The Story of My Assassins (57 page)
Over the years Hathoda Tyagi struck not only in several outlying districts of Uttar Pradesh but also as far as Ludhiana in the Punjab, Asansol in West Bengal, Jorhat in Assam, Nagpur in Maharashtra, Bhilwara in Rajasthan, Shimla in Himachal Pradesh, Vadodara in Gujarat, and once even in the very citadel of the underworld, Bombay. Many of these killings were never attributed to him, but enough were for his name to acquire a dread ring.
All his killings displayed a trademark violence, a certain brutality of assault. It came from that explosion in the head. If it was the hammer, the skull was caved in, the face smashed; if the exquisite 908, the barrel was inserted through the ear or the mouth or the nose and the brains blown out. Some said there had been cases where the barrel had been put up the ass and the bullet travelled into the brain. Those post-mortems, they said, were many pages long.
If it was curing or crippling that was called for, Guruji’s words
to him would be ‘make him wise’. Then he only used the hammer or his rough hands. He was big and burly and still running with the daily regime of weights and push-ups taught to him by his sports mentor, and he could delicately break bones for hours till the recipient had become fully ‘wise’. Fingers, toes, ankles, knees, elbows, teeth, nose, ears, testicles. Sometimes by just twisting an arm he could help men find instant wisdom in an operatic wail. He did not personally care too much for curing and crippling; it was Guruji’s great generosity that he often chose it. Hathoda Tyagi preferred the explosion in his head, that heady moment of pure potency and vengeance, the finality of the stilled brain. Only dead men were wise men. Cured and crippled men could once again become unwise.
In those years, even though he had no personal needs or demands, the upper storey of the farmhouse became his exclusive domain, and the old man was reduced to nothing but an old man serving him. Each time Hathoda Tyagi returned from an operation—successful, unscathed, taciturn—the old man said, ‘Behanchod, you are definitely the favoured messenger of Yamraj! He alone knows how many souls he has ordered you to dispatch to him! I know you are here to see me off too!’
In his room with his many dogs—never less than five wrapped around his legs—he woke each morning covered in dog hair. When the old man’s cow died, he got him to bring in a young buffalo and soon tutored the gentle animal to lap his scalp. He christened her Shanti too, and felt he had rediscovered an old elusive peace.
That was the closest he came to connecting back to his life as a boy. He never went back to his home; never met his family again. Every now and then a man sent by Gwalabhai went and delivered a sheaf of rupees to his parents and checked on their needs. His sisters were married with children. The last one’s wedding had been a flamboyant affair, befitting the sibling of a growing legend. Besides bundles of currency notes, Gwalabhai had sent three sets of gold ornaments and four armed men to ensure that all went smoothly.
On that occasion—as in Hindi films—everyone expected the feared brother to suddenly show up. But Hathoda Tyagi was too removed from his family, and Gwalabhai had cautioned him against going—Donullia’s gang had thin purchase in western Uttar Pradesh, and the number of his enemies were growing in direct proportion to his victims. A marriage, a sentimental, showy moment was the perfect place to find and nail him. It was not for them to know that Donullia’s most effective hitman was neither showy nor sentimental.
Unable to contain himself, Joginder had had an episode some years ago and once again turned on his cousin. He was now dead. Lesser hitmen from the gang’s stables had done the needful. Apart from his standing, Gyanendra Tyagi’s holdings had grown—close to two hundred bighas. A red tractor worked his fields, and the house they lived in had piped water and sanitary fittings in pink bought in the town.
In those years Hathoda Tyagi came to know several members of the gang. Some nameless, transiting through; some regular couriers and informers, who brought in ammunition, money, news, and the death warrants Guruji was writing up. Prime among the regulars was Kaka, a dark, thin, optimistic Sikh with a wasted left arm, who told him a new story of the great Donullia’s exploits each time they met. Beaming with pride he would say, ‘Fighting Aurangzeb’s armies, Guru Gobind Singh had declared, Sava lakh se ek ladaoon! That’s exactly what our Guruji does!’ Each follower of mine will vanquish a multitude.
It stirred Hathoda Tyagi immeasurably. He could see himself astride a big white horse, slicing through ranks of oppressors, restoring the balance of good in the world. More stirring still were his encounters with some of the key associates of the great chieftain. Hulla Mallah, big as a door, with a gentle voice, and hands so big they could crush a man’s skull like an orange. Kana Commando, blind in the left eye, sharp in the tongue, capable of taking apart and putting together a weapon by flickering candlelight, full of deep analysis and
strategy. And the man with the ravine running down his face, Katua Kasai, the real cool killer, with blade or bullet, mostly by Donullia’s side, laconic, wiry, capable of drinking an entire bottle of country liquor—Shiva’s prasad—and remaining cogent.
These men would arrive unannounced in the dead of night, and the old man would scurry about cobbling together food and bed for them. They came trailed by many armed men who hung around the yard, smoking and talking. Sometimes they came merely to convalesce from infection and wound; at other times for a meeting with Gwalabhai, or Bajpaisahib.
The farm, flush by the forest, far from the town and village, an indistinct dot on the great Gangetic plain, was a key and permanent outpost and was not exposed to other associates. The meetings with policemen, arms suppliers, traders, businessmen, and local politicians were held in shifting locations in the forest and the town.
If it became necessary to bring someone to the farm, the blindfold was deployed. Often it was used with medics who were brought in to treat fevers and injury. There was a regular doc, Srivastavji, with a Hitler moustache and thick glasses, on the rolls, but sometimes he needed to bring in assistants, and even other doctors. At such a time he too was brought in blindfolded. In a small room downstairs was a big wooden table used for surgical procedures. Directly above it hung three fat 200-watt bulbs, which when switched on necessitated the turning off of all the farm’s lights.
Occasionally this was done with traders with whom terms had to be negotiated. It was not about the usual protection money, but new deals, including the commissioning of actions to neutralize enemies. At such a time one of the big boys from the ravines—Kana Commando, Hulla Mallah, Katua Kasai—was always present to provide a whiff of the authentic and to strike terror into the heart. Every negotiation was done in the name of Donullia Gujjar; every twist of the screw carried his name.
Hathoda Tyagi, with his growing reputation, was a hulking
presence at these summits. He never spoke and he seldom followed the train of the conversation. What he did was to observe with fascination the fear that gripped rich men in the face of physical violence. Men who would have been ruthless and dismissive with underlings, men with fortunes they could not burn in three lifetimes, wheedled and whinged in the presence of Donullia’s men. And yet, the moment they had to commission the killing of another, they acquired a rare bravura.
The assassin understood that wealth and station do not finally provide freedom from fear; only physical courage does. He felt truly free, blessed by one who was also truly free. Yet, in all those years, for all his special status, for all the wonderful missives Donullia sent him, Hathoda Tyagi did not once catch sight of his great and liberated patron. Each time he made an inquiry he was told the meeting was soon to take place; that Guruji was no less eager to meet him; that a new crisis, a new danger was keeping him occupied.
Often rumours floated up to him from the old man. Of expansions, alliances, political manoeuvrings. A new plant to make aerated drinks; a twenty-room hotel with air-conditioning; another cinema hall; an engineering college; differences with Bajpaisahib; a brewing axis with the new dispensation in Lucknow; perhaps a legislator’s ticket for Gwalabhai. None of it held any interest for the assassin. He knew none of this had anything to do with the great brigand. These were the petty material concerns of the men around him, including his brother Gwalabhai. What excited Hathoda Tyagi were the stories of Donullia’s latest strike, his most recent escapade.
And the brigand kept his legend alive by striking ruthlessly several times a year. In one brutal reminder he sent back the nineteen-year-old son of a Yadav landlord in nineteen pieces over nineteen days—in polythene bags, like stale meat—after having abducted him from the midst of his nineteenth birthday celebrations.
In September 1997, Hathoda Tyagi sensed an opportunity to finally see his Guru. That month the entire district was feverish with
expectation. In every house and office, on every village chaupal and town corner, the question was: would he really risk it?
Two years before, Donullia Gujjar had decreed a massive temple to Hanuman—avatar of Shiva, protector of Rama, lord of strength, courage, celibacy, purity. It was built in granite and marble, with pillars and steeple of cast iron. The plinth was set at an imposing six feet, and the huge central statue of the god carrying the mountain with the Sanjivini herb had been carved by a team of master craftsmen from Rajasthan. The bell hung at the entrance of the sanctum weighed nearly a ton and had been strung on a thick girder. The sound of it tolling vibrated the floor and could be heard for miles and miles. The brigand chief had paid for it all, and now that it was complete, a date had been set for its consecration.
Sadhus, mendicants, fakirs, priests had been invited from everywhere, not just Chitrakoot and Varanasi. Donullia wanted to feed and honour at least one thousand and one holy men to commemorate its inauguration, and he wanted to do it himself. His intention had been announced and thousands were planning to turn up to catch a darshan of the god and the legend. So was the largest complement of policemen ever assembled in the district for a civil action, led by the superintendent himself.
On the evening of 24 September, when Hathoda Tyagi and the old man turned off the highway onto the link road that led to the temple that lay at the foot of a hillock, they found themselves swept up in a surging sea of humanity. Men and women of all ages, riding cycles, bullock-carts, motorcycles, scooters, horse-carts, overflowing tempos, walking, were on a determined pilgrimage. As they slowly negotiated their own motorcycle through this moving mass—their feet stabilizing rudders on the ground—they became one with the charged atmosphere. Everyone was coiled with the expectation of action; everywhere were policemen, in uniform and in plainclothes. The hammerman avoided looking any of them in the eye. In preparation for this excursion, like his leader, he had grown a beard. It
was a risk, but he had his exquisite 908 in the pocket of his jacket. If the occasion required, he could, in an instant slip off the back of the motorcycle and melt into the crowds, pistol cocked and ready.
The river flowed to the rhythm of dholaks and single-stringed mandolins and chants to Shiva and Hanuman. Old men and women shuffled along with the aid of sticks, children travelled on the shoulders of the young. Threading through them were hawkers selling chana and chiki and pink candyfloss and besan burfi from aluminium boxes strung around their backs.
Long before they reached the temple, the river’s flow had slowed to a gutter’s sludge. The old man had turned off the motorbike engine and they were now propelling it forward with their feet. The ardour and tension was thickening around them as the chanting grew louder, swallowing up all small talk.
The temple on the foothills was like a big piece of cake overrun by thousands of ants. There were people up the hill, on the banyan trees, in the barren fields all around. Lights and lanterns were everywhere: in the hands of the faithful, strung up on poles and trees. The chorus of a loud kirtan, with clashing cymbals, ringing bells and the boom of dholaks, was powering out of the inner sanctum—festooned with moving lights—and was being echoed by the concentric rings of fevered devotees that went all the way out and beyond.
Along the plinth of the temple sat a long line of beggars and alms-seekers—cripples, lepers, the blighted and the cursed; limbs missing, limbs gnarled, eyes gouged out; men, women, children. They had travelled from all over, some from adjoining districts, to collect at faith’s altar. Hathoda Tyagi walked down the hellish ranks doling out ten- and twenty-rupee notes, sparking a ripple of cries and blessings. It was what he did whenever he got the opportunity. He had no real use for his money. What went to his family went to his family, the remaining bundles were squandered on meat for the dogs, doles to the old man, and alms to all manner of fakirs and beggars.
Hathoda Tyagi knew the prophecy about himself. As did Guruji and the others in the gang: the boy was blessed. The priest had said, ‘It will not be easy to harm him. His stars are like Hrinyakashyap’s. He can only be harmed in a place that has both sunlight and shade; he can only be harmed when he is moving and not still; he can only be harmed when his belly is full; he can only be harmed when he is hidden from view; he can only be harmed by a slain enemy; and he can only be harmed when he is trapped between friends. For all these things to come together is a near impossibility. Remember, to kill the evil Hrinyakashyap, Lord Vishnu had to appear himself and bend the elements. And as you know, the gods don’t descend into this country any more!’
Hathoda Tyagi also knew that all blessings need to be secured and kept whole by continual acts of generosity and kindness. In the company of vileness the greatest boons were leached of their potency. He gave what he had little need of—his money—and tried to keep what he needed—the benedictions of the wretched—which were the benedictions of the gods.
As the two of them wandered through the crush, they began to spot the men of the gang threaded in the crowd. No one acknowledged the other; blank eyes gave encouragement to look the other way. Gwalabhai stood at the entrance to the sanctum, welcoming the luminaries of the district, who pushed through a narrow path kept open by volunteers for men of privilege who had a first right to the divine. Government officers, landlords, rich traders, media-men, politicians poured through this narrow pipe, greeting Gwalabhai and being ushered in. This was an obeisance to god and a legend. Both would make a reckoning with them—one in this life, the other in the next.