The Scam That Shook a Nation
By Prakash Patra and Rasheed Kidwai
HarperCollins, 276 pages, Rs 399

The 1970s were a watershed period for Indian politics, but before all the momentous events that would take place, something else would leave the nation gasping in collective disbelief in the summer of 1971.

On 24 May 1971, after receiving a purported telephone call from Prime Minister Indira Gandhi and her secretary, P.N. Haksar, the chief cashier at the Parliament Street branch of the State Bank of India handed over Rs 60 lakh meant for secret operations in East Pakistan to the PM’s courier. When the chief cashier approached the PMO for a receipt, he was told that neither Haksar nor the PM had given any such instruction or sent anyone. He had been duped.

Within a few hours, Delhi Police managed to recover most of the cash and arrest the man responsible for the heist: former army captain Rustom Sohrab Nagarwala. Subsequent events—a botched police investigation, bungling by the lower judiciary and the mysterious deaths of the accused and the principal investigator—and Indira Gandhi’s inexplicable silence through it all launched several conspiracy theories. She would later clarify, ‘A section of the people were occupied in manufacturing this kind of propaganda day in and day out, and I did not pay much attention.’

The story of Nagarwala is now the basis of a highly readable book, ‘The Scam That Shook a Nation’, by Prakash Patra and Rasheed Kidwai – both veteran print journalists. It is based on extensive research, police records, press reports, depositions before the Justice Jaganmohan Reddy Commission and its report, is the first authoritative work on the case, its investigation and its afterlife.

The book reads like a thriller, as this excerpt bears out:

NAGARWALA’S DAY OUT

Rustom Nagarwala stood on the road outside the taxi stand in the outer circle of Connaught Place. That is where cab driver Om Prakash had dropped him. Nagarwala had left five hundred-rupee notes on the back seat after the driver had refused to take the money.

So frightened was Om Prakash that he had sped off and disappeared from the scene after dropping his passenger.

Across the road was Marina Hotel. Nagarwala, carrying the two bags, scanned the streets, walked into the hotel and spoke to the concierge. He then kept the bags that he was carrying on the patio near the main gate of the hotel, nodded to the concierge and left.

He seemed in a world of his own, oblivious to everything around him. A little distance away, workers at the nearby Plaza Cinema were busy with a post-lunch agitation against the owners of Eagle Theatres, who owned Plaza Cinema, demanding a hike in bonus. Inside Plaza Cinema, it was another full house for the Rajesh Khanna-starrer Haathi Mere Saathi.

But neither protest nor blockbuster interested Nagarwala. He had work to do and no time to waste. A little later, he was at the office of the Marina Taxi Service. This was familiar territory for him. Nearly two decades ago, shortly after leaving the Indian Army, Nagarwala had invested Rs 10,000 in the venture, started by his friend Rajinder Singh. But that was in the early 1950s. Rajinder was no more and his son Mohinder now ran the business.

Mohinder was not in the Marina taxi office, but his younger brother, Harbhajan, was. Nagarwala made small talk with the teenager as he waited in the office for Mohinder to arrive. It was around 2.40 p.m. when Mohinder walked in.

Already impatient, Nagarwala came straight to the point. He said he was in a hurry and wanted an air-conditioned car for a trip to Nainital. He said he had a few foreign guests to entertain and wanted to take them to a hill station. Delhi’s weather then was a scorching 42 degree Celsius, made more unbearable by the dry hot wind (loo) blowing across parts of north India.

For Mohinder, Nagarwala was a regular client. But this time around, Mohinder expressed his helplessness. All his vehicles, he said, were out on the street and he had no car to spare.

But Nagarwala was insistent and Mohinder conceded that he had one air-conditioned vehicle whose fitness certificate had expired.

‘Don’t worry,’ Nagarwala told him. ‘If the car is stopped, I’ll pay the fine.’

Mohinder was aware of Nagarwala’s influential contacts, but he declined.

‘Can’t you spare a small car?’ Nagarwala asked again.

Mohinder shook his head. Nagarwala paused and thought for a moment, then told Mohinder to book an air-conditioned vehicle for the next day (25 May 1971). It should be sent to him at the Parsi dharamshala early in the morning, he added. Mohinder made a note in his diary and confirmed the booking.

Nagarwala seemed to have relaxed a bit. He leaned back in his chair, holding the chilled 300 ml bottle of Coca-Cola Mohinder had offered to his guest. But he was not done yet. ‘Can you spare your personal car?’ he asked the younger man. ‘I have some urgent work for a couple of hours and have to meet a few friends.’

Mohinder could not turn down this request. Apart from being hislate father’s friend, Nagarwala had got him good business, promptly cleared his dues and tipped drivers generously.

‘Call Paramjit,’ Mohinder told one of his employees.

‘Where can I buy a big-size leather suitcase?’ Nagarwala asked as they waited for Paramjit, Mohinder’s personal driver, who drove the family car (DLK 2125).

Nagarwala, who minutes ago had been pleading for a car, now looked more confident, his hefty, five-foot-ten-inch frame accentuating his air of authority.

‘There are so many shops nearby,’ Mohinder replied, specifying two shops in the vicinity.

Paramjit entered at this point. He was in his twenties. His father, too, worked for the family as a driver, and he was no stranger to Nagarwala.

‘Go with him,’ Mohinder said, gesturing towards Nagarwala, as he handed the car keys to Paramjit. ‘Come back as soon as his work is over. Don’t ask him for money. He has booked a taxi for tomorrow.’

Paramjit nodded as he accompanied Nagarwala out of the office. Mohinder’s younger brother, Harbhajan, who had been hovering around in the office, followed them. The teenager was keen to show Nagarwala the shop where he could buy the suitcase. Imperial Leather Works, established in 1945, was then among the most well-known leather-bag dealers in Delhi. From the 1950s through the 1970s, it was a one-stop destination for customers.

FRIENDS, ‘NEW LOOK’ HAIRCUT AND SUITCASES

Nagarwala and Harbhajan picked up two suitcases from Imperial Leather Works and walked back to the Marina taxi office. The two suitcases had cost Nagarwala Rs 84. He then went back to the hotel where he had left the bags, while Harbhajan waited with the suitcases.

Nagarwala returned soon with the bags and he and Paramjit lifted the bags into the dickey of the private car.

‘Are there bricks inside?’ Paramjit asked, surprised by the weight of the bags.

‘They are books,’ Nagarwala replied. He thanked Harbhajan, got into the car and asked Paramjit to take him to the Parsi dharamshala.

It took less than ten minutes to cover the three-and-a-half-kilometre distance between Marina Hotel and the dharamshala.

Once at the dharamshala, Nagarwala took out all the bags from the dickey—the two suitcases and the two bags—and headed straight to his room.

Dhur Darius Bagli, wife of the Parsi priest-caretaker of the dharamshala, remembered seeing Nagarwala striding towards his room. He seemed to be in a tearing hurry. But what surprised her was that he had barely noticed her and they had passed each other at the gate without the usual exchange of greetings.

[The excerpt reproduced with the permission of the publishers.]