Chapter Two
The Enemy of My Enemy
‘Three-year old killed in Encounter’
‘Police fire: Three-year old child dies’
‘Encounter drama: Three including child die’
For one week newspaper headlines clung to the same subject. TV news channels had runs and reruns of police interviews and eyewitness accounts. The media had a good time.
‘The police had fired indiscriminately, endangering people in the premises of the airport resulting in the death of a three-year old child,’ one anchorwoman told to the camera enthusiastically.
‘Iqbal was innocent. None of the cases against him had been proven,’ A man with a bad haircut and golden teeth, probably a relative, told the camera crew. ‘All were false charges!’ A dog’s instinct would tell he was pure evil.
Some ‘witnesses’ went to the extent that Qureshi was killed and then a gun was planted. Many debates filled the idiot box all week. Women in expensive silk sarees and obscure ‘celebrities’ in their attempt to reach beyond page three, babbled something about human rights.
By the weekend, a popular minister’s corruption case got attention, and the fourth estate scavengers went after their next prey. The three-year old child’s death faded into obscurity. Ajay’s encounter was a thing of the past.
Ajay loathed journalists. Journalists who could twist truth for sensationalism.
‘The police had fired indiscriminately endangering people…’
Bullshit! Only four shots were fired. Two on the adventurous thug. One by the don. One which killed both the don and the kid. But the police were trying to save her life.
‘None of the cases against him have been proved...’
True! He never left proof. He never left anything except perhaps blood, a mutilated body or a mentally disturbed woman who was no use to the court as a witness.
Once, Ajay respected journalists more than his police comrades. Everything changed one day when he was called in to curb a riot that broke in a slum. People who were a minority depending on their locality were at the receiving end. As the police arrived to disperse the mob, Ajay saw a strange sight.
A man was cornered in a street and beaten to pulp by four others. One of the had a butcher’s knife and was making threatening gestures. The man pleaded for his life. Ajay thought of shooting the goons, but suddenly there was a flash of light. He saw a photographer making use of the opportunity. Ajay thought he might be just doing his job. Then the photographer waded into his pocket and gave the goon a bunch of currency notes. And they left the place leaving the wounded man on the street.
The incident shocked Ajay. He couldn’t help the man or pursue the goons, as there were more people in more need. When the mob was dispersed, Ajay went back to the area but couldn’t find the man. Ajay could only hope that he found his way back home.
The following week, Ajay chanced to come upon a magazine which had a feature on the riot. On the cover page there was a picture of a man pleading for mercy. Ajay was never sure it was the same fellow and never told it to anyone. Later he learnt that the photographer received an award for his work.
The incident made Ajay look at the press from a different perspective. He no longer trusted everything that came in the papers. He forced himself to cross-check facts that came in editorials. He no longer saw a journalist as an angel but as someone who could be misguided buy misinformation, ideology or sensationalism, or he could be a scum who wrote for money.
And now he has got a real personal experience to solidify his beliefs. By the end of the week, Ajay was reduced to a crazy police officer and Qureshi was elevated to the status of an angel.
Without waiting for a suspension, dismissal, or an enquiry, Ajay wrote his resignation letter. He placed it on the table of the indifferent commissioner who had other things to worry like Qureshi’s brother’s hit-men or the electricity bill of his three-crore house.
Ajay came home home, and sat down with a bottle of old scotch, expecting his worries to disappear along with the brown liquid. He sat till it was late night.
Then the doorbell rang.
Ajay swayed a little bit and walked to the door. With some difficulty he unlocked and opened it.
It was Sajan. He immediately sensed the aroma of Johnny Walker.
‘Hello Sajan, come inside.’
‘No sir, It’s okay. Like you said, I had enquired about the informers at the airport.’
‘Good. But don’t call me sir. I resigned.’
‘I know. You shouldn’t have.’ Sajan felt he was the last of his kind.
‘And there won’t be a comeback. That’s a final.’
Sajan sighed and gave his report, ‘the phone calls we received at the airport were through a fake exchange. We’re looking through it right now. The tea vendor boy remembers them. They gave him a fifty rupee note. Didn’t have change, he said. They left before the shooting took place.’
‘That’s all?’ Ajay frowned.
‘No. They came in a black Qualis with a
‘Whoever.. They did a good job, whatever their intentions were..’ Ajay was disappointed at Sajan’s report.
‘Sir, well then.. I’ll be leaving.. Good Night,’ Sajan turned.
‘Good Night, Sajan.’
Sajan left in his jeep. Ajay locked the door and sat down with his scotch.
He thought of Sajan. A good man and a good friend. Sadly he had to leave him. Ajay drank to the health of the media and the police. He drank till the bottle was empty and it was half past one in the morning.
The bell rang.
Ajay staggered and walked to the door. He didn’t give much thought to who could be behind the wooden plank. With some difficulty he unlocked the door. He didn’t have to open it.
The door was pushed open and four men barged in with lightening speed. Two held Ajay’s hands behind his back. The third gifted him a kidney punch. The fourth held a gun to his chin. He had a tuft of yellow plastic rope with him.
A fifth man entered the scene. He was wearing a white kurta, and had a heavy gold chain across his neck. He scratched his unshaved cheek, ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m Altaf Qureshi. I’m probably the last thing you will ever see.’
He gave a wide grin revealing his golden teeth.
Ajay just realized what he was facing. He suddenly shoved his elbows into the pits of the stomachs of those held him, and his fist knocked out four front teeth o the man who held the gun. But the guy who hit him first banged his knee into Ajay’s abdomen. Ajay was simply too drunk. He was beaten and pushed to the ground by the others.
‘Kasim, stop crying and get up.’ The new Qureshi was cold. He scratched his cheek.
The man called Kasim pocketed his teeth and grabbed his mouth.
Altaf held Ajay by his hair and pulled him up. Ajay showed no pain or fear on his face.
‘You’re gonna suffer for what you did to my brother.’ Altaf shoved his fist into Ajay’s face.
Ajay took the punch bravely and looked back at him in anger.
‘You might have been superman if you weren’t drunk.’ Altaf displayed his gold again.
Whaam! Ajay’s knee made contact with the new don’s groin. Altaf was in shock and slid back into a chair with the pain.
‘I’m still superman.’ Ajay laughed madly.
Whaam! Kasim hit Ajay with the butt of his gun. Ajay lost his consciousness and fell to the ground.
‘Don’t kill him you bastard.’ Altaf shouted, now almost recovered from the pain. ‘He shouldn’t die that easily.’
One of the goons took the yellow rope and started binding Ajay’s hand and feet.
‘Kasim, wipe your blood off the floor. We cannot trust the police on this one.’ Altaf did not want any bad news while he’s partying.
The four men dragged Ajay out of his house. Altaf walked before them. Then they stopped dead in their tracks.
There was sixth man at the gate.
Altaf reached into his pocket and felt reassured by the presence of his gun, ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Right now, my name is of no concern to you.’ The man held a lighter to his cigarette. The glare revealed his round reading glasses. He was at least six feet tall.
Altaf Qureshi felt his throat going dry, and perspiration forming on his forehead.
‘But it might interest you that,’ the man continued with a smile, ‘I’ll be probably the last thing you’ll ever see.’
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