For the Record

I In Summer 2015, I met Outer Delhi while chasing Rolex Kumar, who on live TV claimed he used to go into a trance after booze and porn, and trawl the forsaken landscape for children Police said he murdered and raped over thirty The Investigating Officer assumed we’d put him on the cover, and I let him La femme editor said it was unethical The IO WhatsApped us a fresh studio photograph in uniform, with airbrushed skin and pink lips Later, he sent us thirty more   Headline: How Many Cases Does It Take To Make A Serial Killer   When I finally met Rolex at the court — hand-in-hand with a cop, face covered in pink dupatta — he denied everything, said the cops had bullied him for the earlier statement His eyes gave nothing Later, his father screamed conspiracy outside a lonely hut in the middle of a field Apparently, his wife was raped by the guy who framed Rolex Nearby, another father took me to the abandoned three-storey house where his six-year-old girl’s naked body was found Rubber gloves from the investigation stood out amid the debris   A sweaty afternoon at Rohini court, when the only surviving victim was being questioned in a closed hearing The doors opened, and out came a three-foot tall child sipping on a juice box while holding his mother’s hand News flash: seven years old… throat cut open… brick-pieces in rectum… dumped in gutter The scar running across the neck did it: he wasn’t a statistic anymore And I could not venture the essential question, later answered in the court transcript: Beta, fir usne kya kiya? Usne apna nunnu mere pichhu mein daal diya     II Around the same time, a WhatsApping DCP began a programme whereby cops went around telling schoolchildren about sexual harassment, maintaining complaint boxes in each school   A fifteen-year-old girl wrote that her father had been doing gandi cheezein to her for the past two years, and that her mother would say, jaise main sehti hoon, waise hi tum saho The cops arrested the father, and left the struggling, three-daughter family to struggle a bit more   A week later, I found her in a forsaken colony in undeveloped Ghaziabad Her sister opened the door; the mother brought water She — four-and-a-half feet, full of fear, clear eyes and rusted hair Mother: ghar pe thodi ladai ho gayi thi ek raat, bewakoof ladki kya-kya bol gayi She wept: maine aise hi jhooth bola tha, please mere papa ko chhudwa do Then, they all wept   A year later, the girl called, asking for a job — or dedh lakh She kept calling, and I kept ignoring the unsaved number that lit up each time Eventually, the guilt won — I made enquiries, gave her the number of an NGO veteran and asked her to never call again She didn’t   [imgcenter]

[/imgcenter]   III July 2015 I entered Money Collecting School after nine years Sterile white building, and familiar faces grown older like the ex-air-force, always-in-safari-suit, protestant owner and principal — or our first taste of fundamentalism Times were different back then: Mas and Pas didn’t care if you were whacked in school They made you watch Hollywood, but switched channels at each kiss Everyone wanted to rear upright, English-speaking engineers and doctors — the 90s middle-class nerve that the principal had clamped between his teeth USP of the school? Rs 500 fine or expulsion if caught speaking Hindi   And other fines for sundry things like not carrying a hymn-book Plus, an inch-thick, gold-varnished and rubber-gripped stick to warm young flesh on winter mornings, when not-so-long hair was cut on stage during assemblies that apart from inspections, forced PT, prayer and gospel singing gave us our daily bread of dogma The principal would turn to a Sikh boy and scream: You think you’ll find god by growing your hair long? Jesus is the only true and living god! In summers, kids dropped from heatstrokes… Pray to Jesus now, ask the lord to come into your heart Someone would puke, and others would follow… Eternal hellfire, my children!   Meanwhile, the principal bought new Skodas in different colours, built another branch and business school, and survived several heart attacks Each time, the teachers would announce the next day that the overcompensating zealot was stable, and that we must pray for him Those prayers are still to be answered   IV In 2005, cops caught my classmate Vicky Boner drinking near MCS The school did a Pilate, and expelled him before he could say hallelujah   A decade later, the latest batch had its farewell on 28 May That night, Rocky Bambam and two others had some drinks to celebrate, and were found outside/inside the school around midnight/3 am, with the motive of clicking selfies/robbery As Gunty the editor put it, depending on whom you ask, the details tend to vary Basically, the boys ran into cops, had an argument, and before they knew it, were at a police station being tortured all night The charge: Rocky and friends were trying to burgle the school They got bail after three nights in Tihar Later, the police claimed Rocky was a criminal prodigy, addicted to the high life, robbing schools across Delhi On 13 July, he was back in Tihar Newspapers carried his photograph along with a lurid police version Two weeks later, I met the boy at Patiala House — out of place in the packed chaos of a district courtroom, fingers entwined with a constable Standing before the judge, waiting for Rocky’s turn, we mumbled An hour earlier, two cops had requested me to vacate the lone bench outside the courtroom for them and their hand-held undertrial Ten minutes later, they had cajoled and threatened the weeping young man into signing a slew of papers Good-cop, bad-cop — just like in the movies   Rocky finally got bail on 6 August after a bit of activism, noise and name-calling He then returned East, far from shit-city (It’s nice to see his Facebook updates now and then) The case goes on though, for cops never retract — even when it’s a coming-of-age moment gone nightmarish, courtesy… Dilliii Puliss! Dilliii Puliss! Dilliii Puliss! * * * This poem is excerpted from Exit One, written by Ishan Marvel, published by Red River in May 2018   — Illustration courtesy Amrai Dua