The Night Riders

“Hi Barbie…Hi Ken…Wanna go for a ride?...Sure Ken!”

Rings sub-inspector K. Venkatesan’s mobile phone as he hops on next to the wheel in a white Toyota Qualis for his night ride.

“Ready?” he glances at his two new companions for the late Saturday night’s round from the corner of his eyes. The small curve of his lips and the arched right eyebrow evincing pride and excitement.

“Let’s go,” he nods to the head constable driving the four-wheeler. The engine coughs. The wheels rotate. The disturbing radio cracklings do not stop. And off go the men in khaki to save the world.

As the car sailed on a partly deserted road in Kilpauk, spank, got the head-constable on the head for jumping the signal. Crouching in his seat submissively to the orders of his boss, the head-constable drives to Ega cinemas.

Outside Ega cinema hall, a short well-built man, with curly hair, thick moustache and red angry drunk eyes wide open, walks out of the main gate, with his black t-shirt in his hand, yelling in his fancy blue Sony Ericsson.

The boot of the car opens with a clicking sound, four young men mount in, and it closes with a thud. The four faces, queasy, grave, frightened, try and prove their innocence. With a squeaky voice, one of the four starts narrating what happened in the cinema hall in Tamil.

“Wait till we reach the police station,” commands Venkatesan.

A brawl broke in the cinema hall, right in the beginning of the film, Dev D. The four young IT professionals apparently beat up the drunkard who claims that one of them was sitting on his seat.

“He is too drunk. He fell on his own, sir. We didn’t do anything,” Suresh, one of the four volunteered.

The youngsters squat on the long wooden bench lined across the dilapidated wall with pixeled photographs of missing persons pinned on a soft board, flipping constantly with the fanning. Ancient wooden tables, with broken drawers sit in front of them, right across them and on their side, glistening with blackened dust, edges smoothed by perhaps the constant whipping of the wooden rods, balancing stacks and stacks of files spilling with yellowing paper tied with thin strings. A carton of LG colour screen monitor could be seen trashed on an unreachable shelf, but no sign of an electronic machine in the room. Only paper.

On their right stood tall a locker cupboard, as antique as the tables. Some lockers locked, some unlocked, some broken. A mud coloured overcoat hung from one of the corners of the cupboard.

The man who claimed to have been beaten up, strides in wearing his black t-shirt. The entire room gets filled with a strong stench of liquor. “I have not done any mistake. I don’t want to close this matter. They have beaten me, sir. You look at me,” he says as he willingly lifts the edges of his t-shirt. He stops. “There’s a lady here,” he hesitates. “I am 35 years-old. This is the first time I am wounded,” he continues dramatically blowing on his wound.

As the sub-inspector Venkatesan notes down the vitals of Suresh and his friends, the 35 year old man makes calls after calls from his phone.

“You are educated, but your behaviour is not right,” Venkatesan scolds the young men as they defend themselves.

As Venkatesan walks out to join the arguments going outside the police station, Suresh mutters, “I’m afraid because my parents got to know.”

Meanwhile, one of the accomplices of the man in black walks in the police station with clinched teeth and a stern look. He points a finger to the boys sitting on the bench and warns them. In frustration, the drunkard bangs his glares on the wooden table, breaking it into two.

As the drama unfolds, more and more people gather and move in and out of the police station. Venkatesan, without warning slaps Suresh and his friend Vasanth. With fear and humiliation, 27 years-old Vasanth’s eyes fill with tears.

“This man has political contacts. He has lost his wallet and his bracelet. He wants money from us for that and also for the broken glares,” Suresh whispers.

As the negotiations carry on with other officers taking charge of the matter, Venkatesan slips in his Qualis to continue his rounds. “Everyday we face so many difficulties. Police job is not a bed of roses. It’s a bed of thorns,” smiles Venkatesan.

A hairbrush stuck at the ceiling of the car. Ugly black equipment, with tiny psychotic green and red lights dancing, stared at the policemen from the dashboard. A small pink teddy-bear stuff toy hung from the rear-view mirror, swaying with the rhythm of the car’s speed. With the cracking of the walkie-talkie, Venkatesan stiffens his back and puts on his cap that lay on the hand break.

“The Deputy Commissioner is on night rounds and is in this area,” says Venkatesan.

The 28 year-old deputy commissioner of police, T. S. Anbu, was leaning on his car, commandingly. Sitting on the pavement in front of him was a labourer, crying, almost pleading, sniffing white adhesive sprinkled on his hanky.

The big paunch Inspector appears at the scene, salutes the deputy commissioner and slaps the young labourer on the road who shudders with a squeaky scream. The inspector then drags him behind the van and comes back after a few minutes with three small bottles of whitener. The deputy commissioner nods. The inspector puts the labourer in the van and drives off.

“Every night 100 police jeeps go out on rounds in Chennai, all find at east one or two such people on the roads. These people don’t harm anyone. After a hard day’s work, they just relax. But we can’t leave them on the roads like this. What if they do cause harm? Then the police will be blamed for not doing anything. So we pick these people from the roads. Keep them in the police station for the night and release them in the morning,” Anbu said.

“Our officers work hard 24 hours. There are no fixed hours of duty,” he said, pointing at Venkatesan, who flashed a broad grin. “Last year we caught four Nepali citizens for a petty crime. When we matched their fingerprints, we could solve a 2005 murder case as their fingerprints matched with those found at the crime scene,” he adds.

As the deputy commissioner zip past in his white ambassador, Venkatesan said, “You can’t understand the problems in one night. You have to be with us for 24 hours.”

Venkatesan joined the police services nine years back. He has a 12 year-old boy and a 5 year-old girl. His duty has no fixed hours. Giving night shifts after staying in office for the whole day is something he has become quite used to now. By the time he reaches home, his children are already asleep. He hardly gets to see them. “But I am the only breadwinner of my family. I am happy. This is my career,” he says.

As the cab snails on the roads of Kilpauk, stopping at street shops, making entries in the patta books, Venkatesan recalls his student days. “When I was in the training, I thought to have the uniform,” he said. “Now, I just perform my duties honestly. There is always pressure from the top. If I get transferred, my family will be affected more than me. But I am prepared for it. I am even prepared to die. This is my job.”

“Whatever happens, the police get the first call. Last year, during floods, we spent Rs.5000 to Rs.10,000 from out own pockets to clean the slum area even though it doesn’t come under us. For several hours we were knee deep in the water. If we don’t do anything, people come out on the roads,” he narrates.

The 40 kilometres ride on the dead streets continue, with Venkatesan striking conversations with sleepy guards, lone auto drivers and strangers on the streets, asserting his presence.

As the Qualis stops outside the Abhirami theatre, Venkatesan talks to an Asamese security guard in Hindi.

“Kitna dete hain? (How much do they give you?),” asked Venkatesan.

“Rs.4000,” the guard said.

“Kahana peena? (Does this include food and other supplies),” Venkatesan said.
“Wo apne aap sir (That we have to manage on our own),” replied the guard.

Venkatesan recalled all the years in service with great zeal throughout the night. “I’m not talking from my mouth, I am talking from my heart,” he said. “Have good relations with the police,” smiles 38 years old Venkatesan for whom there are perhaps many more such nostalgic, lonely nights to brave.