The Hindu Business Line : What a CA should do when attacked

STORY so far: After about a week of sickness, when I resume work I realise that the medicines in my bag are fake. During the discussion with the cops, I understand that the market for duplicates and spurious drugs is a massive one, running to thousands of crores of rupees. To add drama to my routine, I accompany a crack-team on its mission to raid an underground factory manufacturing fake drugs.

Episode 46

The operation was swift and smooth. We entered through a backdoor that was being guarded by a tobacco-chewing goon. A constable hit him with the butt of a rifle and I winced. Without much fuss, he fell unconscious, and I eagerly awaited some dish-oom once we were inside. But nothing of the sort happened, to my dismay. Bose directed his team to spread out inside the hall, without attracting much attention. There was the benefit of big cartons and boxes, barrels and such, to offer enough protection.

I hid behind a door, as suggested by Bose, ACP (North). "Keep this," he handed me a tiny pistol. "As a precaution." I wanted to tell him that I didn't know how to use it. I turned the thing to pry into the nozzle, even as I was toying with the trigger. "That way, you can end up shooting yourself," jested Bose. "There is no bullet inside. It's a toy revolver, just for effects."

He then swiftly walked to the table to accost the man who liked the boss of the place. "We want to search your premises," said Bose, straight to the point. "Do you have a warrant for that?" the don asked. "These fellows know law," I told myself. "He may know about the taxability of ill-gotten profits, too!" Bose showed the paper. "But we manufacture only stain-removing liquids," said the don, "as a cottage industry to provide employment to about 30 people."

That was a weak argument, because an officer returned with bundles of labels bearing popular brands. In another nook, there were those sealing machines, embossers, rubber stamps to fake even Central Excise authorisation, and so on. It seemed not like an underground factory, but some parallel government.

It was when the cops were herding the gang into waiting police van, and almost signing off the operation, that I heard a faint squeal. "Bose," I called. "Did you hear that scream?" We both followed the direction that our ears led us to. Bose flicked his torch on to scan the walls. "Gosh," he yelped. "That is scientist Yash Paul. Reported missing since last July. These villains have been holding him for knowledge inputs."

Soon, a team from the ambulance took the ailing scientist to the hospital for treatment. It was visible that they had tortured him to get the formulations, many of them protected by patent laws. But there was still that spark of inquisitiveness. "Please fetch that small notebook," he whispered to me. "I have tucked it under the bed. It has a half-finished proof for Riemann hypothesis about prime numbers. Perhaps I will get enough time and peace in the hospital to complete it."

*********

"Are you not afraid, Swati?" Bose asked me when the jeep was heading back to the city from Matra Nagar. "Of what?" I queried back. "That you'd kidnap me to an abandoned garage?"

"Oh, no," shrugged Bose, "I have a family to return to. Don't you feel nervous that those criminals we have packed off to the jail would come back some day to hunt you down?"

"I know," I said, retrieving from my handbag the pistol that Bose had given me. "When they come, I can always pull out this from under my pillow and shoo them away."

We had a good laugh to banish all fearful thoughts.

*********

Sep 11, 2003. I remembered how on that fateful date in 2001, I sat glued to the TV when they showed plane bits and tower shreds. I kept watching the ticker for a familiar name, and kept dialling a mobile number on ISD. It took about four days for the confirmed news to appear at the bottom of CNN screen:

The list of dead or missing showed that one name I didn't want to see — that of Ashok Sharma. He was a great family friend who spoke always about hard work and its rewards. At 38, he was no more. Or, no, he must be still alive, I had thought and called the mobile number. It kept ringing, and suddenly there was a voice, "Yeah." I cried, "Ashok!" "No, this is Bill, from the salvage team," said the voice. "And we found an half-burnt id card next to the phone and it reads Sharma." I had broken down.

*********

Back in the office, I found there was a sudden flurry of activity in the afternoon. "Swati," called the boss. "Rush to Bangalore." I stood dazed, "For the CA conference, sir?" He looked at me puzzled.

"No, it's the Sanghatana activists again. They have been making threats in the research site that we have in Indian Institute of Science. Get ready, and I'll have the briefing sent to you before you board the plane."

*********

At the Air Deccan counter, there was a packet waiting for me, with "URGENT" written all over it. During the flight, I perused the contents.

It was about the type of genetic research that my company was undertaking in a patch of land located in IIS, Bangalore. Though I am not too thorough with the nitty-gritty of GM, I could understand that we were working on making coconuts less disease-prone. "Other companies" was the title of one of the sheets.

Among many big names was Monsanto, and I felt some uneasiness in my tummy. The pilot was navigating through an air pocket.

*********

The attack happened around 5 p.m. as if the activists wanted the news not to be too delayed for the next day's edition. They rampaged the saplings, they tore the expensive special poly sheets in the greenhouse, they broke pots and equipment, all the time making war cries in the vernacular.

While the company's facility remained in tact, everybody seemed a mute witness to what was going on. There were no cops around and Monsanto's officials suffered injuries, trying to prevent damage to their research results. I stood in a corner, guiding a videographer whom I had hired in the city an hour earlier, and capturing evidence for passing on to the cops.

*********

"Great work, Swati," said the Commissioner, when I handed him the tape that evening. When I was waiting for my return flight to Chennai, around 9 p.m. my mobile tinkled. "Hello," I said. "The Chairman would like to speak to you," said the voice. "Which?" I asked, and as if in reply, came in a different voice, deep and far.

"This is Frank AtLee, Monsanto Chairman. Just to thank you for the thoughtful help. The cops could arrest 29 out of 30 of the vandals, using your evidence. Thanks a lot." I think I mumbled something like okay, no mention and so on, because already the light was on for security check.

"If only we could genetically modify the DNA of the misguided activists... " I mused, even as the plane took off lazily from the garden city that lay beneath as a carpet of lights.

(To be continued)

Swati_CA@hotmail.com

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