The Hawala Agent

Smarak Swain

Srishti Publishers & Distributors

A unit of AJR Publishing LLP

212A, Peacock Lane

Shahpur Jat, New Delhi – 110 049

editorial@srishtipublishers.com

First published by

Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2022

Copyright © Smarak Swain, 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. The characters, places, organisations and events described in this book are either a work of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, places, events, communities or organisations is purely coincidental.

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.

Printed and bound in India

To my sister, Smrutilekha.

This is for you, nani.

Acknowledgements

I thank all the officers and staff of the Income Tax department I have worked with in the twelve eventful years that I have been in the Indian Revenue Service. I also thank members of the community of tax practitioners – tax advocates and chartered accountants – who I have interacted with in the course of my duty as a public officer.

Together, tax officers and tax practitioners are some of the biggest gossipers in the country, and the source of many uncanny stories. Most stories about people with unaccounted wealth are raunchy and gossipy, so I have been a recipient of some of the most interesting gossips of our times. Some of these gossips have found their way as sub-plots in this story.

The primary plotline of this novel marries two different cases. First is the famous Jain Hawala Diaries case of 1991, in which a raid on Jain brothers led to seizure of diaries with sensational clues about large value hawala transactions. The Jain brothers were allegedly sending corruption money abroad and bringing money for funding terrorist activities in Kashmir, through the hawala route. Since money is not necessarily physically sent in a hawala transaction, if the allegations are true, then the money earned from corruption was redirected to Kashmir to fund terror activities. While all court cases pertaining to the Jain hawala diaries eventually collapsed and no one was convicted, the allegations of law enforcement agencies highlight an important modus operandi used in hawala finance.

The second case is of the discovery of a huge amount of cash and gold from an income tax raid in 2018 in Chennai. About 200 crore rupees and 105 kilograms of gold was seized from a contractor. Interestingly, this wealth was parked in houses of employees and two BMW cars! The idea of using these modus operandi to develop a plot came while interacting with my batch- mates in 62nd Batch of IRS. And I thank my batch-mates as well, for all their help.

I wrote a lion’s share of the book while I and Ashima were under a pandemic-triggered lockdown in 2020. I thank Ashima for tolerating me through my long writing bouts, even though I was the only company within the confines of our house.

My gratitude to Hena Kumar Sukhna, IRS; Neeraj Agarwal, IRS; and Prateeti Goyal, IRS, for reading earlier editions of this book and giving their constructive feedback.

I thank my entire editing team at Srishti Publishers, and specifically Vini Bhati and Stuti, for putting in the extra effort to iron out the internal contradictions in the narration and bringing out the book in its present form. Arup and Jayanta Da have been my publishers and very good friends for more than five years now. I thank them both for their support and continued encouragement.

This is a work of fiction. Any views that could be purported to the author are entirely my personal views.

1

The Mystery of the Missing Wife

Nidhi Arora’s first question when she called me was if I got fired for harassing a female subordinate.

I clarified that I was not fired. I had resigned. She kept baiting me, wondering why the #MeToo movement had not caught up with me yet. I had no choice but to point out that she was a cougar on the prowl; that young associates in her office should be warned about her. She did not find it amusing and drove to the point.

Deepak Bhide was in Mumbai and wanted to meet me. Apparently, he was in distress and needed help. Nidhi convinced, rather directed me to meet him.

Who Bhide? I wondered. Oh, that Bhide! I went down memory lane to recollect my experiences with him.

Bhide is not my friend. He was never my friend. We have not been in touch since graduation. We were not friends in college. Those days it was uncool to be friends with him. He was a dimwit (he still is!), but that should be no criteria to choose friends. And then, we were teens. We were unabashedly cruel and mean.

It was Thursday morning. The wife had left for office. I did not have a job. I had promised wifey that I would go out looking for a job.

Deep down, I knew that vendors do not sell jobs; not the kind of job I was looking for. I am skilled labour, after all. I cannot wander around sweatshops and construction sites, looking for a daily wage. I am a chartered accountant and a specialist in corporate espionage. They don’t advertise such posts on job sites. But then, she is a neurotic woman. She could not tolerate me idling around the house all day.

If I had to get out, why not meet Bhide! Maybe I could have a couple of drinks at his expense.

t

We met in a sports bar in Parel. As the bar was just opening up for the day, Bhide and I were the only crowd. He had swollen to double his size since college. At a height just below five feet, he looked like a penguin.

During our college days, I had found Bhide lacking in social skills. He was shy but spoke enthusiastically, like a kid, once he opened up to someone. After meeting him, I found that not much had changed about him.

We did small talk till the bartender came with my beer and his lemonade. After we received our drinks, there was an awkward silence. I could fathom that Bhide was troubled.

I need your help, he said at last.

What happened? I asked.

I… I… I don’t know how to say this.

I tilted my head and feigned an expression of big-brotherly concern.

My wife is gone.

Cool!

It is not always that a man could get rid of his wife. It called for a celebration. I was tempted to call for shots, but saw that Bhide was markedly perturbed.

I sat expectantly to hear his problem. But he became silent.

I nudged him to speak freely.

We are old friends. You can trust me.

My wife has vanished. I need your help.

With what?

With getting my wife back. Saswata Das has taken her.

"Saswata Das, as in the Saswata Das? The West Bengal

Home Minister Das? I asked out of sheer astonishment. Yes! That bastard has abducted my wife."

Seriously? Why in the world would he…

I stopped in the middle upon seeing his face contorted as if he was about to cry, but was not sure if he should. He was perhaps waiting for my permission to break down into a pool of tears. But then, maybe I am not the right person if one is looking for someone to empathize with his concern for a missing wife. I would feast for weeks if my wife vanished. Or voluntarily left.

But then, who am I fooling? She is never going to leave. After all, I stay in her house.

Bhide was excitable. He started saying a lot many things too fast. He ate away many words and sentences. So I encouraged him to try a drink. He preferred to have a glass of lemonade. He relaxed after taking a few gulps of lemonade and narrated all that had happened to him.

We married. We were happy… he started.

You married and you were happy? Doesn’t make sense. Tell me from the beginning. Who is she? How did you meet her? Take your time. Tell me all of it from the start.

From the very start?

Yes, from the very start, I said, hoping he won’t start from the day he came out of his mother’s womb.

t

Bhide’s Story

After graduation, I moved out of the city and went to Bangalore. I know what you people thought about me. I was ridiculed and this affected my confidence. I was not sure if I could do Master’s or if I could have a successful corporate career. My expectations were low.

So, I completed a professional course on handling SAP software and looked for a job. A distant uncle arranged a job for me in a software company. I handled the accounting side of SAP for this company.

The promoter of this company soon developed a liking for me. I am slow, I know that, but I am meticulous. I would report deviations of even a single rupee to him. Over time, I became close to him. He made me the head of the company’s SAP business interface.

I was doing great professionally. So, my mother said I should marry and have a good wife. But it was difficult to find a suitable bride for me. After continuous efforts, my mother managed to find a sweet, homely girl. My marriage was fixed. After that I started talking with this girl over the phone. I developed feelings for her. For the first time in my life, I was getting the blissful feeling of falling in love. Everything was going good.

But the girl called off the wedding a few days before our engagement ceremony. First I thought, maybe she has an affair or something. But, she did not. The reason she gave for calling off the marriage devastated me.

Her parents told my parents that the girl was unable to develop romantic feelings for me. My parents could not understand what they meant by ‘the feeling’. When they asked, her parents just said, you know, the feeling. The feeling you get towards someone you marry.

I could not understand what feeling they were referring to. So I called her and asked for an explanation. She said that she could never respect me and she could not marry a person she could not respect.

I felt very bad. I loved her. Then what was her problem?

My mother says I am very gentle at heart. The girl was unable to see my inner beauty. But she could not have done more damage to me. Not only did she break my heart, she made me loathe myself.

Jibes in college had bothered me, but never killed my spirit. However, this girl had killed my spirit. She drilled a hole inside me.

Slowly, I went into depression. My parents were staying in Mumbai and I was in Bangalore. I did not have friends in Bangalore. So the only people I met were at work. This increased my loneliness.

My only comfort in those days was food. There were good eateries near my office in Bangalore. I would munch on food all day while at work. Then, after coming back from work, I used to order delicious pizzas and burgers at home and eat.

I also developed a liking for online games. They were liberating for me as I could experiment with my perceived identity. I was the boring Deepak Bhide for the outside world, but inside the game, I was GladiatorTheGreat or NewBond009. The people I played with did not know my real name. They knew me by my screen name. I was good at both strategy games and shooter games. Very soon, I made a name for myself in gaming forums as GladiatorTheGreat and NewBond009.

Some of my online friends were nudging me to join Facebook games. These are multi-user games, which have become a big craze in recent years. Farm Heroes, Candy Crush and Criminal Cases had hogged too much of limelight for any gamer of some stature to ignore them. Initially, I was hesitant about joining Facebook. I knew that you get connected to the people of your past and present over Facebook. I did not have a particularly happy childhood or teenage years. Acquaintances of the past only reminded me of jibes and pranks they played on me.

But finally, I joined Facebook. My online status as an ace gamer – my present – weighed over my repulsion to my status among people in my past. Little did I know that Facebook would become a catalysing agent for the course of my future.

With time, I developed an addiction for Facebook. I would add any random person on my friend list, read all their posts and go through all album pics.

Facebook is a world in itself. Apparently, there is no one to judge you and yet, you are the object of social scrutiny. Regardless, there is always a perfect glow and incessant joy on your face. Your social standing is made up of simple things such as your status messages and your membership to some groups.

I started spending more time on Facebook. I would go through profiles of strangers and add those I found interesting. Mostly beautiful girls, to be frank! I also tried to hit on a few girls who had accepted my friend request. But somehow, I could not hit it off with any of them. Probably I did not have enough of ‘chat charm’. And yet, I was not deterred by the unencouraging response. I kept adding new profiles and followed up on those girls who accepted my friend requests.

Then, something unfortunate happened to me. It was so bad that it took me days to come out of the trauma it caused me. I dreaded all those pleasant faces on Facebook after this incident. I realized that the faces on Facebook were masks that hid many dark-minded people. So I stopped sending friend requests.

t

I listened to Bhide’s tale intently. He took a long pause as he was overwhelmed with emotions

What happened? I asked.

What could have possibly happened over Facebook to make Bhide use the word ‘trauma’?

Let it be. It is not important for the problem I have come to consult you.

I insist. Tell me what happened.

He was hesitant. I rubbed his arm, made a face like your mother makes when you catch a cold, and said, Bhide, bro, you can trust me. I am here to help.

After taking a deep breath, Bhide continued.

t

Bhide’s Story

I had added a man who seemed to like gaming. These were usually men I thought I could interact with to enrich my knowledge. He went by the name Cool Dude Amo. He appeared to be a good- natured person. He was polite and