2 months ago
“Protesters demand sacking of Delhi Police commissioner over latest gangrape”
“Joint protests against police atrocities in DU”
“Indians ask Delhi police chief to resign over rape case”
Neeraj Kumar switched off his computer, and slumped into his chair. The monitor went black, plunging the room into darkness. A second later, the whirring of the processor stopped as well. Silence spread its tentacles all around him.
Kumar reached for his bottle of whiskey, extending his trembling arm inch by inch, as if every bone, every sinew in his body ached with the effort. He took a long draught from the bottle, and went limp, hands hanging by the side, physically exhausted, mentally vanquished.
How did it come to this? How did things get so bad? So very bad?
The very people he swore to protect with his life were baying for his blood. The very subjects who looked up to him as their protector were asking for his head.
And he had half a mind to give it to them.
Kumar drank from the bottle again, emptied it and let it drop to the floor from his limp hand.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He may have refused to resign. He may have shown a brave face to the public to keep his troops’ morale high. But he knew the truth. The morale of his troops was at an all-time low; as was his – lacerated by the polity, pummeled by the protesters, thrashed to a pulp by Arnab Goswami.
No. He’ll resign tomorrow. First thing in the morning, he’ll call for a police staff meeting and make way for a better man. Someone stronger. Someone who could bear this crown of thorns better than he did.
Something rang out in the distance. Something familiar. Kumar stiffened.
There it was again. What was that? A bugle? Where had he heard that before?
Somewhere above, miles high in the sky, the clouds cleared, and the moon shone through. A sliver of moonlight streaked into Kumar’s room through a slit in the window, bathing the commissioner’s face in a silvery tint.
Ah. Kumar’s eyes widened, as the truth hit home. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips…
At 9 am the next morning, the Commissioner of Delhi Police strode into the conference room teeming with police officers from across the ranks. Kumar took the stage, and swept his eyes across the room. Hunched shoulders and glum faces returned his gaze. Kumar took a deep breath.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. As you know, we have been going through a tough time the last few weeks. Police officers have been criticised. Police officers have been attacked. Respect for the policeman has plummeted. But we will endure. I assure you…
“No more attacks on cops!” cried someone.
“Yes! No more attacks on cops!” added another.
“We want our dignity back!” said a third cop.
As if suddenly finding its voice, the crowd surged, weeks of pent up pain and angst erupting in a wave of strident protest.
Kumar raised his hand. The noise subsided, almost grudgingly. Seconds ticked by, as the cops waited for their leader to speak.
“I know that this has been the worst time in the history of Delhi Police.” Neeraj looked up at his men, his brothers, his comrades, meeting every man’s eye with steely determination. “But the night is darkest before the dawn. And I promise you, dawn is coming.”
“IPL is coming.”
And then, every man was on his feet, as a crushing din descended upon the room, threatening to blow the roof apart. Those closest to the stage swamped the commissioner and lifted him up in the air, passing him from shoulder to shoulder, as scores of hands slapped his back. Those closer to the door skipped out and rushed back in, armed with phone tapping equipment, spy cameras, guns and several such assorted items. Screams of ‘Neeraj Kumar zindabad‘, ‘we are back’, ‘Delhi police!’ rent the air amidst the cacophony of whoops, victory cries and laughter.
Neeraj Kumar smiled, “I am back.”
In the distance, the IPL bugle sounded in all its glory.