Reporter's Diary

OTHER REPORTER'S DIARY STORIES Indo-Pak Summit Royal Massacre Coke Tales India Fashion Week 11 September The War In Afghanistan Kumbha Mela To Sri Ravi Shankar The No Ministers Gujarat Earthquake Ball Tampering

Ali stood before me with folded hands, face drooping, lips quivering. "Let me go, I promise to never again sell cocaine in my life, sahib ... never, not even one gram." The diminutive, entreating Afghan, shocked that his good life had ground to a sudden halt, had no idea that I wasn't a policeman.

Neither had Neeraj Wadera, owner of Delhi's tallest hotel, Hans Plaza, standing besides Ali, his hands folded too, eyes wet, legs trembling, begging to be pardoned for buying one gram of Colombian-make white powder from Ali.

It was five minutes past 1 a.m. on August 25 when my cell phone rang. The Delhi Police's Special Cell had netted the big fish. Wadera had been caught paying Ali for the coke outside central Delhi's Ambassador hotel. Ali was about to sing, and I had a chance to be a part of the action.

FISH IN THE NET: Delhi's bold and beautiful liked to sniff out of Ali's hands (sitting left)

Inside the cell-a guarded fortress that normally houses dreaded terrorists-the night turned out to be long and memorable. I saw Ali break down and tell all in broken Hindi, which his women customers had apparently found seductive. Graphic details of the sex lives and drug habits of Delhi's famous people were disclosed. He boasted how he, a refugee, had become Delhi's most popular supplier of pure, white "Klumbean" cocaine. Ali had free entry into the city's discos. Filmstars, industry captains, Page Three glitterati, five-star hookers, they all liked to sniff out of his hand.

As Ali went on, it became clear that two well-known party hosts in Delhi had got away from the clutches of the police that evening. They were in a Mercedes behind Wadera's 4.4 litre engine BMW, but before they had a chance to say hello, the Afghan got picked up. Had they reached the appointed place even a minute before Wadera did, the story could have been different.

There were a few fallouts of the story. I was introduced to a socialite "Deep Throat" by a senior journalist in Delhi, an immensely popular party-hopper. Deep Throat promised to disclose everything about coke's "low-life, high society", then for some strange reason developed goose pimples. Then there was a TV channel owner who wanted to dislodge a Union minister using the coke connections. And there was one call I wish I had never taken. A woman "thanked" me for giving away her number, and said, "All I get these days are lewd calls. Twenty-four hours."

And finally there was ACP Rajbir Singh, the Special Cell's own special gift. This tough officer who oversaw the case has a reputation that precedes him. No one, therefore, approached him directly to get a name or two deleted from the list. Those who tried, approached through friends. Like a socialite-turned-portal owner. He met me and Singh at a friend's house, and wanted to profile Tough Cop for a men's monthly. Later, he caught up with Singh in his office. The profile, though, is yet to see the light of day.