The road was lit only by the headlights of the small convoy of police vehicles. It was lined with thick forest on both sides, and flawless asphalt that was so smooth that if the city folk saw it they would make reels about it, with captions like, “Guyzzzz, this is not Singapore”. A forested road was not Singapore, of course, but then the reelsfolk were limited like that. One of three Boleros had only one functioning headlight, and its bright-dark illumination added a suitably haunting touch to the evening. 

Inspector Shyam Charan was leading the convoy, the newly-minted SP, a direct IPS, honouring him by his presence on the passenger side. They must have told him at the Academy that this builds morale and camaraderie, if the IPS rides with the Inspector, thought Shyam. This 25-year-old man, rake thin and bespectacled, spectacularly out of place in a uniform, was now the police head of a district that had two million people, 24 police stations and 30 police chowkis. 

Has he even slapped someone in his life? Or even taken a punch in the guts? Shyam thought. This man–a boy no more–out of IIT, who probably hadn’t seen much outside the confines of a coaching institute for most of his teenage life, was now his boss. He had cleared an exam, read some theory that was meaningless in the field, had done some training attachments where everyone treated him like an afsar and mai baap, and had now started his career by outranking his 24 years of service. 

“This bastard will pee his pants if I slap him twice,” Shyam muttered.

“What’s the plan with the thief? The official handle has already posted about our big breakthrough on X. Ask someone to take a photo of the man, and cover his face first otherwise the human-rightswallahs will make a scene,” said the SP. 

“Sir, this guy is a petty thief from Rajpur, probably knows nothing about the highway robberies. We have just picked him up and will release him after a few days.”

“You can’t do that. It is already on social media. Make a case, do the paperwork," ordered the SP. 

Shyam squinted and kept driving. There was anger bubbling inside him. He hated social media and hated even more this new breed of the IPS, who existed only in the giant ether of the Internet, where a crafted and phony image of themselves was the one that mattered. He remembered how when the SP had taken charge, he had made all the town police vehicles and officers and men come to his quarters and take a turn around the driveway. Three women had stood there with cameras and mics, dressed in fitting pants and polyester shirts, and were recording every bit of it. One of them had asked him if he could give a stare to the camera; he had instead looked at her with so much contempt that she had said, “You leave it, Sir. You won’t be able to do this.” It was the kind of Hindi people who read it in Roman script spoke. 

Later, he had found out that the new SP was posted in the district on the collective pay-in of the excise and road mafia, and one of the contractors had hired a social media agency as a gift to their new sarkari man. 

Shyam loved policing, even the ugly parts of it, and he wouldn’t trade his life in uniform for anything. A senior inspector, his mentor in the force, had once told him, “No matter what you do, wear the uniform with pride. For what is a policeman without the khaki? Ordinary, like everyone else.” Shyam had taken it to heart. So every time he saw these officers who knew only of social-media policing, a part of him wanted to give them a dressing down. His subordinates had got plenty of it, but he couldn’t do the same to the SP. 

“I told you to stop so that we can take the photo of the thief. The social media girls are asking for it,” said the SP. 

“Let me find a place where the road widens, Sir,” he said. 

Shyam picked up speed and his convoy followed. Soon they were at a turn where flanks were broad enough for their vehicles to park off road. Shyam indicated to the others that he was pulling over. He smoothened his uniform, and strolled to the vehicle behind him. Assistant Sub-Inspector Imtiaz Querishi hurried got down, still feeling for his holster, and said, “What happened, Sir?”

“Saheb wants a photo of the man you have. For social media. Get him out.”

Soon all the cops were out of their cars, the drivers stayed next to the doors, and hidden among them was a man wearing dust-streaked jeans and a technicolour shirt of which the front pocket had freshly been torn off. His hands were loosely tied with rope, the tether in the hands of a portly policeman, who looked like a kindly uncle who was a little too fond of kachoris.

By then the SP, who had been surveying the surroundings from his vehicle, got down and shouted: “Bring him here, at the centre of the turn. We need the trees in the background. And Imtiaz, get your car turned at an angle so that the light reaches the thief, we also need to see the forest background.”

Imtiaz nodded at the SP, and gestured to his men to carry out the command. Meanwhile, Shyam and a group of policemen behind him, started walking towards the photo site. Shyam noticed that the SP had taken off his service pistol and kept it on the seat. If any of his men had done so he would have given them a mouthful. 

Once the man was in place, and squinting under the car’s harsh light, the SP said, “Shyam, here take my iPhone, it is better than your phone for low-light photos.” To the men, he said, “Move back, we need a clean photo. And you, with the tether, lie down in front of the thief, so that you are out of the frame.”

And so there was Indian policing at its finest, Shyam thought as he suppressed a smile. Cops maintaining distance from a criminal, a fat man lying on the ground holding the rope, his shirt oozing out of his trousers, his pants falling down over his big belly. He was at the centre of it, with a phone. Of all the things, Shyam remembered the oath he took when he was appointed, something he had never ever thought of since. “...I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of India…”; “...I will do right to all manner of people in accordance with the Constitution and the law”. He took a look around him, and collapsed laughing. It was a laughter that came from deep within, accumulated over a lifetime of petty insults and orders, of anger and hurt metamorphosing into nonchalance, of indignity turning into irreverence.  And how he laughed. In fits and starts first, and then like a car without brakes going downhill, faster and faster in full-throated glory.  

It startled everyone around him, including the thief who used the opportunity to yank the rope off him, but not before dragging the fat policeman through gravel. The SP who was the closest to the thief, ran after him and almost held him by the shirt, before the thief turned around and punched him in the face. For good measure, he kneed him in the groin too, which made the officer scream. His glasses went flying, and his nose started bleeding. Shyam who had seen all this, somehow managed to get up and run after the thief. The rest of the guards were too stunned to do anything. Shyam helped the SP to his feet, and saw that the man was crying. 

“Sir, control yourself, the men are watching,” he said. The SP was shivering. Shyam yanked him by the hair and shouted, “Command your men.” It didn’t do any good, as the SP kept falling like a sack of potatoes while sobbing. Shyam finally lost it. He slapped the SP twice, shocking the man back to reality. He  dashed in the forest, where he could see the thief who for reasons known only to him was running straight as an arrow. 

Shyam tried to make ground but his adversary had a headstart. He would soon lose him. Shyam found himself unbuttoning his holster. He called out warnings but the man kept running. 

At the precise moment Inspector Shyam Charan fired his service pistol, he was fully aware that this bullet would cost him. A petty thief lay dead ten metres away, bleeding from the neck. The bullet had entered near the base of the skull, splintering shards of spine, and shredding the life that the man held. It had exited from the front, creating a gaping hole where the Adam's apple once lay. 

By then the men had gathered around him. The SP, face still streaked with tears, voice overcome with emotion, croaked, “It’s…all your fault.” Shyam spat on the ground and walked off. “Someone collect the bloody khoka,” he shouted. 

Later that night, he walked home. His wife was asleep. He lay beside her and hugged her. She stirred. “I shot a man dead today,” he said. She said, “You are the police.” He held her tight. “I also slapped the SP.” She turned and looked at him. “Good, he became a real  policeman today.” 

The next day he woke up to the news of how the SP’s heroic act had slowed down the thief, how he had put his life on the line. On X, #IITianpookiebraveheart was trending. Shyam was placed under suspension pending an investigation. He felt the urge to laugh again.