‘Letterhead’ dacoits: the new breed

When a Bollywood film producer received a ‘ransom’ note from one of the Chambal valley’s most feared bandits, he was shocked to see that it was on a letterhead that had the dacoit’s honorific, name and area of influence written prominently on it. The bandit has gone CEO.

By Yatish Yadav

Krishna Mishra, a Bollywood film producer, recently received a letter from Jagjivan Parihar, one of the dominant and most feared dacoits in the Chambal ravines of Madhya Pradesh. Mishra's insolence: that of casting real-life bandit moll Seema Parihar in his film. Mishra seems to be in the thick of bandit badinage: when he had carried out the muhurat of his film, the notorious and brutally impulsive Chambal dacoit, the unlamented late Nirbhay Gujjar— who happened to be Seema Parihar's first husband and Jagjivan Parihar's mentor—had threatened to ice him if he didn't stop the cameras rolling.

The Chambal-Bollywood synergy has a long history. Many Bollywood bandit films, including the eponymous Sholay, had dacoits sending in their men to collect “due recompense”. In fact, during the shooting of Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather (1972), the American-Italian mafia is reported to have vetted every scene. But this is the first incident of its kind in Bollywood in which a ransom demand has arrived on a brazen letterhead.

After the death of Nirbhay Gujjar in November last year, Jagjivan Parihar demanded Rs 10 lakh to let Mishra use the story of a protagonist, one Rishikesh Sharma, which would form the linchpin of the film. Without the money, neither Mishra nor the film would see the light of day.

Jagjivan Parihar told Mishra to give Sharma the money before releasing the film, pending which the payout would go up by Rs 50 lakh more. Jagjivan, who claims to be Chambal's undisputed overlord, has also given Mishra his two mobile phone numbers to help settle the deal.

Parihar's letter is in Realpolitik's possession, and its contents show just how far the bedraggled dacoits of the dusty Chambal ravines have come with regard to methods of persuasion. Parihar's letterhead grandly introduces him as “Thakur Jagjivan Singh Parihar”, the “Dasyu Samrat” (Bandit King). For all purposes, it is a letter penned by a hardnosed CEO announcing a compromise—one in which everything has to go his way. The letterhead says “Jai Kali Ma”, the scripted symbol of the Goddess Kali, the Chambal bandits' most sacred Hindu deity. The letter declares that Parihar's area of monopoly is Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, and Rajasthan. The dates for the “formalities” to be completed are filled in by his “secretary”.

As the letter begins, the handwriting, in Hindi, tends to wander around the page a bit; but the bandit greets Mishra modestly and with some grace. He speaks of the “problems” that Rishikesh Sharma is facing, and of Sharma's relationship with Nirbhay Gujjar. Then, Parihar asks for Rs 10 lakh, to be paid to Sharma, after which he (Parihar) would forget about causing a rumpus. But the polished CEO then gathers bile: midway through the letter, Parihar vents—he reverts to habitual truculence and threats.

Parihar makes it a point to say that he is no stranger to Mumbai, where is well connected and into which he makes occasional forays. “Mishraji” is replaced by “you crook Mishra”. Bummer. What a fall. But this seems to have left Mishra relatively unfazed. “My film has already been delayed and this has caused me much tension—and a hole in my pocket,” he says. “I can't wait anymore—it's time for the reel life.”

Parihar seems to be evolving into a passionate letter-writer. Last year, when he had become something of a terror in the Chambal, he had sent some handwritten letters to a minister in the Madhya Pradesh government. But this one surely goes one further—or perhaps it is just in keeping with Jagjivan Parihar's image makeover, which includes wearing denim and sporting long hair.