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.