Arre O Sambha

As a sort of familiarisation exercise, I visited the Etawah district jail in the morning to meet people similar to the kind I’d be gunning for. Four dreaded Phoolan Devi types have been lodged here for the past nine months.

‘‘We have everything in the jungles… TVs that run on battery, music, alcohol and of course, so much gold,’’ said the feisty, flashily-adorned Neelam, 20, the third wife of Gujjar, who has more than two dozen cases of murder and kidnapping against her.

Nineteen-year-old Sunita Pandey, her bête noire, is also in the same jail. In fact, she made me wait for almost half an hour before turning up in heavy jewellery and a glitzy suit. “It is prestigious to be a woman dacoit in our society,’’ she said.

A five-km zip in Chawdhary’s Amby and we are bang at the UP-MP border, ready for the comb. But only after receiving the blessings of Maa Kali at a nearby temple—a mandatory stop before plunging into the ravines.

‘‘The chief minister sent Rs 65 lakh for development of this temple recently,’’ says the pandit, as the men bow before the goddess.

The walk begins soon. We’ve got AK-47s (my weapon’s trigger is locked) and self-loading rifles—one AK hangs dangerously around my neck. The cops don’t wear bulletproof jackets since the weight impedes rapid movement.

I learn there are two ways to hold an AK, you either keep it in your hand or wear it around your neck. And contrary to filmi perception, it’s a heavy thing to be carrying around—my hands start protesting within five minutes.

There are tall, thorny bushes all around, restricting visibility to just 15 feet. The entire area, with small hilly outcrops and troughs that look the same from any angle, is disorienting.

There’s also the sun that beats down mercilessly. But summers are the only time one can enter the ravines, the rains make them totally inaccessible. All those Bollywood films with dacoits on horses and Jeeps are just plain nonsense. Everybody walks here.

‘‘Walk tall, without fear. Spot them and fire, the firing may last just a few seconds and you may never spot them again, so forget about wasting time in taking a position. They are chuhas,’’ booms the supremely fit Chawdhary, whose ‘‘trusted men from Etawah’’ are the only ones in the UP police force who go after dacoits.

I’ve got to watch out for the peaks, since that’s the vantage point for the gangs’ watchmen. And if we get spotted, the guys up there throw a rock down into the valley. That’s the signal for the gang resting below to shift location. No hurry, no fuss.

And should the cops ever get hot on their trail, a dacoit at the rear carries a broom to wipe off footprints.

Various kinds of thorns and other detritus have pierced through my shoe. But Chawdhary, as he helps me up a steep incline, tells me not to stop walking and to keep my team members well within sight.

‘‘If you take the wrong turn, you might never be able to get out of here,’’ says sub-inspector Arun Kumar Singh.

Two hours of walking and I’m exhausted. My feet, arms and face are scratched thanks to the thorny bushes. And there’s still no sign of the hunted.

‘‘It all depends on luck and the quality of information we get,’’ says Chawdhary, as my cellphone rings. ‘‘Since dacoits use them a lot, we now get them by ensuring surveillance of their phones. It’s become their nemesis,’’ he says.

We walk around for a bit more, the team hampered by my lack of familiarity with the terrain. At around 7.30, when the sun has sunk below the horizon, Chawdhary calls it a day. By moonlight, the ravines are a surreal experience.

We head back to the cars and I hand the AK-47 back to Chawdhary. He senses my disappointment. ‘‘But at least now, you realise how difficult it is to get hold of dacoits in the ravines. It is a tough job,’’ says Chawdhary. No two ways about it, sir.