Diamond Babu Strikes Again

Diamond Babu Strikes Again

They were smiling at him, as always. Thyalan Babu stared longingly at the happy face of his wife, his daughter's cheeky grin, and his son's toothless toddler laugh. The three of them had been captured so beautifully in the photograph, now placed securely in his wallet. But it would be long before he could see those who were in the photograph. With a twinge of sadness, he closed his wallet, and placed it and the memories it contained in his pocket. Focusing on the job at hand, he quickened his pace, taking purposeful steps down the corridor which led to the interrogation chamber.

At the entrance to the chamber, the guard stood at attention as Babu approached.

"Has the subject been brought to the room?" he asked.

"Yes Sir."

"Good. Remember, no disturbance until I am finished."

"Yes Sir. Good luck in the mines, Diamond Sir."



It had been years since Thyalan Babu had joined the police force. Early in his career, he had engaged in many an encounter with criminals, gangs and terrorists. It was a role where the magnitude of his success was determined by his gun's body count. He had never liked it. A great admirer of Gandhi, Thyalan always wondered if there was a better way, if crime could be thwarted without bloodshed. ‘They deserve to die', some people would say. However, Thyalan knew that there were many others who deserved to die, but walked the Earth freely, enjoying their lives, minting money and ruling nations. The bullets only found those unfortunate enough to be at the bottom of the crime pyramid.

He began to understand them, to figure out the subtleties that drove the minds of those on the wrong side of the Law. Be they petty thieves, rioters, rapists, terrorists; he would talk to them, and they would talk back. With a touch of humanity, he could eke out information from the most radical fundamentalist, or a confession from the most hardened criminal.

People often asked him what his secret was. There was no secret, he always replied, just a simple truth: they are the same as us. The difference was in the circumstances. One born to affluent professionals would quite likely grow to be an affluent professional. Perhaps the same person might have fared differently if born into a different environment. He had spoken to many men who had been jailed for their felonies. Their stories made him cringe. Broken homes, penniless parents, the burning desire for wealth and fortune, and then ... the mistake that cost them dear.

It was in the interrogation chambers that he had earned his odd nick name: Diamond Babu. It nicely rhymed with his real name, but had a genuine meaning behind it. From the darkness of criminal minds, Thyalan ‘Diamond' Babu could slowly prize out shining gems of information.

So it was, that from the world of gun battles, Thyalan Babu had moved to something much more agreeable to him. He became a ‘Negotiation Specialist', as the police top brass described him. Diamond Babu's words, it was said, could solve a case faster than a speeding bullet.

Today, he had been called to try and crack a typical case. A bomb blast had ripped through a public bus stand two weeks ago, killing several people and maiming many more. A special Counter-Terrorist task force investigating the attack had tracked down a few leads and had just made their first arrest. Usman Saiffudin, from a family of jewellers, had been picked up three days ago, and the papers had screamed: ‘Bomb blast mastermind arrested'.

Of course, Thyalan knew that Usman was anything but a mastermind. He had certainly been in contact with the terrorists, but his role in the plot was providing them shelter and money, perhaps even a way to escape the city. Police had hoped that he would be a soft target, but it had proven hard to extract information from him. So Thyalan had been brought in, to do what he did best.



With a final preparatory breath, Thyalan composed himself, put on his most benign expression, and entered the room. The familiar darkness greeted him, as his eyes accommodated to the minimal lighting. He never understood why interrogation chambers were constructed like this. Surely, a dark, forbidding chamber was hardly the place to try and make suspects open up. Of course, interrogations were rarely about making people open up. They were about breaking the spirit of men through intimidation and violence, until they spilt every secret they held to the powers that be.

Thyalan's eyes had completely adjusted to the darkness by now, and he took a good look at today's subject. Usman sat at a table; arms chained together, legs chained to the chair. He was staring resolutely at the table, and did nothing to acknowledge that Thyalan had just entered the room. But his furrowed brow and fidgeting fingers gave away the fear he was feeling. Thyalan knew that he must have already been subjected to a great deal of verbal abuse from the investigators and jailors.

Across the table, a chair waited for Thyalan. He walked over to it, lifted it, and carried it over to the other side of the table, where he placed it besides Usman's chair and seated himself. Usman glanced sideways in surprise. Thyalan meanwhile, was happy to see that he had already had an effect on the suspect.

"Usman Saiffudin, son of Riyaz and Farah, part of a jewellery family business. That is you, right?"

Usman responded with a curt nod.

"Good. Are you married?"

This time Usman was surprised enough to raise his head and face Thyalan. Almost immediately though, he jerked his head away to stare at the table again. A quick shake of the head answered the question. Thyalan smiled ... eye contact had been established.

"I see. You know, I used to be married," said Thyalan, taking a small book out of his pocket. "I have preserved all my memories of my marriage in here," he added, placing the book on the table, in front of Usman. "Memories of how it began and how it ended."

Usman looked up at the book, and asked: "What is that?"

Glad at having evoked the reaction, Thyalan reached out for the book saying: "A photo album."

He opened the album, and tilted it a bit so that Usman could see. A bright picture of a younger Thyalan, and his bride smiled out of a photograph.

"That's my wife, Rekha. We married ten years ago. Not long after that..." Thyalan flipped to the next page, "we had our first child."

Looking at the photo of the toothless baby, Usman opened his mouth to say something but shut it quickly.

"It was a girl, in case you are wondering," Thyalan answered, guessing the question. "We named her Banu."

"Why are you showing me this?" asked Usman, his voice laced with hatred and suspicion.

Thyalan turned to face Usman. "Usman, I know you are no fool. This is an interrogation. I am trying to learn something about you. Before that, I feel it is only fair that you learn something about me."

"I don't want to know anything about you!" retorted Usman, barely controlling the rage in his voice.

"Unfortunately," replied Thyalan, in an ice cool tone, "you are chained to the chair on which you sit, so you have no choice but to listen to my story."

Usman glared at Thyalan who held his gaze without wavering. Finally, Usman looked away in a huff.

"Good. Now we can return to my family album. As you can see..." Thyalan turned another page, "our daughter grew up looking just like her mother."

Usman looked at the third photo, with Thyalan's wife and daughter hugging each other at a zoo.

"And just after Banu turned three, we had our second child. It was a boy this time, we called him Krishna."

Thyalan flipped the page again, showing a picture of little Krishna dribbling food all over a napkin.

"Soon after, Banu joined school."

The album was flipped to a page with a photo of the girl proudly wearing her first school uniform. Thyalan stayed at the page for a few moments, and glanced at Usman to make sure that he still had his attention. Then he turned the page again. The photo of the smiling girl gave way to a scene of calamity. The page contained a photo of the smoking remains of a train wreckage, firemen pouring water on burning fires, blood soaked bodies scattered on the ground, people running about in panic.

Usman looked at Thyalan, a lump in his throat. Thyalan was silent, staring at the photo.

"What happened?" asked Usman.

"Five years ago. A terrorist outfit planted three bombs in a crowded train during peak hour. The bombs detonated, ripping the carriages apart and killing nearly everyone aboard. A few hundred people lost their lives that day. Surely, you remember the incident?"

Usman swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes fixed on the chaotic photograph. Thyalan flipped again. Usman gasped. A photo showing a woman's body. The skin had been badly burnt. Despite the burns, the face of Rekha could be made out clearly. She was clearly dead.

"She had been travelling in the train with the children," Thyalan spoke, a hint of grief in his voice. "I was supposed to have gone with them, but at the last minute, I had to stay back because of an urgent duty at the police station. How I wish I had gone with them, I could have been where they are today."

He flipped the page again. This time, Usman let out a small scream when he saw the charred remains of the body of a little girl.

"My poor little Banu," said Thyalan. "I had promised her that before she turned six, we would buy a car to take us everywhere. Until then we had to travel in trains. She would always smile and say ‘But I like trains, Daddy'."

Thyalan paused, his lips drawn tight, face screwed up to hold back the emotions. A single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek, leaving a bright liquid scar in its wake.

"And my son..." Thyalan started turning the page but Usman reached out with his bound arms, and stayed Thyalan's hand.

"No, stop."

"Don't worry," said Thyalan, "his body was so small, they could not find any remains whatsoever. He had become part of the ruin of steel and ash."

Pushing Usman's arms away, he turned the page. It was an aerial photo that showed the wreckage in its entirety. Taken from great height, it captured the sheer magnitude and horror of the tragedy.

"I was devastated when it happened," said Thyalan. "I cried endlessly. I wished I could just die right then and there. My parents, friends, colleagues all tried to comfort me. It was all to no avail. I just could not come to terms at having lost my wife, the one I shared so much love with. And my children! They were so young; they had so much ahead of them, why did this have to happen to them? Why had someone done this to them? Why had someone done this to ME?

"And slowly, the grief hardened and was mutilated into anger - anger at the injustice that had been perpetrated upon me, upon my family. Seething with rage, I swore that I would get my revenge. I would find the person responsible for taking my family's lives, and I would make him pay. I was in the best position to do it, being in the police force that was assigned to track down the terrorists.

"Feverishly, I worked, investigating every clue, every lead, and every tiny shred of evidence that came my way. We made arrests. We found people who had aided the attack in one way or another. It took a year of searching, though, before we found the man I was looking for, the person who had ruined my life."

Another page in the album was turned. The next photo was a police mug shot taken of a person who had just been arrested. He was dressed in jail overalls and had the look of a defeated man.

"Chandan Prakash, Maoist rebel. He had masterminded the attack, organising resources, arranging for funds, and making use of a network of extremists to plant and detonate the bombs. I still remember the day we found him. He was hiding in a hut in a village near the city. I led the unit which launched the assault and we nabbed him with minimum fuss. As he stood before me, handcuffed, his face set in a permanent scowl, I felt my blood boiling and my hands itching to throttle him right there. I wished to inflict so much torture and pain on him. It was only my respect for my uniform that held me back.

"One of my fellow officers gave him a good shelling right there. He asked Chandan why he performed such a heinous act. And Chandan responded! He roared about how his people had been neglected for years, how he did it to help the downtrodden against those who persecuted him, his family and his community.

"At that point I lost my cool and shouted at him: ‘But why me? What have I done to you? I have not persecuted any of you. Then WHY have you destroyed my family and ruined my life?'

"Then he looked at me and asked: ‘Who are you?'"

Thyalan paused his narration and looked at Usman, who was staring at him wide eyed.

"Who are you! That's what he asked me. And in that one moment it all hit me ... he did not know me, or plan to ruin my life, or anything of the sort. All those months I had been living with the rage of someone who had been wronged. I had taken it so personally. Just like he had! He too had thought the world was out to get him. We had both made the same mistake, and had I not had the sense and education to vindicate myself through legal means, I too might have ended up like him. And that, I realised, was the truth behind extremism! It is a vicious cycle. Every person lives in the centre of their own world. When impoverished, downtrodden, or struck by tragedy, they think they have been attacked, when, in fact, they are nothing but faceless figures to the perpetrators.

"This realisation made me cope with my loss with far greater ease. The anger had left, and only sadness remained. I vowed that I would fight the forces of extremism in the best way possible, educating people into seeing that the world is NOT out to get them, and that there is always a better way to fight for a greater good. It was the least I could do for my departed wife and children."

Thyalan allowed another pause, to allow his words to sink in. Then he continued.

"Just think how many families have been destroyed by the bomb YOU helped place in the bus stand. Usman, there is no power that can undo the tragedy that you have helped create, but you have the power to help us ensure that the people behind the attack never get the chance to repeat their actions. You can give us information to stop them. Will you help us?"

Usman looked straight at Thyalan, and for the first time, his eyes did not waver. He exhaled in anguish, and nodded.

"Thank you Usman. I shall call the other officers, and we will listen to all that you have to say."

Usman broke out in tears. Thyalan stood up, slipped the album into his pocket, gave Usman a quick pat on the shoulders and walked out of the room.



Outside, the guard grinned at him, "Success, Sir?"

"Yes."

"Diamond Babu strikes again! Congratulations."

"Thank you."

Thyalan quickened his steps and headed down to the main station. The senior officers who were handling the case were waiting.

"Any luck Thyalan?"

"He has agreed to share information with us."

"What! Lord, you really are Diamond Babu. How did you do it?"

"Photoshop."

"What?"

"Never mind Sir, it's my trade secret. I suggest we do not waste time and get as much out of Usman as we can before he has a change in mood."

"Right you are! Come on."

As the officers trooped down the corridor to the mines where the latest diamond had been dug out, Thyalan whipped out his wallet, opened it, and gazed happily at his family's faces. Their happiness in the picture was always so reassuring, after having seen the grisly doctored images of their purported demise. It really was quite incredible what you could do with digital image editing tools these days. And a bit of acting, thought Thyalan, indulging himself a bit. He did do quite a convincing act. And it served the twin noble causes of saving interrogation subjects from needless abuse, and extracting vital information to assist in investigations. And besides, he might have made up the story, but everything else he had spoken, he sincerely believed in.

He found himself wishing he was at home playing with his kids. Just a little longer, he told himself, his work for the day was not complete yet.