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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.
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FISH IN THE NET: Delhi's bold and beautiful
liked to sniff out of Ali's hands (sitting left)
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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.
 
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CURRENT
ISSUE DEC 31, 2001
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