SYED Rezaul Karim
Kolkata, West Bengal
Part 3: The life of a fugitive
Who is this fugitive?What is his real name?Where is his home?
What does he do?
How old is he?
What does he look like?
No one really knows. Not even many of the high-ranking police officers. But Inspector Jatin knows everything about him—his every detail. The reason for this knowledge is unusual. It is something Jatin can never forget. Impossible to forget. Even now, when he remembers those events, his entire body shudders, and goosebumps rise on his skin. His face twists in disgust as the memory flutters like a butterfly in his mind. Sometimes, with a tone of regret, he mutters, “What a gang of crooks! They ruined a boy as innocent as a flower…”
It was almost thirty years ago. Jatin was a newly trained officer, a fresh recruit. The senior officer in charge of South 24 Parganas district seemed delighted upon meeting him, as if he had struck gold. The officer scribbled something quickly in the order register, though Jatin could not make sense of it.
As soon as Jatin saluted and stepped out of the senior officer’s room, Officer R.O. informed him, “Your posting is at Gosaba police station.”
Hearing the name “Gosaba” felt like a lightning strike to Jatin’s head. At home were his aging father and sick mother. No one else was there to care for them. The maid would come and go after finishing her chores, and Jatin had managed the household tasks himself until then. But now, what would happen? Who would look after his parents? Jatin was deeply worried. Neighbors advised his father, “Get your son married; that will solve everything.”
But Jatin refused. His situation was too unstable, and he feared making a mistake. He thought it would be unwise to marry without securing a stronger footing in his career. Getting married now would be like throwing himself into a fire, knowing it would lead to destruction.
Jatin couldn’t directly speak to his superior about his concerns, so he approached the Police Association and the Non-Gazetted Officers’ Association, explaining his family’s troubles and requesting a posting closer to Kolkata. They responded with vague promises but took no action. Finally, Jatin went to Officer R.O., a kind and straightforward man. But when he raised the issue with the senior officer, he was scolded. That very day, a command certificate was issued, ordering Jatin to report to Gosaba.
Jatin had no idea where Gosaba was. Based on what little he had learned from others, fear gripped him. What could he do? What options did he have? He had signed up for this job out of necessity, and now he had no choice but to fulfill his duty.
He took along a knowledgeable neighbor and packed his essential papers and belongings. He had to report to the station by noon; otherwise, he would have to provide countless explanations. At dawn, with a heavy load on his back and a bag slung over his shoulder, Jatin set out from his home, accompanied by his guide Kamal Da.
They reached Diamond Harbour at six in the morning, where a train awaited them at the station. They boarded, and the train departed at 6:25. After passing through several small stations—Basuldanga, Netra, Deula, Sangrampur, Magrahat, Dhama, Hotar, Kalyanpur, Baruipur, Mallikpur, and Subhasgram—they finally arrived at Sonarpur Junction. Relieved, Jatin thought the journey was nearing its end. But when Kamal Da informed him there was still a long way to go, Jatin’s throat went dry.
After half an hour, a train from Sealdah to Canning arrived. The two barely managed to squeeze in through the crowded doors, their bags and bedding stuffed into a corner. They faced a barrage of complaints from fellow passengers about why they hadn’t used the luggage van. Jatin endured it all in silence, shocked by the rude behavior he encountered.
It took over an hour to reach Canning. From there, they boarded a motorized boat, taking 45 minutes to cross the Matla River. Then, they boarded a shaky bus to Sonakhali, followed by another hour-long journey to Gosaba Ghat. Jatin anxiously checked his watch as the journey dragged on, his mind racing with thoughts of how much farther they had to go. Finally, the boat reached Gosaba, and they arrived at the station around 1:35 PM.
The sight of the police station startled Jatin. A constable stood guard at the gate, rifle in hand. The station building was old and crumbling, with peeling plaster and no sign of fresh paint. As they approached, the sentry blocked their path.
“Who are you looking for?” the constable asked.
Before Jatin could reply, Kamal spoke up, “This gentleman has been posted here as an officer.”
The mention of an officer caused the constable to show respect, and he welcomed them with a smile, “Please, come in, sir!”
The word “sir” took Jatin by surprise. He had only ever addressed his school and college teachers as “sir,” and now hearing it for himself felt strange.
As they entered, the head officer was just stepping out to have lunch and take a quick nap before the evening’s work resumed at five. Afterward, he would be back on duty, sometimes until midnight, 1 AM, 2 AM, or even later. Investigation, catching suspects, moving from one place to another—it was endless. If he didn’t rest now, it would be a disaster later.
The sentry informed the head officer, “This is the new sir! He’s here to join the station.”
The head officer seemed aware of the situation. He must have spoken with the senior officer before, and Jatin’s posting had likely been arranged through some discussion. Seeing Jatin, the head officer said, “So, young man! What’s your name?”
The officer’s booming voice was intimidating. He was about thirty-five years old, almost six feet tall, with a regal mustache and lips stained from chewing betel nut. Jatin stammered out his reply, “Jatin.”
“Is it Jatin the Elephant or Jatin the Horse?”
Once again, the thunderous voice made Jatin gulp. He barely managed to answer, “Jatin Mitra, sir!”
“But the message I received said Jatin Maitra…”
"Sir! There might have been a typo in the report..."
Jatin the officer couldn’t finish his sentence. Another man entered in the middle of the conversation. He was wearing a khadi kurta and pyjama. He appeared to be around forty years old, with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder. Jatin hadn’t even noticed when the man had silently come up behind him. The man spoke humbly, addressing the senior officer, “I shall take my leave now, sir! Please take a look into the matter if you could.”
Introducing him, the senior officer said, "This is your new officer, Jatin Mitra. He has joined today. If necessary, I’ll send him over to your area."
Hearing this, the gentleman’s face brightened. He folded his hands in a respectful greeting and quickly said, "My name is Montu Das, sir. I live in Kachuberia. I teach at a school and do a little party work too. If you come to our area, please do visit my home!"
Jatin nodded in agreement, and Montu Das left. The senior officer called out loudly, “Mejo Babu!”
Responding to the call, a man from the next room rushed in, saying, "Coming, sir!" This man was stout, with a large belly protruding from his body. His name was Asitananda Chatterjee. Approaching the senior officer, he asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”
“The new probationer is here. Teach him everything hands-on. Also, make arrangements for his stay and inform the mess for meals,” the senior officer instructed before walking toward his quarters.
Asitananda Babu remarked, "This police job is tough, brother. Especially in these times, everyone thinks they’re a king in their own kingdom. But don’t worry, you won’t face any trouble. You all are 'direct cadets,' you have a lot of knowledge. We are just like illiterate fools. But whatever little I know, I’ll teach you. See, I’ve already started calling you by 'you.' Hope you’re not offended?"
Jatin smiled and replied, “No, not at all! Why would I be offended? You’re much older than me, like my uncle. Feel free to call me Jatin or 'you,' I don’t mind.”
After spending the first year at Barrackpore Police Training College, Jatin took a week’s leave and then joined the Alipore Police Line. A week later, he was posted to Gosaba Police Station. That’s where his real career as a police officer began—directly interacting with people, listening to their grievances, catching criminals, filing cases, sending culprits to jail, preparing reports on deceased individuals. Jatin gradually became involved in various police station activities.
As time went on, Jatin became more skilled in his work. The senior officers, middle-ranking officers, junior officers, ASIs, the station clerk, and even the home guards became fond of him. He was always invited to help in everyone’s tasks—raids, writing reports, and everything else. Jatin grew accustomed to fulfilling these responsibilities with a smile. The workload was such that he completely forgot about going home. His parents waited eagerly like pilgrims at a shrine, longing for the day when their son would come home, when they could see his face.
In truth, while trying to bring happiness to one person, another may fall into despair. Jatin began to understand this deeply. No matter how many times he requested, he couldn’t get leave.
After six months of probation, he was called to Alipore for an examination in the seventh month. Jatin had already decided that he would visit home during that time. After much pleading, the senior officer granted him two days of leave. Jatin promised to return to the station by the 30th, and after his examination at the SP’s office in Alipore, he headed straight home. Those two days spent with his parents, friends, and relatives were filled with indescribable joy. On the third day, a sense of gloom spread as it was time for him to return to work. With his parents' blessings, Jatin left early in the morning.
When he arrived at Gosaba Police Station at noon, he found a crowd of 50-60 people outside, shouting slogans. "Arrest him!" "Arrest him!" They demanded that the accused be arrested immediately, or their movement would continue. The air was filled with their collective voices, roaring like the tide of the Matla River. Their clenched fists seemed ready to tear everything apart. Among them was Montu Master. Seeing Jatin enter the station, their shouting grew even louder.
Jatin was astonished and overwhelmed by the scene. The Montu Master who had seemed so calm and polite now looked entirely different—agitated and aggressive, with a demeanor intent on breaking everything apart.
Upon entering the station, Jatin inquired about the situation from his colleagues. He learned that Montu Master’s daughter, Anjali Das, had been kidnapped. Who had kidnapped her? When was she kidnapped? Why was the culprit not apprehended? These questions swirled in Jatin's mind. Realizing that asking wouldn’t provide all the answers, Jatin put down his belongings and went straight to the senior officer’s chamber, where the officer seemed relieved to see him.
Jatin flipped through the FIR. Montu Master had written in his own words: “On the night of July 25th, around 10 PM, I returned home after finishing work at the Gosaba BDO office. I found my house in darkness. Where did Anjali go? Not seeing her, I called out her name, but there was no response. My wife was in Kolkata that day to see a doctor. Desperate to find Anjali, I started asking around in the village. I learned from several people that around 11 AM, after I had left home, Palash came to our house. He forcibly dragged Anjali out of the house and pulled her, half-clothed, toward the riverbank, where he took her away in a dinghy with ill intentions. I have not received any information about my daughter since then. I firmly believe that Palash kidnapped her with bad intentions. I demand strict legal action against him.”
By then, the shouting had somewhat quieted. Not much sound came from the senior officer’s chamber either. The officer sent word for Montu Master and three others to come to his chamber. Montu Master, local legislator Kamal Mondal, full-time party worker Kankan Mondal, and youth leader Samir Jana entered the chamber.
The discussion started aggressively, with Kamal Babu speaking forcefully. “No, sir! We haven’t come here to chit-chat. We have a lot of work to do. We can see you aren’t taking this case seriously. Otherwise, why hasn’t there been any investigation since the complaint was filed on the 25th? What kind of state are we living in? This government is ours, the people are ours, we pay your salaries, yet nothing is getting done. You only do the opposition’s work!”
The senior officer mildly protested, "No, no, why would we listen to the opposition? We work according to the law…”
“Don’t talk about the law, sir! We’ve seen plenty of your law. According to the law, you run gambling rings, throw alcohol parties, and…” Kamal Mondal made several sharp comments, supported by the others, including Montu Master. Hearing this, the usually composed senior officer seemed to shrink like a snail. The others continued to speak harshly, drowning out all the officer’s rational explanations.
Finally, Jatin spoke up, “I’ll handle the matter. I’ll go to Kachuberia today to investigate the incident.”
Jatin’s fresh and untainted words had some effect. Montu Master, still angry, replied, “Alright. We’ll see if the investigation is done properly. If not, we will launch a larger movement.”
Saying this, they left the senior officer’s chamber. The shouting ceased, and like a herd of elephants, the crowd slowly marched away in a line. The senior officer heaved a sigh of relief and said gently, “Jatin, please go to Kachuberia and look into the matter.”
Chapter: Four
The fugitive remembered, but where would he find a safe refuge? Leaving the Gangasagar fair, where would he go now? With the way checking is happening everywhere, and how the police are scrutinizing every single person, the hope of escaping is very slim compared to the fear of being caught. The police had told the fugitives to build a shelter near the police control room. Generally, the police don't pay much attention to the shelters near the control room. Like under the light of a lamp, in the darkness. The police think that miscreants won’t come to die near the control room. How far is this work? Who knows? What can be done in the meantime? Thinking this, the fugitive ran towards the Ganges. Reaching the riverbank, he lifted his saffron garment slightly and got into the river. The heart’s palpitations of the sadhu (holy man) eased a bit.
The Ganges river was then like a dead snake. There were no hissing or roaring sounds. It was very calm and composed. The water, which had been brimful, had receded significantly. A huge sandbar had appeared in its place. This spot was relatively safe. But how long could he stay upright in this mud and sand? How would the people around him react? After a moment's thought, the sadhu took off his outer garments and wrapped them carefully around his head, like a turban. He pulled it slightly towards his forehead. Who knows if someone notices the mark on his forehead through his hair? If they do, there will be no escape. The danger would be endless. Immediately, the news would reach the police control room. They would come straight to arrest him and take him to Raut Saheb. The thought made the sadhu shiver all over. The hair on his body stood up. A deep sigh escaped from his nose.
The sadhu fears Raut Saheb greatly, and so do Alok Mitra and Anuj Verma. All three appear thin and frail. A puff of wind could blow them away to another place. But their minds are like complete computers. Very powerful. Very terrifying. The fugitive has never been able to stand up to their intelligence. Still, he has to work among them. With utmost caution. Otherwise, how would he stand by the people of Sonargaon in their happiness and sorrow? How would he stand by the helpless and deprived? Therefore, he must take risks in his work. He has understood the suffering and curses of the poor and helpless since his childhood. He has been the victim of conspiracies at every step. Otherwise, who would choose such a life? Who would fight against the established state power? Who would run around like a hunted animal? The state power has manpower, resources, and weapons, but what does he have? In comparison, his power is insignificant. Yet, he continues to fight.
The fugitive recalls a few days he left behind. He has no money. The cries of starving people had deeply disturbed him. "Money is needed, money." But where can he get a large amount of money at once? Robbing a bank or a treasury isn’t easy. The police are on guard with guns. The fugitive didn’t think it was appropriate to risk his life trying to rob there. Ananta had given him an idea. He had said that nowadays, a lot of money can be found in ATMs. The police don’t guard ATMs 24 hours a day. If they could break into an ATM and take the money, they would get a large amount at once. If they cover the camera inside with paper, no one would get their trace.
Ananta’s words had opened the fugitive’s eyes. He knew that breaking into an ATM and robbing it isn’t an easy task, but he was aware that banks hire certain companies on a commission basis to refill ATMs. These companies travel by car or train to various locations to refill the ATMs. The fugitive mentally devised a plan. He instructed Basant and Sushant to scout the process of collecting and delivering money from the bank. He asked them to find out how the money is transported over long distances.
After fifteen consecutive days of scouting, Basant and Sushant presented their report. Every morning, a company hired by the bank takes money from Kolkata in two iron chests and travels to Birbhum by AC train at 9 am. Hearing this, the fugitive’s eyes gleamed with excitement.
He inquired if any armed police personnel accompany the money. After considering all the details, the fugitive devised a plan. According to this plan, he bought train tickets for his team. He made arrangements to keep the people intact.
The fugitive explained to Sushant and Basant how the operation was to be executed. On the appointed day, Sushant and Basant boarded the train as regular passengers.
At the scheduled time, the train began its journey. Basant and Sushant noticed that two iron chests filled with money were loaded into their compartment, guarded by two policemen carrying guns. The train rattled along at its own pace, and the coolness of the AC coach lulled most passengers into a drowsy state. But Sushant and Basant remained wide awake, their eyes fixed on their target.
The train passed Naihati and was heading towards Bardhaman. After turning towards Rampurhat via Bandel, Basant got up from his seat. After returning from the bathroom, Sushant rose from his seat as well and quietly approached Basant. The policemen were sitting next to the iron chests. In a swift move, taking advantage of the policemen's brief distraction, the two snatched their guns. Pointing the guns at the policemen, Basant ordered, "Unlock the chain of the iron chest."
Sushant pointed his gun at the passengers and commanded, "Everyone sit quietly. If anyone gets up, I’ll shoot."
Their threats paralyzed the passengers with fear. No one dared to move or resist. Fearing for their lives, one of the policemen reluctantly unlocked the iron chest that was secured with a chain. Once the chest was unlocked, Basant and Sushant threw it out of the moving train, just as the fugitive had instructed. The iron chest tumbled noisily down the elevated railway embankment and landed on the road below. The fugitive was already waiting there with a car, accompanied by two men. Together, they quickly loaded the two iron chests full of money into the car.
Without wasting a moment, Basant pulled the train’s emergency chain. The driver, unaware of what had transpired inside, slowly brought the train to a halt as the hosepipe disconnected. Sushant and Basant jumped off the train at a high ground area. They threw the guns they had taken into the distant bushes and then rolled down the embankment to the road below.
As they reached the road, the fugitive’s car, which had been following the train from a distance, approached them. Just as planned, the fugitive picked them up and drove off, disappearing from sight.
To ensure that the blame for the robbery wouldn’t fall on them, the fugitive had deliberately instructed his accomplices not to leave behind any silver coins tied in red cloth inside the train. If the police were to find such clues, they would place unnecessary pressure on the people of Sonargaon and repeatedly raid the area in search of the fugitive. However, within a few days, Raut Saheb, Anuj Verma, and Alok Mitra managed to uncover this entire operation.
The task was the fugitive’s. The fugitive’s photo was printed in the newspapers with big headlines. The level of raids in Sonargaon increased.
Seeing the photo in the newspapers and reading the content, the fugitive's followers were astonished. In astonishment, they asked the fugitive, “How did the authorities figure out that we were behind this?”
The fugitive replied, “What will you do after hearing that story? If you know how, you can be more cautious in the next operation. That’s why I’m telling you the incident.”
At that time, there were no mobile phones to track our location. But so what? The authorities are intelligent. They first obtained a list of passengers from the railway for that coach. From that list, they collected the addresses. They called everyone one by one and interrogated them. They asked if there were any additional passengers in that coach. They scrutinized the two police officers who were present, asking how the incident happened. What did the perpetrators look like? What kind of clothing were they wearing? Then, they showed many photos of the criminals and asked the witnesses to identify them. They recognized Sushant and Basant from their photos. Additionally, the name of the person who bought the train tickets was written on the ticket form. They also interrogated him. Because the form had names different from yours, the police officials could not identify you. But that person mentioned Santoshpur.
In Santoshpur, where we had taken refuge, they searched the place thoroughly and found a lot of evidence. They even captured one of our followers. However, since that follower didn’t know details, they haven’t yet figured out our connection. But that follower is still in jail. We are trying to get him out.
The fugitive was reflecting on these old days. The sun had then hidden in the western sky. The darkness was gradually getting deeper. Even though the streets were somewhat clear in the neon artificial light, there was still a hint of darkness. And there was no need to stand in the Ganges River. The fugitive had kept the saffron cloth on his body tied as a turban on his head. He adjusted it slightly to cover half of his face. Then he slowly emerged from the water onto the shore.
On the shore stood Ananta. Taking him along, the fugitive entered the hideout in Chapra. Then he sighed with relief, emptying his chest.
But fear remained in his mind. Meanwhile, how many photos of him have been recorded on the CCTV cameras? His nemesis, Alok Mitra, was sitting there. He would surely be scrutinizing all his photos. It would not take him much time to identify the fugitive in his sadhu disguise. Even getting out of Chapra in this situation was dangerous. That’s why the fugitive had been standing in the dark water.
So, what now? Thinking, the fugitive realized he needed to change his appearance. Everything needed to be arranged and organized for the robbery. So he called Ananta and said, “Ananta! You do one thing. Go to the shop and buy two or three good blades. And Basant! You get our dinner and also buy me a good-quality suit, coat, and tie from the shop. And Sushant, you also have a task. On the morning of the holy bath day, bring a young boy of a woman. And bring that girl to me.”
Following the orders, everyone went out to collect the items. But no one could figure out what the fugitive’s real target was. What was his intention? What was his purpose?
(Gradually)