Department Records: Counterintelligence

Ranvir Pratap returned from his enforced leave of absence and it was obvious he hadn’t forgotten or forgiven. It was hard enough handling him when he was his normal self. Right now he was exerting a threatening influence on his boss, Parthasarathy. Partha, forced out of his customary diffidence, had asked to meet Mishra.

“The problem with you, Parthasarathy, is that you were busy covering your ass instead of keeping your eyes and ears open,” said Mishra. “What do you know of what went on between Ranvir and Evam?”

“Very little, sir,” said Partha.

Mishra, the chief of counterintelligence, was an imposing and burly man who ate nails for breakfast. He had a sharp tongue—rare was the sentence that did not contain abuse—and he was proficient in many languages when it came to unparliamentary words. Mishra sat back and took a deep breath. There was no point in venting about this man who was a misfit in his current post and a passenger at best.

“Can I see the classified files?” asked Partha. “I believe they have all the details.”

“They do because I handled it, Mr. Parthasarathy. They will come to you like a prepared meal. You think this will help you have a balanced view?”

“Yes sir,” replied Partha. What he did not say was that he knew Mishra favored Ranvir and hated Tiwari.

“Fine. But you will have to read it here and make no copies. Is that understood? And one more thing: officially these files do not exist.”

Parthasarathy was taken to an airless, musty room. There were three monitors and a pair of headphones on a table, with a lone lamp that shined its circular light upon various transcripts and two documents. It seemed counterintelligence had bugged Ranvir’s office, Evam’s facility, and their phones. He sat in the relative darkness and listened to the scratchy audio files. He was enthralled. This was living history. What unfolded was a complete picture on the origins of the Third Squad. Once the tapes ran out he had trouble breathing.

* * *

“Understand this,” said Ranvir Pratap. “This is an informal meeting, you are merely my sounding board, I still question your credentials in the field of psycho-whatever-you-call-it, and whatever we discuss will stay within this room at the risk of my having to put you away permanently.”

Evam Bhaskar trusted himself to nod. He felt privileged that his advice was being sought in the first place. Perhaps handling Ranvir’s son the way he did gave Ranvir some confidence in his abilities. They moved toward Evam’s small office. Ranvir entered and stood near the door for a moment, absorbing the contents of the room. He headed to the cushioned seat which had been left for him. Evam was eyeing him closely as well. Ranvir was not the tall, elegant officer people imagined him to be. As a physical specimen he belied his image. His defining features were his eyes and his fingers. Neither kept still unless they were wrapped around an object of attention. The man scared his superiors, thought Evam. He probably hated formal reporting, begrudged public shows of respect, and his standard expression would surely qualify for rank insubordination.

Most of all, Ranvir was an enigma (like Krishna in the epics, someone said), and Evam liked enigmas. Ranvir was a strict vegetarian, not that it really mattered. It seems he went to the Vaishno Devi temple every year and made pilgrimages at night to the holy shrine. This was fine as well; you can choose your gods even if you send people up to meet them.

Ranvir patiently recounted the history of the now infamous Class of ’83. The members of this group were the most successful encounter specialists that the city had seen. He explained what had happened later with each of them. “This is what I have been asked to steer clear of,” he said, “and I don’t know how.”

He then handed Evam a draft job description for the Third Squad. Evam read through the materials.

 

CRITERIA FOR SELECTION FOR THE THIRD SQUAD

PREPARED BY RANVIR PRATAP

 

1. Ability to focus is crucial. While this is difficult to test, its absence can be spotted. Look for hyperfocus, and not for those who are hyperactive.

 

2. Ability to work at night. We cannot have people who sleep on the job, especially during long, boring watch duty or stalking assignments at night.

 

3. Loners work better than others. Lack of social skills and etiquette is not a deal-breaker here.

 

4. The nature of the job is such that emotional or friendly individuals will not last. There will be assignments with casualties. Team members will go down and this has to be overcome. I am not suggesting heartless, ruthless thugs, but I will still look at them.

 

5. Team members should be honest. We cannot have the team exposed because of the lack of honesty of any member. Failures will happen in this line of work. Each member of the team has to own up and tell it as it is.

 

6. Confidentiality is at a premium. The less the candidate babbles the better. Small talk in our case is overrated.

 

7. Lack of attention to detail can derail everything. If possible we should look for perfectionists, people obsessed with quality in execution.

 

8. Operatives should follow rules and instructions without exception. We do not need people who question everything, however intelligent they may be; even if their way is sound, the one that everyone follows is the best. It is a hierarchical setup and orders need to be executed instantly, without fail.

 

“The idea of this job description,” explained Ranvir, “is to help narrow down a bunch of hopefuls into a smaller group who can then be short-listed after an interview. The chosen few can then be put on an intensive training regimen to further narrow the field.”

This document seemed to be a general description, but the behavioral approach it took was interesting. It was the kind of approach that Evam would have been proud of initiating. There was more that Ranvir had written.

 

DOES A MEMBER HAVE TO BE

 

1. AN ATHLETE? Historically, we’ve identified a group of physically fit men and women as potential recruits. But how does it actually help to have a strong athlete as a member? Do we still chase people down by running after them like in the movies? Do they have to climb mountains, cross rivers, or engage in hand-to-hand combat? Increasingly, we have to do focused legwork. We have to be dogged in pursuit, boring in execution, and intelligent in response. If things come down to hand-to-hand combat, we have failed.

 

2. A GUNSLINGER? Shootouts seem to be the norm in our perception of an encounter. It would seem that every operation has to end in a physical altercation including possibly an exchange of fire. The fastest with the gun and the one with the better eye wins. That is history. Encounters should be one-sided. Our pursuit has to be anonymous, our information good, and our closure ruthless. It doesn’t have to be physical. If a bullet needs to be fired, we should do so through a scope which affords good aim, produces no return fire, and preferably has a stationary target.

 

3. AN EINSTEIN? We do need creative members on the team but they are not the ones we want in the field. In the field we need people who can execute. If we have to think too much on our feet, change the game plan as things emerge, and act upon instinct at that moment, then we are doomed to fail in the long run. Think of making a movie without a script, where the actor improvises the lines, the accidents on the set determine the plot, and the camera decides the focus. You will get a flop.

 

4. A WOMANIZER? Sorry, I couldn’t resist this one. I was merely going by the popular perception of this department consisting of 007s—suave, cool, handsome, indestructible, and irresistible to women. Times have changed. History, thy name is Bond.

 

Evam liked this approach. It was a fresh, different, and maverick methodology. This team would comprise a unique vintage, very different from the Class of ’83. What excited him was the fact that Providence had smiled. He was sure that in the list of his life’s coincidences this was up there. How often does it happen that you have an agenda of finding jobs for four young men and someone walks into your world and describes them to a T?

“Ranvir, sir, I have explained this to you before but hear me out again. Imagine people who are different from us but the difference is slight. They are born that way and they are a parallel group of humans who coexist. They have some known limitations which curiously help in your context. And they have some peculiar qualities which you could stand to benefit from. There is only one problem.”

“And that is?”

“They come from a spectrum disorder that includes your son.” Ranvir looked shocked and Evam clarified hastily: “It is a wide spectrum and your son was at one extreme. The A-word frightens people, I know.” Evam paused here for a moment. “What you need, Mr. Ranvir Pratap, are people we call Aspies. They fit your description. But it would be a bold man who would make that call.”

“Aspies? I recall reading about them.”

Evam explained as best he could, taking care not to make too strong a case. “Autism is called a spectrum disorder because each person is affected differently. On one end of this spectrum is a mild form that is called Asperger’s syndrome, so mild that sometimes we meet such people without knowing it. While there is a greater awareness of this today, there are many in our country who are still unaware that they are Aspies.”

“Refresh my memory—what causes all of this?”

“It’s genetic. It’s not because of upbringing or social circumstance; it’s not anyone’s fault.”

“So it’s an abnormality?”

Evam looked like he was searching for words, something that modern doctors and analysts do a lot these days. They are more careful with words than writers. “I would describe it as being outside of the norm; we who are the norm are called ‘typicals.’”

“And unlike my child, these people survive, grow up, and live by themselves? They have a normal lifespan?”

“Yes. Contrary to popular perceptions and beliefs, their lifespan is typical and they are independent. With some exceptions, of course.”

Ranvir scratched his head, for once. Nothing was resolved at this meeting but at least a seed was sown. And as long as Ranvir Pratap had a puzzle on his plate he couldn’t rest.

* * *

A few weeks passed before Evam received a call asking for another meeting.

“Go through it again,” said Ranvir once they were seated. “Just take me through this, slowly.”

Evam tried to explain. He guessed that Ranvir would have done his homework. “Imagine people who are diagnosed late, perhaps even as adults, because what they have is not considered an illness. It has no cure or treatment and is a lifelong condition. You could be living with such a person, initially not knowing and then at some point feeling that something is ‘wrong’ without being able to put your finger on it. Often parents take such children or young adults to doctors. They suspect something is either wrong or something is missing. It is a small niggling matter that won’t go away. It is not easy for them to describe what makes them uneasy.”

“And they come to you after all the other tests have proven fruitless?”

Evam nodded, then flipped through four case files. He pulled one out and showed the cover to Ranvir. “Munna. That’s his name. His mother thought he had eye trouble because he kept bumping into things, often toppling them over, and rather than appear guilty he seemed if anything a little surprised. What the hell? he would blurt, every time. He looked awkward somehow. His mother felt he was making faces at her even if he did not move a muscle. I brought him to a dart board in my office, made him stand eight feet away and throw darts. He was clumsy and the score was awful but the result wasn’t important. The fact is, he would lose his balance throwing that tiny object—he actually fell once.”

He showed Ranvir a photograph of the young lad. He had a man’s face and a child’s expression. Munna was looking away from the camera even while facing it. Evam took the next file and wiped some dust off it. “Tapas, a boy from Orissa. Thought to have some impediment because he didn’t participate in much conversation, was extremely shy, took a lot of time to reply when spoken to, and when he did, he would drift off into unconnected subjects. On a hunch I asked him if he could recite poetry and he did so for the next five minutes, without a break. He reeled off three pages of Shakespeare, verbatim, without stopping. He was perfect to the letter, but I had a bad feeling. I noticed his diction was unvaried and there was no feeling. Halfway through, his parents looked toward me with an expression that said, We told you so.”

He lingered on the third file, turning it over and taking his time before opening it. “Kumaran,” he finally said. “A bright child who is very good at math. He would go for treks in the city and return hours later, having forgotten why he left in the first place. He could not tie his shoelaces. They suspected dyslexia but it was never diagnosed. Kumaran is an obsessive sort and has unreal knowledge of unimportant and unconnected things. He is quite happy to be by himself in his world. I asked Kumaran to take a shirt off my rack and fold it. I watched him do it. He would measure every angle of every fold, computing, calculating, and when he was done he had a slight smile as if he had solved a puzzle in his head, an efficient puzzle that was resolved with a precise fold.” The photograph showed the kid wearing a hood, under which his recessed eyes gave him a mysterious presence.

Evam took a long pause, the fourth file resting unopened between them, then said, “The fourth fellow remains a puzzle. I took him to the dart board. He stood, all six feet of him, erect, perfectly proportioned, fair, good-looking like an actor, and he did badly. He was a little surprised, I think, to be scoring low. And almost in disgust he turned away from the board as he flung his last dart. Bingo. It was a bull’s-eye. I asked him to do that again, five times. He looked away from the dart board and threw. Five hits in a row, each was dead center; it was unreal. This was a rare gift. It wasn’t chance.”

“What’s his name?” asked Ranvir.

“Karan,” said Evam. “An orphan,” he added, “like in the epics.”

It was time for Ranvir to voice his doubts. “Nobody will question me if I recruit left-handers,” he said. “Why are some people left-handed? I’ve researched it but I could never find an answer. Some people will question me if I knowingly recruit gays. For some reason the armed forces and the police approach it differently than, say, the fashion industry. But a gay person can still be a good cop, and I think we can all agree on that. Why are some people gay? I’m not sure we have that answer, do we?”

Evam had suspected that Ranvir would come at him from left field.

“Now, about these Aspies. Is Asperger’s as simple as being left-handed? You said it’s a spectrum, so is it possible that at the low end that’s all there is, just a few traits related to communication, language, and emotive response?”

Evam interjected here: “Why these things occur may not be as important as whether these people can be effective in their job. And if their traits suit your needs, why not use them to your advantage?”

“Why not indeed?” replied Ranvir. “If we can wire robots to do a job, then why not use those who are differently wired?”

Evam winced at the comparison with robots, but attributed it to the free-flowing discussion.

“Are these people stable, these Aspies?” Ranvir continued. He was pacing around the office now, examining the shelves.

“You mean the condition? That’s a great question. Yes, they do not ‘improve,’ nor do they ‘deteriorate’ with any of the factors. But the statistics are inadequate too.”

Ranvir returned to his chair and sighed before Evam made one last heartfelt pitch.

“These are four self-aware kids who are comfortable with who they are. Today you can see them and hear them without preconceived notions and prejudice, and even speak to them online in a world without walls, where they have created a sophisticated underground culture of their own. They are precious to me, but few organizations find them employable.”

* * *

It was an education and it was also the kind of development that excited Partha. Yet even before he could decide on a course of action that would calm Ranvir down, he found Tiwari at his doorstep. “Panduranga was compromised,” he said. Tiwari carried evidence that pointed to Ranvir and his team blithely assuming that there was no obvious link between Atmaram Bhosle and him, but counterintelligence had alerted Partha. To Partha, it was obvious that the animosity between Ranvir Pratap and Tiwari was getting ugly and growing untenable. He had to intervene. He again called the chief of counterintelligence, who unsurprisingly began with a curse.

“The problem with you myrandi rice-eaters is that you come running to me holding your backsides the moment there’s trouble. Of course I won’t meet you.”

Partha explained the situation patiently: “Sir, I hope you know that I’m just filling in temporarily. I’ve extended my contract just to calm things down between these two.”

“I’m not so sure they should have given you an extension,” replied Mishra. “You are an academic banchod, Parthasarathy; we all know that. You studied dirty toilet paper to unearth clues about civilization. What do you call it again?”

“Evolutionary psychology,” Partha replied.

Eventually Mishra relented and they mutually agreed to plant someone in each team’s office as an impartial observer. There was already one such person on Tiwari’s team, an intelligent, multilingual Trojan deputized by Mishra himself. But Mishra refused to spare anyone else. “Let Tiwari hire one of his own and send him to Ranvir’s office. I just hope he manages to stay alive.”

Tiwari summoned his tag team of Kamte and Pandey to call for one of his new recruits, Vishwa.

“Sir?” queried a surprised Kamte. “Vishwa? The guy is too green behind his ears. He’ll wet his pants at the first sign of trouble.”

Tiwari was in no mood for advice.

Vishwa was a short man who wore a red tilak on his forehead. His hair was well oiled and perfectly parted. One side of his mouth was perpetually occupied by gutka, a potent combination of tobacco and catechu. That was the source of his bravado. The fellow was shape-shifting; in the office he looked like a peon, in a railway station he could resemble a coolie. Tiwari called him a universal socket, one who would fit in anywhere.

His briefing was brief.

“Remember: you do not know me, you never came here, and nobody will come to your rescue.”

Vishwa gulped, swallowed his gutka, choking at its bitterness. He hit the back of his head with his palm to stop coughing.

“Tomorrow you report to the front,” Tiwari instructed. “There are four wolves out there and one lion. Please keep a close eye on the wolf called Karan, especially after office hours.”

“What should I do if he sees me following him, sir-ji?” asked Vishwa.

“Say your prayers.”

More gutka went into his mouth before he found his voice again. “Sir-ji, is this an important job?”

“Jaanbaaz,” replied Tiwari with a smile. “You could bet your life on it.”

* * *

The next day Vishwa reported to Crime Branch under the guise of a chai-wallah. He was assigned to the pantry. He did three rounds on the first day and broke two tumblers. He was so on edge that the first time he saw Ranvir he spilled tea all over the aluminum tray he was carrying. Goose bumps were sprouting along his arms. Gods were queuing up in his head and he named them all under his breath. This kuphiya was going to miss the honor roll.

The first week was uneventful. Yet his digestion was shot, his face had lost color, and he grew suddenly fearful of shadows. He arrived at Tiwari’s adda on the weekend looking like a ghost.

“Anything to report?” barked Tiwari.

“One suicide case, sir-ji, nothing else.”

“Is something the matter with you? Why are you shaking—have you given up gutka or something?”

Vishwa’s struggled to get any words out.

“Somebody bring him some water,” ordered Tiwari. Pandey arrived with a full glass from the cooler and Vishwa drained it.

“So what exactly were you doing for a full week out there?” asked Tiwari.

“Sir, I drove the jeep. Karan-sir does not like driving. He found out that I could drive and from the second day I became the driver.”

“Good. So you went around with them?”

“Yes sir. Ranvir-sir and Karan-sir both go together, and I drive.”

“What did they discuss, bhosadeke? Do I have to keep prompting you?”

“Sir-ji, they kept complaining that there were no assignments. They said they would soon have to look for employment in a laundry or a car wash.”

Tiwari was delighted. “Excellent. That’s good news. What else?”

“They were asked to go check out a suicide case. Mr. Ranvir said it was an insult that he had to cover such silly cases.”

Tiwari laughed and examined the lines on his hands as if what was written there was finally coming true. “Anything else?”

“That’s it, sir,” mumbled Vishwa. He wiped his brow with a cloth that he had wrapped around his hand. It had red stains.

Tiwari sat back and glared at him. “Then go back tomorrow.”

Vishwa wanted to die, he wanted to curl up in a corner and bid the world goodbye. “Sir-ji,” he said, stuttering, “I do not w-want to go back.”

“Why?”

“I think they know who I am. Mr. Ranvir keeps looking at me.”

“Gandu, I am looking at you too!” shouted Tiwari. “You are supposed to be a bahurupi.”

“I think we are wasting our breath,” Pandey whispered into Tiwari’s ear.

“Look at this hopeless fellow. What’s bothering you?” Tiwari pressed.

“Sir-ji, they asked me if I was from Bihar. I said yes. Then Karan-sir took me to the pantry. He held my hand tightly and brought me there. The place is dirty and the walls are full of soot from the stove. Karan-sir asked me, Do you know what our team is called? I shook my head. He held my head with one hand and pointed it toward the wall above the stove. With the other hand he scraped the soot.” Vishwa let out a sob before continuing. “Some lettering appeared on the wall in capitals. Somebody had carved into the wall with a knife. Two words that every Bihari dreads. Sir, he then took a penknife, asked me to close my eyes, and he carved it on my hand.” He held out his hand and looked away.

Pandey unwrapped the cloth that covered the bloody hand. He turned Vishwa’s palm upward and stretched it under Tiwari’s nose. On it, etched in red, were the words RANVIR SENA.

Kamte let out a low whistle. The Ranvir Sena was one of the most feared militant outfits in Bihar, famed for ruthless executions. It was banned by the Indian government.

Tiwari cocked his head and clucked his tongue. “I get the message. They know who you are and where you come from.”

* * *

“You did what? You carved the guy’s hand with a knife?”

Karan examined the signs that had given him away. On his shirtsleeve was the blood of a man, and outside the window warm winds had been blowing hard all morning. It was a dry, bad wind. The koels in the trees called out for rain and the wind chimes on balconies were rattling and whistling off-key. He knew this was the season when arguments quickly grew hot, a time when people fought for no reason. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“Yes,” he said.

She bit her tongue. “What did you carve? Your name? I believe your name serves as enough of a warning these days.”

“Actually, our team has been given a name by Mr. Tiwari, one that belonged to a murderous gang in Bihar. He calls us the Ranvir Sena.”

“How nice,” she replied. “And do you have a coat of arms? Perhaps a motto too? Tell me, what is your motto, Karan?” she said incredulously.

“For by wise counsel thou shalt make thy war.” Karan recited it without hesitation or irony.

They fought that day; they fought like hell. And that night Karan roamed the chawl and the street outside trying to tire himself to sleep.