Crime Patrol and Me

One of the prompts—from the Ochre Sky Writing Circle—brought back my mum’s worst fears.

So I was reading my story aloud to Udit, as I always do. Emotions were high and my voice would rise exponentially around the fourth line, every time.

Now, my mum who was in the other room heard the different renditions of my piece and finally when she couldn’t resist, at about the sixth rendition she shouted from the other room “STOP WATCHING CRIME PATROL, even what you write is violent”.

My mum’s recovering from a toe surgery, so with her on bedrest (mostly) we picked up this habit a month ago, of watching reruns of old episodes of Crime Patrol with the evening chai.

Udit still cant believe that we like to watch dead bodies with our paneer pakoras!

So the other night, having settled inside the blanket and having had gleaned through all the OTTs for a delectable murder mystery. Unable to find one and propelled with my renewed confidence I settled for the good old Crime Patrol.

I know I know. Roll your eyes as much as you want to. But this is what happened.

With my headphones on I started watching one of the latest seasons (purportedly) of Crime Patrol and within two minutes my focus drifted to the repeated costumes of the actors, the bad sets, the overacting and the horrible editing. Anoop Soni has moved on. Sanjeev Tyagi, Nissar Khan and  Rajendra Shisatkar have moved on. And some of the old actors, now promoted to main roles, looked so disinterested that I am sure the producer and director have also moved on.

What’s more— they beep out words like cocaine and don’t show dead bodies any more!

I realised that communal watching is different (and almost impossible) from watching it all by yourself!

Silently, moaning the demise of Crime Patrol I called the time of death on the new season.

Sanjeev Tyagi, Nissar Khan and  Rajendra Shisatkar

This was the second time I bid farewell to Crime Patrol. The first time was in December 2021.

For me, back then, Crime Patrol was the background noise in the kitchen. On my computer on the slab behind me — a kid would be kidnapped, a woman raped, a family murdered, or a policeman killed. All this while I chopped the vegetables, peeled the potatoes, kneaded the dough or marinated chunks of chicken cubes with ginger-garlic paste. I did not need to watch it. I knew exactly what was happening.

These were reruns. These were episodes I knew by heart. I knew when Tyagi would go “Kooto saaale ko” or when Khan would confront a corrupt police officer and say something to the effect of “dead people can’t speak for themselves, they need us to get them justice”. I knew when the phone records would be “triangulated”, when a DNA testing would be ordered, or when a khabri would actually be the smartest in the lot and solve the case for the police.

Everything was going smoothly. The only problem was that every time Udit entered the kitchen the show would suddenly take a very dramatic —gory, loud, bloody—turn. Once again he could never understand how I could watch or rather hear so much distress, agony, pain, helplessness, and viciousness while cooking. Especially while cooking.

It was worse in winters. Our house has thin walls and the wails and cries from the episodes would carry far and wide. It can be agonising for any one who isn’t into it. So on one such day, when a plea to turn off the computer became a little more, let’s say persuasive, I decided to end the ordeal for the only other living creature in my house.

No more Crime Patrol.

Moving on, I strongly believe this show has its faithfuls, its own community, its own fan club. They are like the secret, underground clubs—not revealing their identity for fear of being judged and ridiculed!

I have met several who are diligent watchers of Crime Patrol and its reruns. One of them is Ranjana, my ex-colleague and a dear friend. Besides other things, both of us bonded over food (wherein she fed me) and Crime Patrol. Once again Udit was often left wide-eyed at how we would exchange notes on the “whodunit” if we happened to even see a clip of the show. Ranjana’s mum too is a fan!

I have always liked watching crime/thriller shows/movies. Not Zee Horror Show or Aahat. More like Byomkesh, Kille ka Rahasya, Karamchand. Even CID in the early days was fine; ACP Pradyuman’s “Kuch toh gadbad hai” and “Daya darwaza tod do” were still many years away from becoming a meme and the show becoming a joke.

There was a detective/crime show on BBC. Can’t recall the name now but that serial gave me Luminol—the chemical that was used to detect blood stains in impeccably clean murder sites. There are no perfect crimes, eh!

I used to watch this show all by myself and it was at this point that mum was convinced I would become a criminal. And if not a full fledged raving mad criminal, at least a full fledged raving violent lunatic.

Then there was that little tiny bit in her which convinced her that I wouldn’t because I was simply too lazy to execute a crime!

Then the Chaitali-Rizwan murder case happened in Jamshedpur. The two had killed and chopped four members of the former’s family and stuffed the body parts in water coolers and water tanks in the house. This hit home harder on account of the fact that the “slaughterhouse” was just a couple of houses away from the plot of land that dad had purchased or was planning to purchase or had already sold off (one of these).

And since this was in 1999—my third year of college—my nani believed I would take inspiration and do the same to them with my alleged affairee. There was absolute no evidence that I would (or could) apart from the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed a good murder!

So the natural next course of action, when I became a journalist, was to cover crime.

At my first paying job at The Telegraph there was an old hand whom I would have to bump off if I wanted the crime beat. Better sense prevailed. So while Jena da attended pressers at the SP’s residence and followed up on high-stakes crime, I was calling up bada babu’s in the thanas and visited the mortuary. That the crime beat was so coveted hit me when during my first (and only) TV job interview Rajdeep Sardesai asked what I wanted to cover and he followed it up with “Don’t say politics or crime”.

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By the way, what mum heard from the other room was my five-line story in response to the (tweak-able) prompt “she woke up and chose violence”. And this is how it went:

On a lonely road in the middle of the night a biker pulls up next to me and tugs my hair.

In a matter of seconds, I go from fear “I will die” to revenge “I will die but kill him too” to rage “I will kill him”.

I brake, he brakes, I take the helmet off the hook, walk up to him, swing my helmet at his face and THWACK!

THWACK THWACK THWACK CRUNCH SPLAT.

I kick the bastard’s lifeless limp faceless body one last time before I wake up.

Her breathy, high pitch, strained voice (on accord of stiff vocal cords) that day once again betrayed her worst fears—that her daughter will become a criminal!