'The Culprit Was A Dye Stick'

Aminabad had undergone a lot of changes over the years; the only remnant of the past was the old shop of Asghar Ali the milliner. In my student days I had gone to the shop three to four times to buy bottles of perfume to present to friends. I asked the salesman about the owner who used to first apply the perfume with a glass stick on the customer's shirt sleeve for approval before selling it. "He was my grandfather," the young salesman replied. He then took out a glass stick, dipped it in per -fume and applied it to my shirt sleeve. I thanked him and came out of the shop. I continued with my window shopping and walked towards Kaisar Bagh. I could not locate the shop of Gulzar Tailors, who stitched our clothes in the '40s.

I stood in front of a framer's admiring the alluring portraits in beautiful frames. I felt I needed a cup of tea. When I entered a tea shop I had a feeling that I was being shadowed. I looked back and saw two men—one walking towards me from the chowk side, and the other perched on the railing outside.

They had been standing behind me at the picture frame shop also. The man sitting on the railing had a scar on his forehead and had piercing eyes. He looked ugly and mean. The other person was fair, tall and sported a trimmed beard. This set me thinking. They could be terrorists: many of them had come to Uttar Pradesh when pressure mounted on them in Punjab. I was still on their hit list. I feared that I had been recognised at last. The ugly man carried a hand gun concealed in his bush shirt; I could see its handle protruding out. I tried to dodge my pursuers.

I walked back towards the fish market, which opened on two roads. I mixed amid the crowds and felt safer. No one was following me. I felt relieved. I entered a dark alley leading to Hazrat Ganj, noticing the apartment blocks that had come up in places where no one lived earlier.

I entered a book shop and pretending to read a newspaper, sat down on a bench. My eyes ran over the lines unseeingly as I tried to check from the corners of my eyes whether I was still being followed. To my utter discomfiture, I saw the ugly-faced one pass the book shop. He seemed to be searching for me. He went to the other side of the road and pretended to be looking at a display window. He had obviously seen me. After a while the tall fellow also came from Kaisar Bagh side. He perhaps got a nod from his companion and stopped two shops away from where I was.

I felt a jolt of sheer terror. My mouth became dry and, when I stood up, my knees started to buckle. I thought of everything, telephoning the police about the danger that I was in and asking their help as I was now sure that they were terrorists. They wouldn't let me escape. Could I resist? They would both be armed and I had no weapon. Running away offered little chance too—they were young and I had now no practice even of jogging.

I started moving towards a shop offering phone facilities. They followed me. I was just entering the PCO when the tall fellow caught me by the arm. I wrenched free and started to run towards Hazrat Ganj. I ran at full stretch but they soon overtook me and the ugly-faced one caught me and twisted my arm behind me. "This is the end," I thought, looking at the pistol and the cruel bloodshot eyes of the man. I uttered Waheguru and just then saw a Gypsy rushing to the spot with its siren wailing. Some policemen jumped out and huddled me into the Gypsy. I was frisked for weapons. I was too dazed to understand what was happening. I was being treated as a criminal while these two thugs, one of whom was carrying a gun, were ignored. The Gypsy entered a police post. I was taken to a cell facing the courtyard and locked in. I was still mystified by all that had happened in such a short time but emerging from the confusion was the thought that at least I was in no danger now. No one talked to me. No one asked me any question. Policemen were talking to each other and pointing to me. I could not hear what they were saying to each other. The ugly one kept looking at me all the time. Then it dawned on me that I was in police custody and the ugly one was a plainclothesman from the police. But why had I been arrested and locked up?

After a few minutes I was taken out of the cell and ushered into the presence of an inspector, a sub-inspector and a munshi (scribe). The two plain clothesmen, who had shadowed me in Kaisar Bagh, were seated at the other end. I was ordered to stand near the munshi. He was busy scribbling down what I said.

He asked me my name, my father's name, village, district, profession etc. I was then asked what I was doing in Lucknow. I answered their questions correctly.

'Have you been to Lucknow before?' the sub-inspector asked. 'I was a student at the university here from 1940 to 1946. I am a law graduate of Lucknow University.' They were all surprised. None of them was born at that time.

'Do you practise law?'
'No, I am a farmer.'
'Do you know someone in Lucknow?'
'The people I knew in the '40s are all dead and gone.'
'These two policemen have seen you moving aimlessly from one place to another in a suspicious manner. What are you looking for?'
'I was only window shopping and reviving old memories.'
The sub-inspector was not convinced.
'Who is your contact man here? Come out with the truth. We know how to extract the truth from terrorists like you.'
'I am no terrorist. I have nothing to do with them. I condemn their activities. I am a tourist come to visit my alma mater.' The sub-inspector then motioned to a policeman standing behind me. I was taken to a dark room without ventilation. It was the torture chamber.

The sub-inspector waved his stick and pointed to two ropes hung from the ceiling. 'These ropes are for hanging ruffians like you upside down to extort a confession. Hardened criminals come out with the truth in five minutes.' 

I saw wires sticking out of a switch board. The sub-inspector smiled. 'These are for giving electric shocks to people like you. Even the toughest person cannot withstand more than five shocks.' 

This sent shivers down my spine. I pleaded innocence again and told the sub-inspector that I was telling the truth, and nothing but the truth. He shook his head in disbelief and brought me back to the table.

It was the turn of the inspector to interrogate me.

'You are a total stranger in Lucknow. You do not know anyone. And you have not furnished a convincing reason for your movements. We shall book you on the charge of vagrancy and then find out the truth. Can you furnish a security here?' 'No,' I replied. I was cornered. Being a lawyer, I knew that they could book me under Section 109 of the Criminal Procedure Code and send me to prison. If the truth were found out later, I would earn a bad name. Time was running out.

'If you want to find out if anyone in Lucknow knows me, it is your chief minister Mulayam Singh Yadav,' I told him.

The policemen guffawed with laughter. One of them said: 'Kis paagal se vaasta pad gaya?' (What mad person are we dealing with?) 'We understand your friendship with the chief minister,' the sub-inspector said sarcastically. 'Do you know anyone else in Lucknow?' 'No,' I replied.

'Why don't you come out with the truth? We may spare you. Give us a clue to your contact man and also the person or persons you are working for. You tried to dodge these two policemen. That is enough to prove your guilt,' he said sternly.

The inspector then asked the munshi to prepare papers on the charge of vagrancy under Section 109 of the Criminal Procedure Code and directed the sub-inspector to take me back to the torture chamber. The inspector was about to get up to go when I addressed him in fluent English.

'Please sit down, inspector sahib and listen to me before you do anything. I am a tourist in Lucknow. For the last four days I have visited places of tourist interest. I am staying in Minerva Hotel. You can verify that I have not met anyone. The tongawala Hamid who lives somewhere in Aish Bagh will tell you of my movements during this period. I have come to Lucknow after fifty years. I was a student here in the '40s.'

The inspector resumed his seat. I continued.

'I am a law graduate of Lucknow University and a respectable person. You have humiliated me and treated me like a criminal. I shall drag you to the court for this. I shall also file a criminal case against you all for illegal detention and sue for damages. Your chief minister knows me well; we have been together in political meetings.'

I now spoke in a tone of authority and confidence. 'Look, inspector. I have warned you of the consequences of your locking me up or torturing me on fabricated charges.'

There was total silence during my monologue. 'Get a chair for sardarji,' said the inspector. I was tired. I needed to sit down. A chair was pushed under me and a policeman was ordered to fetch me a cold drink. I wanted only a glass of water. My lips were parched. I had not had a drop of water since I had been brought in here.

Just then a motorcyclist entered the police station. He was another plainclothesman who had been sent to my hotel room to search it. He placed my canvas bag on the table and said that nothing incriminating had been found in my room. The inspector turned the bag upside down and all my belongings came tumbling out.

He eyed the dye-stick. 'What is this, sardarji?'

'This is the real culprit. It has turned a respectable old man of 70 with a flowing grey beard into a suspected hardcore terrorist. This is the incriminating evidence that you have been looking for.' He did not understand what I was blabbering about. I mentioned Mulayam Singh Yadav's name again and asked him to get the chief minister on the phone. The inspector did not know what to do. He obviously thought I was slightly touched in the head.

'Where do you wish to go from here?'
'Back home to Chandigarh.'

He asked the sub-inspector to put me on the next train to Ambala. The sub-inspector put me in his Gypsy and took me to the Charbagh railway station. There was a train for Ambala leaving late that evening. He put me in the compartment, saluted me and got down. Early next morning I reached Ambala.

I got down and went to the waiting room. In the bathroom I got rid of my make-up. The beard became grey as before and I left it loose. I could not change the turban because I did not have any other. After having tea I called a taxi and started for Chandigarh.

In an hour or so I was back home. Back, too, in the security net from which I had escaped.