Humour - A terrorist in Bangalore

[Shoaib]

A terrorist in Bangalore

Asghar Butt
It was the daily morning meeting, chaired by Police Inspector (SI) Bhagwan Das in the southern Indian city of Bangalore. Bhagwan Das had made it a habit to hold a meeting in the morning to get an update from his subordinates, including Assistant Sub-inspector (ASI), Chandar Pal, about the happenings during the previous night. His standing instructions to the policemen that he should not be disturbed during the night, unless a major catastrophe took place, had made these morning meetings necessary. SI Bhagwan Das had spent a peaceful night in the arms of Arachna Devi, the leading courtesan of the city. Some of the hang over of that night still lingered in his sleepy eyes. Despite that he could feel a sense of suppressed excitement in the demeanour of ASI Chandar Pal and the Head Constable, Ram Dayal. He began tentatively. ‘You have something interesting to report. Haven’t you?’ he asked.
‘In fact we have sir’, replied Chandar Pal, barely hiding his emotions. ‘We have arrested a terrorist’.
His eyes suddenly opened wide and Bhagwan Das almost jumped out of his chair. ‘Why didn’t you call me last night?’, he shouted. ‘I had specifically ordered that I should be immediately called when such a thing happened.’
‘I did ring up your residence sir, two or three times’, replied Chandar Pal. ‘But your wife informed me that you were on the track of a dangerous criminal and may probably be out the whole night.’
‘Oh that,’ said Bhagwan Das, slouching back into the chair. ‘I forgot.’
‘Did you manage to grab the criminal?,’ asked Chandar Pal.
‘I did grab her, I mean him,’ replied Bhagwan Das, ‘but he managed to slip away. Anyway, what about the terrorist you have arrested. Bring him out of the lock up. I want to have a look at him.’
Head Constable Ram Dayal rushed away and came back triumphantly holding a cage in which a small parrot (love bird) was sitting morosely. Bhagwan Das was about to fly into a rage at what he assumed to be a joke his subordinates were trying to play on him, when Chandar Pal sensing the outburst, hastily said, ‘Sir excuse me, before you say anything, may I switch on the radio. It is news time and the radio is bound to say something about this terrorist plot’. Then without waiting for Bhagwan Das’s response he switched on the radio in his pocket. It was All India Radio’s morning news bulletin of August 6, and the news reader, referring to the AFP’s story of that day was saying: ‘Police went into a huddle after an unconscious lovebird, with a coded message tied to one of its legs, was found on the premises of the provincial legislature. The coded message is in Urdu,’ etc.
After listening to the bulletin in silence, Bhagwan Das murmured, ‘I never thought this innocent looking bird could be on such a dangerous mission.’
‘Have you seen the pictures of the culprits of the 11th September attack sir,’ commented Chandar Pal. ‘They too look innocent enough?’
‘But what are we going to do with this bird?,’ asked Bhagwan Das.
‘We should use the third degree to make him confess his part in the dangerous mission he was sent on,’ suggested Ram Dayal.
‘Can he speak?,’ asked Bhagwan Das.
‘He is a parrot after all, small and cute though he may be,’ replied Ram Dayal.
Bhagwan Das shook his head. ‘No, no. That is too risky. He could die during the third degree and we would have learnt nothing. Besides he looks to me a hardened criminal, he is not likely to open his beak easily.’
Chandar Pal nodded in agreement. ‘He must have flown hundreds of miles to our State Assembly to deliver a coded message to some MPA but could not do so, as it fainted. But the bird is surely a tough cookie’.
Bhagwan Das thought for a while and then asked, ‘Could it have come from Pakistan?’
Every one had a shocked look, ‘For our MPAs to be in touch with our worst enemy, is too horrible a thought to contemplate,’ remarked Chandar Pal.
‘But how can you say that he came from Pakistan,’ he asked.
‘Who else but a Pakistani terrorist would write a coded message in Urdu,’ replied Bhagwan Das. ‘Now the question is which one of our MPAs can read Urdu?’
‘Not one, as far as I know,’ said Chandar Pal.
‘Then it may not be an MPA after all. It could be one of employees of the Assembly. I know one or two guards are Muslims,’ said Bhagwan Das thoughtfully. ‘Supposing we go and arrest them under POTA and bring them here, may be they recognise the bird and the bird recognises them. Then it would be just an open and shut case.’
‘I agree sir,’ said Chandar Pal. ‘But before we bust this terrorist gang, shouldn’t we ask someone to read what is written in the coded message?’
‘Right,’ said Bhagwan Das. ‘Arrest the Imam of the first mosque you see, under POTA, for his criminal ability to read Urdu, and bring him over.’
After half an hour, a frightened looking middle aged bearded man is hauled in to read the message. He read.
‘Dear mother, the Indian postal service being totally unreliable, I am sending my pet parrot to you. It is just to say that I have got a job. Love, your son Saleem.’
Bhagwan Das looked triumphant. ‘I knew it had to be a terrorist message. This chap Saleem is the gang leader and the job he is talking about is blowing up the Assembly building.’
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