By Vimal Kapoor
In the seventies, Dehradun was a sleepy town with abundant greenery and minimal pollution. The main town extended only up to ‘Amritdhara Pharmacy’ near Dilaram Bazaar; beyond that, it was a desolate stretch. After passing the ‘blind school,’ the small locality was known as ‘Jakhan’. This area was not considered part of the main town, as its inhabitants would say they were going to ‘Shehar’ (town) if they had any business near the clock tower.
Beyond the old Shiva temple was the Jakhan police post, with Inspector Bhim Singh in charge. Tall and athletic, Inspector Singh, a muscular figure in his mid-forties, was familiar with almost every face in Jakhan. Any new face wanting to settle there made him uneasy and had to undergo his scrutiny.
The slumberous area of Jakhan was known for its quiet streets, friendly neighbours, and picturesque landscapes. The only proper shop in the area was ‘Bhalla Grocery Store,’ run by the genial Mr Bhalla, and a small, popular eating joint – “Rinkoo da Dhaba”.
Gulmohar trees lined either side of the road, and the main traffic in Jakhan consisted of tourists from the plains driving up to the nearby hill station, Mussoorie. Located between rolling hills and dense forests of ‘Johri’, it seemed like the perfect place to lead a peaceful life. That is until the stranger arrived.
It was a foggy December evening when he first appeared, walking down the main street with a worn backpack slung over his shoulder. His arrival was marked by the sudden screeching of tires as a black Ambassador sped away into the mist after dropping him.
Inspector Bhim Singh kept a watchful eye on the newcomer. With over two decades of service in Jakhan, Singh was an experienced cop and something about this stranger disturbed him. Singh decided to pay a visit to the local ‘Rinkoo da dhabha’, where the man had been seen eating alone.
The bell above the dhabha’s door jingled as Singh entered, his eyes scanning the room. He spotted the stranger in a corner, nursing a ‘kullhar’ of steaming ‘chai’. Singh approached, his boots thudding softly against the tiled floor.
“Mind if I join you?” Singh asked, his voice steady but firm.
The stranger looked up, revealing piercing black eyes. “Sure, inspector,” he said, his voice calm and composed.
Singh slid into the chair opposite the man. “You new in Jakhan?”
The stranger nodded. “Just passing through. Name’s Kaalicharan.”
Singh scrutinized Kaalicharan’s face, searching for any hint of deceit. “Where are you headed?”
Kaalicharan shrugged. “Nowhere in particular. Just needed a change of scenery.”
As they spoke, the box type black and white television, perched on a wooden rack flickered to life, interrupting their conversation with a breaking news report. The Doordarshan anchor’s voice filled the room. “Authorities are on the lookout for a suspect involved in a series of murders across the state of Uttar Pradesh. The suspect, described as a dusky male in his thirties with dark curly hair and black eyes, is considered extremely dangerous.”
Singh’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked back at Kaalicharan, whose eyes were fixed on the screen. The description matched perfectly.
Before Singh could react, Kaalicharan bolted from the place, knocking over his tea. Singh sprang to his feet, chasing Kaalicharan out of the dhabha and into the foggy night. Singh radioed for back up, his breath visible in the cold night air. “Suspect on foot, heading north towards the woods of ‘Johri’. Be careful, he’s dangerous.”
Kaalicharan’s silhouette darted through the mist, disappearing into the dense forest at the edge of ‘Johri Road’. Singh followed– his flashlight cutting through the darkness. The woods were eerily silent, save for the crunching of leaves beneath their feet.
Suddenly, a twig snapped behind Singh. He whirled around, gun drawn, but saw nothing. His nerves were on edge. He pressed forward, deeper into the woods, until he stumbled upon an old, abandoned room.
The termite infested door creaked as Singh pushed it open, his flashlight illuminating the dust-covered interior. He stepped inside, every muscle tensed. The sound of breathing reached his ears, and he turned to find Kaalicharan standing in the corner, a sinister smile on his face.
“You shouldn’t have followed me, inspector,” Kaalicharan said, his voice dripping with menace.
Singh aimed his gun at Kaalicharan. “It’s over. Put your hands up.”
Kaalicharan chuckled. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
In a swift motion, Kaalicharan lunged at Singh, knocking the gun from his hand. They grappled– the struggle intense and brutal. Singh’s training came in handy, and he managed to pin Kaalicharan to the ground, cuffing his hands behind his back.
Back-up arrived moments later, their flashlights illuminating the scene. Singh stood, catching his breath, as Kaalicharan was hauled to his feet.
Singh watched as the stranger was taken away, a sense of apprehension settling over him. Jakhan’s tranquillity had been shattered, and he knew it would take more than an arrest to restore it.
Kaalicharan was sent to the crowded courthouse near ‘Doon Hospital ‘and presented before the magistrate. The magistrate took two minutes to send him to judicial custody with no consideration of bail. He was driven with the other prisoners on a bus to the jail on Haridwar Road. It was just another day in the life of Officer Bhim Singh, but for Kaalicharan, it was the end of the road.
(Vimal Kapoor, a Dehradun resident, is passionate about literature, creative writing, cricket and exploration through travel)
