THE IDEA FOR THIS BOOK CAME SOME YEARS AGO FROM A colleague at Reuters who suggested that I put what I call my 'useless knowledge' and fascination for all things colonial and criminal to good use by writing a book on the subject. I had, not uncharacteristically, been boasting to her about my collection of books on crime when she came up with the idea. It seemed a daunting task at first, and so, being not overtly fond of hard work, I put it on my 'to do' lista convenient way of putting off things I never mean to get down to. The COVID-19 pandemic, however, changed everything. Stuck at home all day with not much to do, and being prodded by the memsaab and a few friends to 'stop cribbing and write a book', I decided to give it a go.
Crime in colonial India has always been a subject dear to my heart, and I had unwittingly amassed quite a bit of literature on the subject. I thought a crime aficionado would probably get a good night's sleep if I were to recount some of the crimes I'd read about. I have, therefore, chosen to narrate some of my favourite tales of crime in British India and write about the people who committed them. A couple of them are well-known, but most, I believe, are pretty obscure. So much so that I was a little sad on finding that not one of my several Bengali friends in the media had ever heard of the infamous Pakur case that shook up Calcutta in the early 1930s. Equally, not many who I thought were hooked to the non-fiction crime genre seemed to know about the Bawla case or the notorious (in its time) Agra Double Murder.
Colonial India was home to an interesting and diverse array of criminals and deviants including some that were very unusual and specific to the country. Policing, as we know it, and the 'rule of law', as we now understand it, were just about getting a foothold in the subcontinent in the early decades of the nineteenth century. The unsettled state of the country in the wide hiatus berween the disintegration of the Mughal Empire and the consolidation of British rule in India put security of life and limb at risk. From lawless bands of freebooters to the semi-organized bands of Pindari marauders, and the roving gangs of thugs and dacoits which preyed on rich and poor alike, no man's life was worth much outside the security of his home or town/village. Even the worthy Charles Metcalfe, a future governor-general of India, was once set upon by a gang of robbers in north India on his way to Bharatpur in the early 1800s. His palanquin-bearers took to their heels and Metcalfe had to fight for his life, sword in hand. He saw the robbers off, but was left bruised and bleeding, and staggered to a nearby stream to wash his wounds. When he came back, he found his bearers calmly sitting around the palanquin - smoking!
Thugs and dacoits, professional poisoners and criminal tribes, child-lifters and cattle-rustlers, coiners and forgers, not to mention the rapacious village money lender and daroga - the field of colonial criminal enterprise is vast and varied. But my compass here is a little narrow. I merely wish to introduce the reader to a few remarkable crimes and criminals. The last four stories in the book (on thugs, dacoits, poisoners and railway thieves) do not deal with specific cases, but shine a spotlight on certain classes of criminals who led the police a merry dance in their time, and whose activities could probably never be entirely brought to a close.
One element about crime and criminals has always held an abiding fascination for me: the possibility, and the likelihood of escape or redemption after the deed is done. Not all crimes are found out, and retribution and justice do not necessarily follow. Scores of thugs and poisoners escaped the noose for want of hard evidence, and many a scoundrel saved his skin by turning 'approver' and betraying his comrades. The benefit of royal descent and the dictates of realpolitik ensured that titled maharajas were not very much inconvenienced by verdicts passed on them. Col. Morshead's killer in Burma was never identified and brought to book, and it was almost a century later that the researches of a western journalist in present-day Myanmar helped shed some light on the mystery.
Not all criminals meet what society deems their 'deserved' end. This is as true today as it was in colonial times. Harry Roberts, the prime accused in the famous Shepherd's Bush murders in England, where three policemen were shot dead in 1966, walked out of prison in 2014 after serving a total of 48 years, disappointing the many who had hoped to see him hang, or at the least die behind bars. Ronnie Biggs, who took part in the Great Train Robbery of 1963, escaped from the UK to live out most of his life as a fugitive in Brazil, before finally coming back to London where he died in 2013. Fowzi Nejad, sent to prison for his role in the Iranian Embassy siege in London in 1980, lives in the UK on state benefits. Back home, the protagonist in the famous Nanavati murder case of 1959, Commander Kawas Nanavati, was released from prison after a few years, and moved to Canada with his family to live a quiet life, before passing away in 2003. The young couple accused of murder in the famous Alavandar case in Madras in 1952 served time in prison and came out to set up a successful business in Kerala, raise a family, and lead a full life. The juvenile accused in the infamous Nirbhaya gang rape and murder is today a free man, simply because he was a 'minor' when the crime was committed. The wheels of justice indeed grind slowly, but not always exceedingly fine.
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