The Batra Case - Ashok Indalkar

This isn't one of those high-stakes murder mysteries, a breathless thriller about a gruesome crime and the genius detective who solves it by pulling a universe from a single thread of evidence. No, this is a lighter, more curious tale. It’s a story about the extraordinary lengths people will go to for their livelihood, the absurd situations they can orchestrate, and the complex knots they can tie. It is a story about how, with a calm head, the police can navigate these mazes, unravel a phantom murder, and uncover a truth that is as astonishing as any fable from the Panchatantra. I was at my desk at the Ranjangaon MIDC Police Station, attending to my duties. It was about four in the afternoon when a constable entered my cabin. “Sir,” he said, placing an elegant visiting card in my hand, “a Mr. Batra from Supreme Company is requesting a moment of your time.” I glanced at the card. It read: . The name ‘Dharmendra’ immediately conjured the image of Hindi cinema’s original ‘He-Man,’ the rugged Punjabi hero of the milestone film, . “Send him in,” I said. A tall, fair man hurried into my cabin. “Sir, good afternoon. I am Dharmendra Batra.” “Welcome, please have a seat,” I offered. “Sir, I am in deep trouble,” he began, his voice fraught with anxiety. “Those people have set up camp right at my factory gate. They refuse to move. You must do something, sir. Please, get them to leave. If you don't, I’ll be ruined. I have a delegation coming from a foreign company tomorrow. If they see this spectacle, my contract is gone…” He was deeply agitated. I had some water and coffee brought for him. We police officers have a habit: for a man of a certain stature, you offer coffee, not tea. Tea is somehow considered low-standard, though black tea and lemon tea are now in fashion. As he sipped his coffee, he began to relax and explained the situation. “We manufacture spare engine parts using plastic and steel,” Batra said. “Our main unit is in Noida, Delhi, with four others across the country. I manage the Ranjangaon unit, which employs about 125 workers. For additional labour, we rely on local contractors. Our HR manager handles this. We had a major contract to produce parts for a foreign company, and we’re on a tight deadline. Needing more hands, my manager hired some daily wage labourers from a local contractor. One of them, a man from a particular community, entered the factory for his shift… and never came out. He just vanished.” He took a deep breath. “Now, his entire community has gathered outside the factory, creating a ruckus, claiming he’s been murdered inside. They refuse to listen to reason. The local contractor and their community leaders are harassing us, demanding an exorbitant sum to ‘settle’ the matter. The whole clan is sitting in protest at my gate. Please, sir, do whatever it takes, but solve this problem.” Batra’s voice was a plea. I assembled my team and, in our official police jeep, drove to his factory in the Ranjangaon MIDC. This industrial estate is a sprawling, well-planned area with over 200 companies. Giants like Fiat, which occupies 400 acres, Whirlpool, Raymonds, Haier, and Cummins all have a presence here. Batra’s factory was nestled behind a small hill. When we arrived, the scene at his gate was exactly as he’d described. It was as if the entire Pardhi clan had set up camp. They were one step away from pitching their tents. There were about fifty men, elders, women, and naked children, some being breastfed by their mothers. Their dilapidated vans were parked nearby. Seeing this whole chaotic spectacle, I could understand why Batra was at his wit's end. The moment they saw our police jeep, the crowd swarmed us, erupting in a single, loud clamour. “Saheb, they killed our man! It’s murder! We won’t spare them!” one of them shouted, spitting out his beedi. The others joined the chorus. Just then, a middle-aged man in clean white clothes and a red jacket—the very picture of a local leader—stepped forward. “Saheb,” he declared, “you book this Batra for murder and put him in handcuffs. Otherwise, we won’t leave this factory standing. I’m warning you!” I felt a frown form on my forehead. My plainclothes intelligence officer leaned in and whispered, “Sir, that’s their leader, Jacket Pandya. A bit of a firebrand. We’ll have to handle him delicately.” I took stock of the situation. I told their leader to bring a delegation to the police station. A short while later, Jacket Pandya and a group of seven or eight Pardhi men barged into my cabin. The fresh fragrance of the frangipani flowers on my desk was instantly replaced by the musty odour of their unwashed bodies. They started their commotion at once. “The company has done us an injustice! They didn't pay our man his wages! A poor man with a family, saheb, and they murdered him.” “His wife is the mother of three children! Give her justice!” Who was going to believe the words of a Pardhi? In police records, the Pardhi are classified as a criminal tribe. A nomadic community that wanders through forests and wastelands, surviving on wild fruits and by hunting animals. A tribe known for committing theft, murder, and dacoity to fill their stomachs. Of course, not all of them are criminals; many have reformed. But no one has studied these tribes as extensively as the police. They are known for planning their crimes meticulously, often as a group. If they decide to raid a village, they do so only after thorough preparation—scouting the location, identifying escape routes, and surveying wealthy homes under the guise of selling balloons, combs, or toys, or by posing as folk performers like Potraj or Vasudev. They even silence village dogs the night before a raid by feeding them meat laced with sedatives. The police know the Pardhi modus operandi inside and out. I didn't believe their tall tales for a second, but I decided to handle the matter with patience. I called in a crafty old constable who was in charge of the MIDC beat and discussed how to proceed. He sized me up and said in a low voice, “Sir, these Pardhi folk are very dangerous. They won’t back down easily. If we take action against them, the situation will escalate…” “So what’s the solution?” I asked. “They’ll have to be managed,” the constable replied. I was perplexed. “What exactly does that mean?” “Sir, they won’t leave without a large sum of money. It’s in everyone’s best interest.” Aha! So that was the game. I understood what he was getting at. Now, my suspicions turned towards the constable himself. “Shall I mediate in this matter, sir?” he offered. I said nothing. Instead, I sent my trusted officers to the factory with instructions to find out the real story. Luckily, the factory was equipped with CCTV cameras everywhere. The footage clearly showed the Pardhi labourer entering the factory as a worker. But, crucially, it also showed him leaving after his shift had ended. I had the proof I needed. I felt a sense of relief. I summoned the Pardhi leaders back to my cabin. They entered like hopeful vultures. I played the footage for them. Seeing the irrefutable evidence, they were struck dumb, their heads hung low in silence. Then I gave them a tongue-lashing like no other. “I’m filing a case against you for lodging a false complaint,” I threatened. That scared them. They started pleading and begging. They knew their game was up. I did all this in front of the conniving constable, who stood silently, trying to make himself small. “If I ever see you pulling stunts like this again, you’ll regret it,” I warned them. Then I turned to the constable, gave him a piece of my mind, and ordered him to take the troupe away. That crafty constable was transferred soon after. The Ranjangaon MIDC was a hotbed of criminal activity. With over 200 factories, it was a hive of contracts, scrap dealing, and material supply businesses. This attracted all sorts of local thugs, goons, and wannabe gangsters who would muscle their people into factories as workers, form unions to blackmail the management, and extort huge sums of money. With that money, they bought fancy cars and built mansions. Many factory owners were at their mercy. It was their lobbying that led to the creation of the Ranjangaon MIDC Police Station, and I was appointed its first officer-in-charge. My orders from the top were clear: ‘Eradicate the goonda-raj. Spare no one.’ And so, I did. From day one, I brought a certain police rigour to the area that straightened everyone out. The industrial estate was thrilled. Of course, I had to pay a price for it too. As they say, if you play with fire, you must be prepared to feel the heat. - Ashok Indalkar,   (This article is the translated version of the Marathi story बात्रा केस  written by Ashok Indalkarpublished in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 ) साहित्य चपराक दिवाळी अंक २०२५ घरपोच मागण्यासाठी लिंक: https://shop.chaprak.com/product/diwali-ank-2025/