The fear in her large dark brown eyes, her puffed cheeks, and puppet-like pale face on the screen telegraphed me the message that she would do our bidding. She was already tethered by our invisible leash like some pet dogs confined to their large yards by invisible fences. All that my comrades-in-crime and I needed to ensure her compliance was to keep things simple, straight, and compelling—give clear commands, keep her connected to the phone, and ensure that she followed instructions to the letter. If all went well, we knew that in forty-eight to seventy-two hours a little under two crores of rupees, and gold and jewelry worth about eighty to ninety lakhs would be in our hands. It was as simple, or as complicated as that.

I grew up poor but for many years I lived in luxury out of stolen money which I knew had destroyed lives. But I didn’t care. However, there was always a lurking fear deep inside me that this lifestyle was not a stable and sustainable one, and it could unravel quickly. My shady life of crime did come to an end suddenly, but not in the way I had anticipated or thought likely. Rekha’s fear-filled dry eyes, the ease with which we transformed her into a puppet, and controlled her like a puppet-master remotely over phone, and her understated dignified defiance with a spark in her eyes, eventually derailed me. It is a cautionary tale, and those two images of Rekha’s face are etched in my brain like the names and dates of the dead carved on headstones in cemeteries.

I am currently homeless and practically penniless. I have been living in the streets of the same city where I ran a successful crime syndicate. Some of my old CICs recognize me and dole out some cash occasionally. I accept it but hand it over to my fellow homeless friends. The only money I take is from a young mentally challenged CIC who I raised as my own son when he came in as a teen. He doesn’t have a clear understanding of what is going on and I fear for him a lot. I also worry that one of the victims might recognize me. But that hasn’t happened yet. Over Zoom and Skype, I showed my face only momentarily while wearing an N95 mask and sunglasses; then others took over, but it was all done mostly over audio and by text. Later, I snitched on my CICs. I was paid a pittance for my cooperation with law enforcement, but mostly what I got in return was immunity from prosecution. I had to come clean and give up what I had accumulated as a share of the loot. They offered to put me in some strange witness protection program which I declined.

I remember going to a puppet show as an eight-year-old with my uncle. It happened such a long time ago that the story of the puppet show remains fuzzy. We had front row seats and I could see the details of each puppet—the costume, face, hands, legs and the thin strings used to move the various parts of the puppet. The puppets were performing a piece from the Mahabharata. I was charmed by the synchronous movements of the different puppets and their anatomical parts—the arms, legs, trunk, head and neck. After the show I asked my uncle if one puppet master controlled all the puppets. Each puppet has its own master but all the puppet controllers work in a synchronized manner as per script to co-ordinate the movements of the various puppets to tell a coherent story, he told me.

***

We just wanted the money and minimal hassle. Our method was based on four cardinal principles—intimidate, cajole, build trust, and secure the target’s cooperation. The schematic details evolved over time, but we were clear about one thing from the start of the operation—no physical harm to our targets. But in our two decades of conducting this business there were some mishaps, more so in the early years. Three, I remember quite well—a young woman falling from the terrace of her twelve-floor apartment tower, a middle-aged man jumping in front of the train, and a woman in her early forties losing her mind, going totally nuts, and wandering her neighborhood swearing at passersby, and yelling obscenities to no one in particular, and everyone in general.

I remember another young woman we targeted; she was pretty with vivacious eyes, and a soft face displaying a large red bindi on her forehead. When she came on Zoom with a panicked look, I almost wished I was dating her as a man of integrity, and not swindling her as a leading member of a shady cyber enterprise. And I cursed myself for doing this to her. She didn’t have a lot of money but she transferred most of it as instructed, without protest. Later, I came to know that one of our CICs lured her to a park on some pretext, and touched her inappropriately. I became quite upset that day. He was given a stern warning—our code of conduct strictly prohibited such behavior—and expelled from our organization after retaining half the earnings that were due to him.

You might think—it is a criminal enterprise—why this code of conduct? Any organization, whether civil or criminal, profit or non-profit, needs a moral-ethical code and discipline, otherwise, it will fall apart quickly like a sandcastle on a beach taken down by a large incoming wave. You have to draw a line, actually a circle, and keep things strictly under control within the perimeter of the circle. We just wanted a painless transfer of money from other people’s accounts to ours, that is all we cared about.

The modus operandi was quite clear and straightforward. We always wanted to keep things simple and make it only as complex as absolutely needed. We would introduce ourselves as CBI or crime branch officers. We would then show them fabricated or manufactured charge sheets and evidence of money-laundering, or other types of unusual transactions in accounts opened in the name of targets, threaten them with imminent arrest, and put pressure on them to part with their money. We wanted to break them just enough so that they part with a big slice of their monetary holdings, but not with their life, or lose their mind. It was in our calculus, and also in the targeted individual’s interest, to keep everything as quiet as feasible. You would be surprised how willing they quickly become to give up their holdings to get our monkeys off their backs, and stop us breathing down their necks. We had a qualified psychological profiler in our team who would comb the social media and cyber space, and create a mental profile of the target. It would then be combined with the financial profile created by the finance team wizards. That is how we carefully prepared and authenticated our target list.

***

Over the phone it was quite clear that she was very much frightened. We had done our homework well—we had her name, aadhaar number, a photograph, a few relevant family details, and some financial info on her. Rekha was in her late thirties, legally separated from her husband, and was raising her ten-year-old daughter. She worked as a manager in a tech company and was also taking care of her younger brother, a mentally challenged teenager. We knew she had in a bank locker gold jewelry worth under one crore that she received during her wedding. We also had information that she was holding about two crores of rupees distributed across three bank accounts. Rekha had passed out from the college of engineering, Trivandrum, with a degree in electrical engineering about fifteen years ago. Soon after graduation she joined a software firm in Technopark, in the city.

I called Rekha in the evening guessing she would be home. My CIC was on stand-by mode nearby monitoring every step.

How are you doing madam today?

R: Fine.

I need to talk to you about an important issue that is of serious concern. It might take a few minutes to go over.

R: My daughter is calling me for something. Can you hold it for a few seconds?

Yes, but be quick. Settle your daughter comfortably so that she does not bother us. Find a quiet room and a nice seat, and put on your headphones. I am holding

R: (After about ten minutes) What is going on? Tell me.

We are from the CBI, my fellow officer, and I. It is important to have your full cooperation in this investigation. Your new bank account is being used for money-laundering on a big scale. Questions of national security are also involved. You cannot discuss this with anyone else. Down the road, if absolutely needed, we will arrange a CBI lawyer for you. Do you understand the gravity of the situation you are in, and the need to cooperate madam?

R: My head is spinning. I need a few minutes to process what you just said, and think through this. What if I just hang up?

Madam, you can take all the time you want. But then we will be at your door first thing in the morning to take you into custody for interrogation. Do you want to opt for that? National security issues cannot be put on long holds, as you know madam.

R: (Panting) No arrest please. I have a ten-year-old daughter, and there is my younger brother I care for who needs a lot of help. He is mentally challenged.

Let me make sure I understand you well. Are you saying you will work with us, you’ll co-operate? You’re in a swamp, do you get it? (voice rising and then slowly falling) We can help and sort things out for you; but only if you clearly follow our instructions.

R: I am very confused. But first I need to serve dinner to my daughter and brother.

Her voice was breaking. It was obvious she was on the verge of tears and going into a meltdown.

R: Let me go now.

She was almost crying.

Yes, have dinner, all three of you. Take an hour or so. By that time, I will send you a Zoom link. I want you on Zoom in exactly one hour. No hocus pocus, understand?

Exactly an hour later she was on Zoom and I saw her face for the first time. She was of medium build and looked to be in her late thirties. She would be about five feet and six inches tall, I guessed. She was wearing a yellow salwar and a light green top. Her hair had started to gray in places. Her eyes were red and her eyelids appeared swollen. But what stood out was the frightened and rattled look. The fear in her large eyes was terrifying and it alarmed me. I briefly showed my face wearing dark polarized sunglasses and a facemask, and then cut off the video stream at my end. It felt like observing her through a one-way mirror. It was clear she was for the taking, by remote control, and would do anything to just get back to her daily routine of work, including caring for her daughter and younger brother.

I asked Rekha to text me every two hours from eight in the morning to ten in the evening for the next three days giving her location, and what she was doing. Over the next two days we made her transfer one crore and eighty-seven lakhs by visiting her three financial institutions. She was told that she was transferring the money to the reserve bank for verification purposes. Less than one lakh remained in two accounts after the transfers. I let her keep about seven lakhs in her third account for her day-to-day expenses, and to meet any emergencies.

As instructed, she also handed over all her jewelry kept in her bank locker to one of our accomplices in the bank who then deposited it in a locker labelled Reserve Bank in Rekha’s presence. We told Rekha that the reserve bank verification process would take one to two years, and if she is cleared, she would get back her money and jewels. The transformation of Rekha into a remote-controlled robot for two days was total. It turned out that she was the most compliant and disciplined of our targets in decades. But there was also a surprise in store for me.

I was reminded of the puppet show I watched with my uncle in childhood. Rekha was the puppet and I was the puppet-master here. But the ease with which I could manipulate her bothered me. After seeing her fear-filled eyes on the screen I was tempted to observe her in person. I went inside her bank and waited in the lobby for her arrival. My heart was racing; I was breathing heavily, and sweating profusely. This typically doesn’t happen to me; am I panicking, I asked myself. I took some deep breaths, told myself, reelaax, and picked a comfortable sofa seat in a relatively darker part of the lobby but with a clear vision of the lobby entrance. I sat down wiping my face with a napkin, and shaking my head in the process. From my vantage perch, I saw her walk in with a little girl in pigtails pushing open the glass double doors. I instantly recognized her as Rekha with fear still clouding her large dark brown eyes which reminded me of a foggy mirror in a steam room. The same fear-filled eyes, but the redness and swelling had markedly disappeared, and her face was pale, wooden, and expressionless. It made me think of the face of my aunt who had Parkinson’s disease. I could see her eyeballs move furtively side to side taking in the space and the people around. What surprised me was how elegant she looked in a fine sky-blue silk saree with orange borders. She was draped in a checkered flowing saree with a dark-brown walnut pattern encased in each square. She had on a matching blue blouse with orange sleeves. Her braided straight grayish-black hair was flowing down like a long tail knotted thick at the tip and reached down to her low back. And when she walked it moved side to side like the pendulum of a tall grandfather clock. Brushing against her silk sari it generated a rustling sound similar to the sound of gentle breeze swaying tall blades of prairie grass. The daughter was wearing a bright red nylon frock with brown and black butterflies painted on it. Her short pigtails were tied with folded red silk ribbons. She hopped on her right foot sporting a red croc sandal, wide-eyed, holding onto her mom’s left hand. She looked like a cardinal, talking to herself and the world, like a chirping, singing bird. On her left hand she carried a bright yellow teddy bear which she would hug and kiss intermittently. It was obvious the kid was Rekha’s life. Each hop-step of her right foot pulled down her mom’s left arm making her mom sway to the left and then straighten herself. With the daughter hop-stepping, and Rekha tandem walking to accommodate and balance it, swaying left and straightening alternately, they reached the bank clerk’s desk.

I felt that Rekha’s pretty dress conveyed a subtle defiance even when she was acting like a puppet and following instructions. My eyes tracked her as she approached a staff member with her fund transfer request. The bank official didn’t notice that anything was amiss with her request and enabled it, no questions asked.

Even when transformed into a puppet, Rekha exuded an audacity of dignity, a marker of her defiance. She was gently saying—you can have all my money; I’ll continue to have the love of my life, my sweet little daughter. I noticed the same hop-stepping and swaying on the return, now both facing me. Images of a cardinal and a bluejay flashed across my mind. Looking up at the big skylight in the center of the lobby, the daughter wondered aloud—This looks really nice. We should put a skylight in our house. Our living room looks dark most of the time. She tucked at her mom’s arm and both paused below the skylight. Tightening her daughter’s ribbon loops that had come loose and pulling up the back zipper of the frock which had traveled down a few inches, Rekha bent down and hugged her. Then she pecked at her cheeks and planted kisses in both eyes. Lovingly pushing away the pigtail and the loose strands of hair around the daughter’s right ear, she bent her knees, arched her back and gently nibbled on her daughter’s right ear like a bunny nibbling at a leaf.

The shy expression on the child’s face radiated outwards like the emergent early morning Sun’s rays. Letting go of her mom’s hand she touched her right ear with her outstretched palm as if making sure it was all intact. Ripples of love, affection, and satisfaction walked through Rekha’s face. Looking at her daughter she said slowly—Ours is a rental abode. When we buy a new house, we will put a huge skylight in our living room.

Paused with her daughter below the skylight which illuminated their faces softly, Rekha seemed to issue a disguised warning. As they stood under the lobby skylight, I noticed a spark of light in Rekha’s and her daughter’s eyes giving them a lively animated look brimming with life. I thought of the bird pictures—hummingbirds, cardinals, kingfishers, and others—I had seen in glossy magazines with a spark of light in their pupils. It was like sparks of life animating the bird portraits, their faces looking alert and full of life. The curtain of fear as the backdrop, the understated defiance of her dress, and the sparkle in her eyes in the foreground seemed to be telling me—after you burn through the stolen money, you’ll have nothing left in this world to fall back on; do not travel down this road, make something better out of this life. Her eyes mixed with fear, and adorned fresh with the spark of light, seemed at once reproachful, and also full of hope.

I suddenly felt an urge to hug Rekha, and console her. The criminal hugging the victim, the swindler hugging the swindled person. Why doesn’t anybody in the world see her pain and turmoil, her helplessness, her remote capture, her robotic takeover? The world seemed absorbed in itself; the glue of humanity and human existence, the empathy for fellow humans seemed to have evaporated. It felt as though a powerful puppet-master had conquered the world, taken over each and every human being and moved them like a pawn, a robot, or a puppet. Was I a cog in this puppet-like transformation of the world, a hierarchical puppet-pyramid in a pecking order that transforms one’s subordinates into puppets.

I was surprised to see the spark in her eyes; the fear and cloudiness in her eyes had largely retreated. It was as though the clouds started dispersing after a drizzle and the Sun began peeping out of the cloud canopy. She had transferred the last remaining seventy lakhs from her account as instructed, and that had provided her relief. And I felt worse for her. After standing there for a few seconds, Rekha and her daughter commenced walking towards the double doors through which they had entered, and vanished quickly from my horizon of vision.

My gaze trailed her all the way to the door, her slender body with her daughter in tow somehow holding within itself the raging tornado inside. I felt an inner desire to follow them through the doorway and reverse everything that was happening. But I felt powerless to move. I just sat there, my feet firmly planted on the floor as my eyes traced her to the exit and wished her well. That was the last time I saw Rekha. But I knew she had changed my world.

Strangely, I felt Rekha would recover from this turbulence and trauma much better than me. The spark in her eyes that I noticed in the bank lobby was a good predictor of that. She would move on from the loss of her money and jewelry even though it was substantial. I also knew that her trauma of being held as a puppet would linger a lot longer. However, the spark in her eyes came across as a form of defiance and resistance on her part— I don’t really care about all this money which anyway is overrated; I can give it all up and still have a life. I can get started again from this point in my life looking straight ahead.

But I knew at my inner level that I was doomed; I would not recover from this episode well.

We had the money and jewels in our custody. It turned out to be the smoothest operation under my watch. Her facial expression at the bank told me clearly that she would not go to the authorities with this, or even confide in anybody; she would just move on with her life as if this calamity did not happen to her. She knew she was being swindled, got resigned to it, and probably thought, let it be so, like a simple fall while walking. But that is exactly what bothered me but not any of my CICs.

I had heard that with many serial killers or serial offenders a specific victim or a particular episode would cause their spool of guilt to unravel. And for me that person was Rekha. She was the reason for the uncoiling of my mind, the start of my remorse, and the beginning of my road to homelessness.

These days I sleep inside a weathered tent in a public park which has become a tent city. Some days I sleep well; other days I wake up as if from a nightmare—the blank face of Rekha in front of me, and her fear-filled large dark brown eyes staring straight at me.

Rarely my thoughts would wander to Rekha and take a different road, a cobblestone road. The spark in her eyes would come into view; I would then want to know how Rekha was doing, and if she had married again; how her lovely daughter turned out to be, and if her younger brother was still around. A desire to meet and apologize for what I did to her would slowly sprout and engulf my mind.

But I know I won’t get a chance to meet her; it is just not going to happen. Whoever designed the world did not bother to input those probabilities. But this much I am sure of. If and when I come face to face with her, my eyes will be a lot more fear-filled than the large dark brown eyes I saw on the Zoom screen a long time ago.

After effortlessly stealing three crores from Rekha, I am now on the streets, miserable, and penniless. The spark of light reflected in her pupils when she paused below the skylight, that lasting image of her looking like a blue-plumed lark hovering over her cardinal-like daughter showcases to me, in unequivocal vivid frames, that she is living well surrounded by loving family members who care about her. And she eminently deserves it.

And, I am curious to see if she lives in a house with a large skylight in the living room which lets in the Sun, the Moon, the stars, the changing sky colors, and even the occasional rainbow; just curious, that is all.

***