wasn’t the kind of guy to forgive someone who had tried to get him killed. And certainly not the type of fool who would trust Top Dog ever again.

As he passed an alley between two buildings, he heard a soft footfall behind him and chuckled. The revenge seemed to be coming sooner than expected. He took off his mirrored glasses and pretended to examine them, and saw a man reflected in the glass. He was of medium height, well built, clad in black and was keeping his distance.

The man quickened his pace as Top Dog approached another alley, the last one he would pass before leaving the pavement and crossing the street. His instincts told him that the alley had been slated to be the last place he would ever see. Top Dog slowly reached inside his jacket and fingered the handle of the stiletto knife in the inner pocket, expecting to be tackled from the left and pushed into the alley to his right.

The man behind him, however, surprised him by tackling him from the right. Top Dog quickly recovered, drew his knife and buried it deep inside the man’s chest while the latter was still struggling to get a stranglehold. He had a syringe in his hands, and was trying to pierce Top Dog’s neck with it.

“The heart-failure serum, Loco?” Top Dog whispered. The man struggled further, pushing the syringe closer in spite of the blade twisting in his chest. With one powerful blow, Top Dog hit the syringe out of the man’s hand and dragged him off the pavement into the street. A nearby street lamp illuminated his face and an alarm went off in Top Dog’s head.

The man wasn’t Loco.

The next instant, Top Dog’s head exploded in a mass of blood and brain. His hands released his hold on his assailant, who staggered away, the knife still protruding from his chest. A van came around the corner at full speed, skidding to a halt near him and he got in. A fully equipped medical team was cutting away the man’s shirt even before the van started moving again.

On the terrace of a building across the street, Loco had already finished dismantling the silenced sniper rifle and was placing the parts in the case. ten seconds later, he was walking away from Top Dog, who was already dead. Fifteen seconds later, the crowd started forming around the dead body.

Going Soft

A sequel/continuation to the earlier post on demand by my friend Sanket Kambli aka Sankoobaba. Please refer to earlier post, titled ‘…And Fighting It Ain’t No Use’ for background.

“That was easy,” Loco’s partner said, relaxing in the front passenger seat.

As the car made its way towards Borivali, Loco kept the speed at a moderate level.

The duo had driven past the building in Santacruz, and a single pass had been enough for them to take stock of the meager security, which consisted of one watchman dozing on a plastic chair at the entrance. Despite robberies and murders being on the rise, people continued to be surprisingly lax about security, and only a few who could be bothered really made an effort at securing their homes and offices. Their targets had clearly chosen the place due to its anonymity. It was like any other poorly guarded residential building in Mumbai’s suburbs.

After parking the car several buildings away, Loco had removed his jacket to reveal a black t-shirt to go with his black denims and shoes. His partner had changed clothes in the back seat on the way. They then checked their silenced Berettas and spare ammunition clips. The guns went into shoulder holsters and the clips in pockets. The duo then pulled on shirts over their t-shirts to conceal the guns and silently made their way back to the building in the cover of the darkness.

“You did a good job with the watchman,” Loco said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Why do you think they call me Catfoot?” his partner chuckled.

The dozing watchman never knew what hit him as Catfoot sneaked up from behind and pressed two fingers to his jugular vein, rendering him unconscious. Loco and Catfoot then made their way to the third floor, unbuttoning their shirts on the way. Outside the door of the target house, Loco pulled out his cell phone and activated a special application. Ten seconds later, the phone vibrated, and the heat-scanner program told him that there were three people of medium build, lying prostrate beyond the front door, with pieces of metal near their bodies. In other words, the three targets were sleeping in the living room, armed and ready for attack.

“They never had a chance, did they? Not with the two of us,” Catfoot continued.

Loco shot the lock twice, the silenced gun hardly making a sound. However, the noise of the wood splintering was enough to wake their targets, who were up with their guns ready in six seconds. Unfortunately for them, Loco and Catfoot each had one of them in their sight in three seconds, the heat-signature readers having given the two hitmen an idea of their positions. Loco and Catfoot shot their respective targets twice in rapid succession, and at the fifth second, both silenced guns were pointing at the third man. At the sixth second, both guns spat lead. The bullets hit the third target’s chest within centimeters of each other. At the tenth second, Loco and Catfoot were calmly making their way downstairs, buttoning their shirts.

“The best part was no cleaning up,” Catfoot added.

Loco nodded.

“The boss was very clear. It had to look like a murder. The clients want to send a message.”

“Damn,” Catfoot sighed. “I miss the excitement of making our kills look like accidents. Everybody seems to want to make a statement these days.”

“Yeah, people talk too much. Only they do it through messages now.”

Catfoot chuckled.

“You got something to drink?” he asked.

Loco pointed behind him. Catfoot looked at the rear passenger seat, saw a bag and reached for it. Going through its contents, he came up with a miniature of vodka and happily broke the seal.

“You’re the best, partner,” he said, taking a sip. “Always ready for everything.”

Loco said nothing.

“So, will you miss her?” Catfoot asked several sips later.

Loco shrugged. “Maybe. Hard not to miss someone like that.”

“Strange. Never thought you’d fall that hard for someone.”

“Me neither. But when I thought about her, I suddenly wanted to change. If and when I told her how I felt about her, I didn’t want her to look at me and see something she’d cringe from,” Loco said reflectively.

“Not happening now, is it?” Catfoot asked.

“I don’t think so, no.”

Catfoot patted Loco’s shoulder.

“You’re a funny one. You talk about her, and you all but go misty eyed. But back in that room, you were a machine,” he said.

Loco nodded. After a long moment, he said, “The boss should have never doubted me.”

He didn’t have to turn his head to know that Catfoot had stiffened imperceptibly.

“It wasn’t just one job, was it? When you called the boss to confirm you were on the job, it turned into a double,” Loco went on.

Catfoot said nothing. He didn’t need to.

“What was it; put a bullet in me after all three were killed? Leave the guns with the bodies?”

After a long silence and three sips of vodka, Catfoot asked, “How did you know.”

Loco met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I’ve worked for him for seven years, dimwit,” he said, his voice sharp.

Loco went on softly, “You only had once chance, though. When I entered the room ahead of you. It was the only time I had my back to you. The rest of the time, I had you covered.”

Catfoot leaned back in his seat and tugged at the neck of his t-shirt.

“What happens now?” he asked, not looking at his partner.

Loco sighed.

“I’m sorry, Catfoot. It wasn’t just a double. I think it was a test too,” he said.

“A test?”

“For me,” Loco said, “You seem to have forgotten that I keep my liquor in my glove compartment. That bag in the back…it’s for my targets.”

For more than a minute, a deadly silence hung in the air. Then Catfoot turned to Loco with disbelief in his eyes.

“Remember, I used to offer you a drink, and you’d always go for the glove compartment. You used to know about the bag. You’re starting to forget, Catfoot, and you went soft…you failed to shoot me,” Loco’s tone was almost casual.

“I had no reason to…you performed beautifully back there…the boss would have…”

“No, he wouldn’t have. We both know that all the boss cares about is running a tight ship, and you turned out to be a loose cog.”

“How long?” Catfoot asked.

“Around five minutes now. It’ll be painless. I’ve used it before.”

“A test, huh?”

Loco nodded.

“I guess the boss wants to make sure I haven’t gone soft.”

The next day, the newspapers were full of a triple murder in Santacruz. None of them thought much about a man found dead in his car on a lane near the western express highway. After all, post mortem reports had confirmed that he had died to heart failure, and all the paperwork in the car indicated that it was his car.

Any chance of mystery was eliminated when the body was claimed by the victims’ brother, a well built, silent man of medium height, who calmly produced medical certificates confirming the deceased’s chronic heart condition. A keen observer might have noticed an ‘L’ hanging by a silver chain from his neck, and the picture of a beautiful girl in his wallet.

...And Fighting It Ain't No Use

“The pasta’s good,” Loco said.

Across the table, his partner nodded.

“I especially like the way they make it over here. One of the best places for Italian cuisine in Mumbai, this. But we’re wandering. We were discussing…”

“I know, I know. But you know what? Shit happens.”

“Shit does happen. But this easily gets classified as one of the top three weird things I’ve heard of till date.”

Loco said nothing.

“You know, for a minute, when the Boss told me you wanted to quit, I thought it was some elaborate joke. Then he told me why you were doing it, and somehow, I believed it. I mean, only you can quit doing something you’re best at for a girl,” his partner said.

“THE girl,” Loco corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” Loco said, sipping his drink. “But basically, A girl is just another girl, but THE girl is the one……well, the one you quit being a killer for, simply speaking.”

“Right, right,” his partner nodded.

A silence followed as both men focused on their food.

“There isn’t a chance, is there? For anything between you and her?” his partner finally asked.

Loco shook his head.

“However much I’d like to say otherwise, there doesn’t seem to be any chance.”

“Damn sad.”

“You believe in destiny?” Loco suddenly asked.

“Say what?”

“Destiny, fate, karma…that sort of thing? You know, stuff that says there’s a grand plan for all of us, and fighting it ain’t no use?”

“Not really. That would mean I’m taking my orders to kill people from the Almighty, not the Boss,” Loco’s partner chuckled. Loco didn’t laugh.

“It was almost like destiny,” Loco said pensively. “Almost like…you know, someone or something didn’t want me to change. As if this is what I’m supposed to be and the minute I try to stop being that, this fate-destiny thing intervenes…”

“Hey, Brooding Hitman, can it. You’re freaking me out,” Loco’s partner said uneasily. “Look, give it a rest, okay? Don’t think so much. You’re disturbed right now. But…”

“I was disturbed,” Loco said, pushing away his plate. His partner sat back and stared expressionlessly at the change that seemed to come over Loco in a moment. “I was thinking it’s damn unfair that after years of leaving nothing to hope or chance, the one thing that I sincerely hoped for could not happen.”

Loco paused, then went on.

“I spoke to the Boss in the evening.”

“And…?”

Loco sat back and locked eyes with his partner.

“Three men. Staying in Santacruz. Armed.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Deadline?” his partner asked then.

“24 hours. Boss says it’s a sensitive matter and they need to be eliminated quickly.”

“Hardware?”

“Two Berettas, loaded and silenced, in the trunk of my car. Two spare ammo clips. And I got a change of clothes and a mask for you.”

Loco’s partner gazed steadily for several seconds. Then he turned to a passing waiter.

“Buddy…can we have the check please?”

Loco returns

Ok, I have no clue as to what was the logic, purpose, point, etc behind this one. but it kept playing inside my head, and I had to write it. Just me, i guess

________________________________________


Lying on a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of him, he thought about the last 35 years and felt no regrets.

They called him Loco, and the veteran cop lived up to his name. Infamous for a temper and violent ways of dealing with criminals, Loco had ended up in the operation theatre of the hospital after a confrontation with a drug Mafioso had gone horribly wrong. What was supposed to have been a simple arrest turned out to be a bullet-fest when the druglord’s henchmen stormed out of his liar, guns blazing. Loco had managed to shoot all three of them, but had taken three bullets in the chest and two in the stomach in the process. The Mafioso had been jerked out of his hiding place under his office table and dragged to jail.

After a three hour long surgery where surgeons and nurses struggled to deal with the damage caused to several of his vital organs, a barely conscious Loco was wheeled into the Intensive Care unit. He was now thinking about the innumerable encounters with criminals in which he had always come out the winner. His partner always said he had a death wish.

Damn right I did, Loco thought.

He wasn’t worried. Every criminal that he had taken an interest in was either dead or in jail. Those from the latter category had slim chance to walk free; Loco had seen to that by providing enough evidence for the state to present a watertight case in court. He had lived life the way he wanted to, and was now going down in the proverbial blaze of glory.

Floating in a world that exists between consciousness and unconsciousness, he became aware of his partner and immediate boss beside him.

“We’re losing him,” his partner said.

As if in corroboration, the cardiograph emitted a beep, indicating erratic heartbeat.

“What do the doctors say?” Loco’s boss asked.

“Chances are slim. The damage is extensive.”

So I’m dying. Big freaking deal, Loco thought. Cheer up partner. At least I’m not leaving the job unfinished.

“Crazy devil! Pitting his handgun against those assault rifles!”

“That’s how he always was”

The cardiograph beeped again. There was a doctor in the room now. The heartbeat and other vital signs were getting increasingly erratic, and Loco could hear the doctor issue several instructions which were so full of medical jargon that he had no clue what the doctor had just said.

At about the same time two nurses rushed into the room, a cell phone buzzed. For two minutes after that, there was only silence. Then Loco’s boss spoke.

“The drug dealer’s escaped. Snatched a gun, shot two cops and jumped out of the police jeep while being moved for security reasons.”

The cardiograph was beeping continuously now. Heart rate was low and breathing was laboured.

Time ceased to exist as realization permeated Loco’s consciousness. The bastard had escaped. He had also shot two cops. His death was going to be in vain after all.

Not if I can help it, Loco thought savagely.

The cardiograph beeped. The heartbeat stabilized just a little bit.

I hate drug dealers, and I especially despise those that kill cops

Another beep. More stability.

You’re going down, you sorry piece of shit. You’re gonna wish you’d listened to your mother and become a good man

Loco didn’t even realize that he had just taken a deep breath without any problems. The cardiograph showed a steady heart rate.

“He’s coming back to us. I wouldn’t be too hopeful, thought. It could be momentary,” the doctor told his partner and boss.

Momentary, my ass. The sod better watch out for me now.

The heart rate stayed steady.

Holiday Memoir II

12:01am, January 11, 2011,
Grand plaza hotel,
Coimbatore

Three days gone. Shopping, boat-rides, lazing around, fun.

I think I now realize why it matters so much to hear a known language in a strange land.

Our room in Kodai had been getting a lot of calls from other guests at the hotel, whose calls to food and beverages were somehow being routed to mine and Ninad’s room. On Sunday, a Mr Patil, I forget his room number, called saying he wished to order dinner.

On previous occasions I’d politely made the callers aware of the blunder and told them to call room service. However, when Mr Patil apologized for the error, I told him that had I started taking orders from guests, I’d have made a nice little packet for myself, going by the number of calls that had come since we checked in. we both laughed and hung up.

I realized that, pride in one’s language and all that apart, it is the ability of being able to joke with someone who understands the nuances of the language that lends comfort in a place where conversation is restricted to making the other person understand that you want a Baingan Bharta and not a Baingan Parotha (what the heck???). In case anyone’s wondering, we ultimately ordered a Bhindi Masala.

I have never been much of a travel person, lesser still a sight seeing person. However, sightseeing in Kodai turned out to be more fun than I had imagined. I especially remember Pillar Rocks, three giant rock faces standing side by side like pillars, several thousand feet high. Climbing up the hill amidst the thick blanket of mist brought back the adrenaline I used to feel while working out, and I picked my up the steep slope with great enthusiasm. At the peak, a guide pointed out ‘Suicide Point’, where 33 couples have supposedly jumped to their deaths, hand in hand, fed up of the world and its staunch refusal to understand them.



We later viewed Pillar Rocks from a nearby vantage point, much lower. We stood there and saw the mist move in and completely cover the three rocks in a matter of minutes, and then clear away equally fast.


Another place I liked was the Kodai lake, a huge water body shaped like a star, where you can rent boats by the hour and peddle or row to your heart’s content. It was so much fun that we went back the next day. While Mom satisfied herself with riding a horse along the lake’s border, me and Ninad went boating on our own, peddling away till our legs ached. All the time, I was manipulating the steering rod and yelling nautical stuff like “another vessel approaches” and “full speed ahead!”.



The streets of Kodai are lined with shops selling home made chocolates and eucalyptus oil. There must be hundred of eucalyptus trees there, giving rise to a small industry in itself. Chocolates flavours range from plain and dark chocolates to more tempting versions like dry-fruit delight and strawberry cream.

At the end of the trip, I came to the conclusion that a outstation holiday once in a while isn’t such a bad idea after all.





{More to follow in the next post}

Holiday Memoir I

10:45 pm, January 7, 2011,
Kodai Resort Hotel,
Kodaikanal.

The last thing I remember seeing as our kingfisher airlines flight took off from Mumbai is looking down on a vast congestion of architecture which was almost claustrophobia-inducing. The first thing I remember seeing as our flight descended towards Coimbatore was the sheer abundance of open spaces and trees.

The heat assailed us as we stepped off the plane and walked to the terminal, causing us to peel off our sweaters. It gave rise to doubts regarding all the reports we’d heard about how cold it would be over here. However, the chill started setting in as we neared Kodaikanal, and we were definitely shivering by the time we checked in.

We set off in the pre-arranged for Indica, driven by the non-Hindi speaking Vijay, who turned out to be a Tamil version of James Bond when it came to driving. Towards the end of the five-hour drive, I realised that James Bond seems to run in the blood of almost everyone who can drive in these parts.

We stopped for lunch after around two hours at a hotel in a town on the way, but it was full of Ayyappa pilgrims who were getting off tourist bus after tourist bus. We finally ate some delicious lemon rice with sambhar and a pungent pickle at a wayside eatery with all of three items on the menu: lemon rice, tomato rice and curd rice. I spent the rest of the journey mostly sleeping.

Till we reached the ghat leading up to Kodai, that is. Vijay Bond’s stunt driving began worrying me after that. I finally decided to go back to sleep rather than wait for every oncoming truck to click us off the ghat, heck-knows-how-many miles down to our death.


Throughout the holiday, Vijay kept up his efforts to make us feel as if we were on a rollercoaster instead of in an Indica. My cousin Ninad later pointed out something very interesting: every time some motorist refused to let Vijay overtake him, Vijay would overtake him anyway, and pause to stare murderously at the poor driver for good effect. I've attempted to capture one of the dangerous moments in this picture.

However, Vijay is a gem of a person. He suggested places where we could shop and eat, and even came with us on our shopping spree in Tirupur to help us bargain, as he knew we didn’t speak the local language.

A driver of a hired vehicle is someone who is always with you till the vacation ends, and we have to be thankful that it was someone like Vijay, and not some shady, cheating crook hell bent on squeezing every penny out of us.




Vijay poses with Ninad and me outside the Coimbatore Airport just before we leave for Mumbai


(More in the next post)

The thousand words behind this picture

Two stories are related to this picture of mine, one funny, and one strange. Let’s begin with the funny one.

Last month, I put this one up as my display image on Orkut, Facebook and Gmail chat. It received several responses, from “Is that you? So cute!!” to “This just can’t be you. I refuse to believe it.” Too bad if you don’t believe it, people, it is really me.

Well, then me and my chief thought up a con job, just for the heck of it. I put up my Gmail status as “Meet Uttam G Mengle, one year old.” When people on my chat list asked me who it was, I said it was my son Uttam who had just turned a year old. Surprisingly, it worked on quite a few people. But the funniest was when three friends of mine from college days got completely taken in. Responses ranged from “what? When did you get married? I didn’t even know!!” to “Oh, married already? What was the hurry?”

Roughly, the story that I fed my victims was this: I met this content writer named Nisha a couple of months after I joined the Asian Age and love blossomed, leading to marriage. The marriage was low-key because both our parents were against it and we even stayed at a mutual friend’s place for a while. Things started changing when our parents learnt that Nisha was pregnant and they thawed a bit. We soon moved into my house and Uttam was born. Nisha quit her job to take care of him, and little ‘Ooty’, as I called him, just turned a year old.

Those who believed it lapped it up and offered opinions by the dozen while me and the chief sat back, laughed, shook hands and patted ourselves on the back.

Now for the strange one, which my mom told me years ago. I recollected it when she commented on this picture on Facebook saying, “As I look at this picture on the eve of your 24th birthday, I can’t imagine when the years flew and my baby grew up.”

Althogh I am not particularly excited about being called somebody's baby on a public forum, it nevertheless reminded me of this tale. I was too young to remember anything now but what the heck. This was before my parents got divorced and they’d taken me somewhere to get my head shaved for some religious reasons.

The head shaving went off successfully, from what mom tells me, but sometime in the afternoon, I started acting funny. Refusing to go anywhere near my parents, I wandered off on my own, and no amount of calling out or pulling back could dissuade me. All the time, my right hand was raised and the palm half clenched, as if I were holding someone’s hand while walking. This went on for quite some time, leading a couple of local vendors to comment about “bhoot badha.”

Then, suddenly, I returned to normal and like a good kid that I hope I was, let my parents finish the rest of the religious procedures before leaving for home. It was only when we reached home that we learnt that my paternal grandfather had passed away.

The time of his death coincided with the time of my strange behaviour, and the first thing my mom remembered was that I was grandpa’s dead favourite and he loved to take me on walks.

To this day, she maintains that grandpa had come to visit me before leaving this world. Whether or not one believes this is a moot point. But as a lover of fiction, I feel this makes one hell of a story. What do you think?

The Side Effects of Being a Crime Reporter

I would have titled this one ‘In Defence of Crime Reporting’, but I do not believe crime reporting needs a defense.

I have come across several people whose faces turn almost funereal when I tell them that I’m a crime reporter. As if being a crime reporter is some kind of a horrible affliction which will end only with desruction and decay. As if with every day I report crime, my soul is relentlessly proceeding towards a pit of fire, with flames hotter than the sight of Scarlett Johansson having a wardrobe malfunction.

To begin with, there are those that curse us to hell and beyond because, in their view, we thrive on murder and misery for a living. Let me tell you all, ladies and laddies, that crime reporting is more than just writing about the man who carved out his wife’s liver with a serrated knife. We crime reporters also write stuff like the latest tactics employed by law enforcement agencies to bring criminals to book, the increase or decrease in detections and convictions and the reason behind the same, latest weapons, vehicles and other facilities for the police force…lot of things. Hence, all of you who think we’re unemployed on a day when there’s no crime are in for a second thinking session.

Then there’re those who feel we’re in a negative field. Like this lady who’d come to office the other day, representating a religious organisation. She wanted to discuss possibilities of her religious head writing edit pieces for us, and for some reason (possibly because the bosses believe I’m a born charmer and adept at handling all sorts of people) I was deputed to go talk to her. So, I’m kicking my legs to surface from a sea of piety and devotion that the Woman in White is trying to drown me in, when she flew off on a tangent and asks me what beat I cover. And when I replied, ‘crime’, she looks like a kid that chanced upon a treasure trove of goodies. She then embarks on a discourse as to how crime reporting is ruining me and why I should be attending religious lectures delivered by her gurumata. Nothing against either you nor your guru, ma’m, but I suffer from neither depression nor insomnia, thank you very much. In fact, my bouts of insomnia became less frequent after I started working.

Also, there’s my Mom, and an aunt, among other relatives, who firmly believe that someone has to do crime reporting, but why can’t it be the neighbour’s son. The two ladies have made it their favoutire pastime to try and talk me into joining some other profession…any other profession, in fact. Like there was a phase when Mom would without respite was telling me to lose reporting and be a sub editor, because the post carries with it the word ‘editor’ and hence bears ‘respectability’.

“Wouldn’t you like to tell people that you’re a sub editor?” she asks me. No Mama Dearest, I wouldn’t. I’d rather tell people I’m a crime reporter and watch their reactions. I get a kick out of those, I really do. And no, this is not meant to belittle any sub editor, senior sub editor or chief sub editor who, for lack of better pastimes, happens to read this blog.

The aunt, not to be outdone, has been trying to convince me to be a banker. Herself an officer with a nationalised bank, she keeps assuring me that she’ll help me all she can to get into a bank. The only reason why I keep laughing it off instead of getting homicidal is that I’m her favourite nephew and have grown up being pampered by her. However, the next time she tries to pull that stunt, I’m gonna threaten to lock her 15-year-old in a room full of policemen who’ll introduce him to cigarettes, alcohol and corruption.

We might not be in a very attractive profession, although that is a matter of perspective, but we still supply you all with a lot of juicy gossip. And don’t tell me that you don’t enjoy to discuss gory murders and tales of grim revenge. And it is due to our hard work that all you parents are able to tell your children to stop spending so much time chatting on the internet unless they want to end up being kidnaped and killed by their orkut buddies, a la Adnan Patrawala, God rest his soul.

We look into the city’s grimy underbelly and bring you the news. All we ask for in return is to be left alone. Kindly oblige.

Having thus put my rant down on paper, I’ll now go back to hunting for developments into the case of a young man victim of brutal roadrage. A guy in a car caught his neck and the other guy in the driver’s seat started the ignition. Kid was dragged for several meters before being flung to the ground, and his head got crushed underneath the car’s rear tire. Yeah, go ahead, wrinkle your noses. Pity me and my breed.

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.