The Late-Night Tip
(Dinesh Jha's Perspective)
The clock on the wall of the Fatuha Police Station ticked with a monotonous rhythm, each second an echo in the otherwise quiet night. It was 1:30 AM, the tail end of a long, uneventful shift. Outside, a couple of hawaldars sat on the worn-out bench, sharing a quiet smoke and hushed jokes. Inside, the scene was equally languid. Some constables leaned back in their chairs, feet propped on desks cluttered with paperwork, their conversations drifting between local gossip and the latest cricket scores.
I, Inspector Dinesh Jha, sat in the relative comfort of my small office, the worn leather of my chair creaking softly beneath me. The table in front of me bore a simple nameplate: "D. JHA - INSPECTOR." The gentle hum of the ancient cooler in the corner offered a welcome respite from the humid night air. My eyes were half-closed, a state of semi-rest that allowed me to remain alert without expending too much energy. Most late-night calls were either minor accidents or the ramblings of someone intoxicated – nothing that truly stirred the quiet routine.
Suddenly, the shrill ring of the station's landline cut through the stillness. It was a jarring sound in the late hour. One of the hawaldars inside, a young fellow named Ravi, reluctantly picked up the receiver. His side of the conversation was a series of "Haan ji," and "Theek hai," his brow furrowed in mild curiosity.
After a few minutes, Ravi ambled into my cabin, a slightly bewildered look on his face. "Shaheb," he began, his voice low. "That was a call… a tip. About illegal fake liquor production." He held up a scribbled note. "They even gave an address. Some abandoned factory on the outskirts, towards the Fatuha town road."
I opened my eyes fully, a flicker of interest breaking through my drowsiness. "Did they give a name?" I asked, leaning forward.
"No, sir," Ravi replied, shaking his head. "They just gave the address and hung up. Sounded like a local."
I considered this. A nameless tip in the dead of night. It could be anything – a genuine lead, a prank, or even a setup by rival bootleggers. Still, in this sleepy town, even a potential lead was worth investigating.
"What do you think, Shaheb?" Ravi prompted, waiting for my instructions.
"Let's go," I said, pushing myself up from the creaking chair. "Ready the team. Five men will be enough. This could be those old liquor makers trying to set up shop again, or maybe it's some new player trying to muscle in. Either way, we'll pay them a visit. Might even get our names in the local papers for busting an illegal operation. Ravi, get constables Sharma, Verma, Singh, and Dubey. Tell them to grab their gear. We're taking a ride." A small, cynical smile played on my lips. A little action would certainly break the monotony of this quiet night.