Read Online Open Secrets: The Explosive Memoirs of an Indian Intelligence Officer by Maloy Krishna Dhar - Free Book Online
Authors: Maloy Krishna Dhar
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at the factory gate and four lathi-armed constables for the personal security of the management staff under the supervision of the officer in charge of Kurseong police station. Aita Bahdur Rana, the supple and fat Nepali sub-inspector, grinned mightily and conveyed in broken Bengali, for my benefit, I presume, that I had taken the correct action. Tension was building up in almost all the hill tea estates-Sonada, Bijan Bari, Lopchu, Mokaibari, Simana, Panighata, and Happy Valley. The tribal Santhal, Oraon and Munda labours had joined the Nepali labourers. In addition, he shared another piece of intelligence, the stalwarts of the Gorkha language and separate Gorkha province agitation were honing up their weapons. They would welcome a general strike in the tea gardens to press their demands. A mere localised labour unrest would have become a political issue.
I thanked Rana and left for Darjeeling with mixed apprehensions. In my first outing I had taken a stand against the mighty deputy commissioner and the divisional commissioner, who, many told me, was a legend by his own right. Mr. Ivan Surita, an honoured Anglo-Indian, had drifted to the Indian Administrative Service (IAS) through short service commission in the Royal Indian Army. The deputy commissioner, another IAS, was an unknown commodity to me.
That evening I was summoned to the control room of the SP. Maity advised me to put on the best-starched uniform and the best-polished boot.
“Anything wrong, Maity?”
“Why worry? Haven’t you appeared before the Orderly Room earlier?”
He reminded me of the system in which an errant officer was required to appear before his superior to receive his punishment.
“No, Maity. What’s the matter?”
“Don’t lose heart. Have a cigarette and keep faith in your god.”
Maity dismissed me and I rushed to my quarters for a change of uniform and boot.
It wasn’t an Orderly Room. There was no officer to present me before the boss. I was gently ushered in and was asked to take a seat by none other than the legend himself, Ivan Surita, the commissioner of Jalpaiguri division.
“So you are Dhar?”
“Yes sir.”
“What was your logic behind defying my orders? Why didn’t you arrest Rai?”
“Sir,” I started nervously, “I’ve been taught to take orders from my commander, the SP. I had done that. And if you’ve time I can explain my logic.”
Ivan lighted a cigarette as a glint of smile went past his face.
He heard me patiently, including my freshly gathered intelligence from Aita Bahadur Rana. Finally I conveyed that the arrest of Deo Prakash would have cost the state government tremendously. The Gorkha movement was almost at its peak and the government in Calcutta too wasn’t really very steady. On top of it the just concluded war in the Kashmir had left the country in a situation of flux. Would it be prudent to offer a new front to the Gorkhas just for satisfying Rat Basu?
“Well, well! Where from you picked up that kind of worldview? I’m mighty impressed. Have a drink with me.”
Surita poured a stiff whisky for him and a small one for me. In his characteristic gracious manner he spoke rather loudly.
“Thanks. Keep it up.”
We shared the drinks, and at the end of the day the SP called me to his room, told me that I would be attached to the office of the sub-divisional police officer (SDPO) Siliguri for practical training and for my police station training I would have to spend eight weeks at Naksalbari. I accepted the order stoically. It wasn’t a punishment I knew. The orders of the SP had given me the opportunity to make myself a part of the history in the making in the jungles of Naksalbari. It offered me an opportunity in meeting the owners of the eyes again, which had made a permanent place in my mind.
I was fortunate to be a part those historic times, perhaps the last days of the innocent times and beginning of the cruellest of times that besieged India soon after the 1965 Kashmir war and
I thanked Rana and left for Darjeeling with mixed apprehensions. In my first outing I had taken a stand against the mighty deputy commissioner and the divisional commissioner, who, many told me, was a legend by his own right. Mr. Ivan Surita, an honoured Anglo-Indian, had drifted to the Indian Administrative Service (IAS) through short service commission in the Royal Indian Army. The deputy commissioner, another IAS, was an unknown commodity to me.
That evening I was summoned to the control room of the SP. Maity advised me to put on the best-starched uniform and the best-polished boot.
“Anything wrong, Maity?”
“Why worry? Haven’t you appeared before the Orderly Room earlier?”
He reminded me of the system in which an errant officer was required to appear before his superior to receive his punishment.
“No, Maity. What’s the matter?”
“Don’t lose heart. Have a cigarette and keep faith in your god.”
Maity dismissed me and I rushed to my quarters for a change of uniform and boot.
It wasn’t an Orderly Room. There was no officer to present me before the boss. I was gently ushered in and was asked to take a seat by none other than the legend himself, Ivan Surita, the commissioner of Jalpaiguri division.
“So you are Dhar?”
“Yes sir.”
“What was your logic behind defying my orders? Why didn’t you arrest Rai?”
“Sir,” I started nervously, “I’ve been taught to take orders from my commander, the SP. I had done that. And if you’ve time I can explain my logic.”
Ivan lighted a cigarette as a glint of smile went past his face.
He heard me patiently, including my freshly gathered intelligence from Aita Bahadur Rana. Finally I conveyed that the arrest of Deo Prakash would have cost the state government tremendously. The Gorkha movement was almost at its peak and the government in Calcutta too wasn’t really very steady. On top of it the just concluded war in the Kashmir had left the country in a situation of flux. Would it be prudent to offer a new front to the Gorkhas just for satisfying Rat Basu?
“Well, well! Where from you picked up that kind of worldview? I’m mighty impressed. Have a drink with me.”
Surita poured a stiff whisky for him and a small one for me. In his characteristic gracious manner he spoke rather loudly.
“Thanks. Keep it up.”
We shared the drinks, and at the end of the day the SP called me to his room, told me that I would be attached to the office of the sub-divisional police officer (SDPO) Siliguri for practical training and for my police station training I would have to spend eight weeks at Naksalbari. I accepted the order stoically. It wasn’t a punishment I knew. The orders of the SP had given me the opportunity to make myself a part of the history in the making in the jungles of Naksalbari. It offered me an opportunity in meeting the owners of the eyes again, which had made a permanent place in my mind.
I was fortunate to be a part those historic times, perhaps the last days of the innocent times and beginning of the cruellest of times that besieged India soon after the 1965 Kashmir war and
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