Jasoos Narayanan Kutty grills cricket team owner

I got the call last night. The central investigation agency needed Jasoos Narayanan Kutty's expertise in questioning an owner of a National Cricket League team suspected to have a role in betting, fixing and money laundering. The agency had picked up the tycoon who was flying to his vacation home for a weekend away from the flashlights and family. For two days his absence won't be missed. So I had a window of 48 hours.

The suspect was kept in a dilapidated building near a dam in Kerala, which would make it easier to dispose him if, god forbid, something nasty happens. The 100X100 room had enough space for two chairs and a table. A glass wall separated me and the suspect, who was known in cricket circles as Dollar Damu. The billionaire NRI was pacing up and down the room, he looked tired but resolute.

"Let him sleep a while," I said to my assistant, a specialist in chemical compounds. He turned a knob letting into the room a gush of gas that slowly and mildly put the suspect into sleep.

An hour later, when the effect of the gas wore off, the suspect woke up. I went into the room in a tracksuit. It is 9.00 pm, but I will make him believe it is 7 in the morning. Confuse him to the extent that he loses track of time. The trick in questioning is you make the suspect believe what you want him to believe. The body will say 'no', but mind will say 'yes'.

"Good morning," I said, "Would you care for a coffee?"

The suspect looked at the clock on the wall, it said 7.00 am. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

"Ramu, bring a cup of coffee for sahib."

I had done enough research on the suspect to know his daily routine. He starts his day with a cup of coffee, smokes a cigarette, goes to toilet, works out for an hour, has breakfast... If he misses one step his day is s******. Now you get the picture.

He drank the cup of coffee, specially bought in a flask from an Udipi restaurant, some 20 km away from the holding cell.

He relished the filter coffee, but looked restless. I knew what he wanted. I took out a packet of Kaja beedi and offered him one, which he readily accepted. Then he started looking around.

"Where can I... you know."

I pointed at an earthen pot in the corner.

"What? There?" Damu was shocked.

I did not say anything.

"What if I want to do a little more than that?"

I pointed at a partition in another corner. He went and came back shocked.

"But there is only a hole there."

"No ordinary hole, it is the a******. You know what Hugo Chavez called George Bush."

He still seemed wary.

"Don't worry, we adopted the technology from Indian Railways. A pipe connects the hole to .... You don't want to know where."

He went and came back.

"But the hole is too small."

"Don't they say practice makes a man perfect."

He again went and came back.

"It is very small."

"Dharavi Dhirender used it the other day, he had no problems. I still remember his first day here, he kind of played Holi there."

"S***, s***," Damu came running back.

His face looked like he had had some fifty drinks and desperately wanted to puke.

"Not here, you behen****, go back to the corner."

I rang a bell. Minnal Madhavan, a Kerala police Sub-Inspector deputed to the central investigation agency, came in. He directed Damu to remove his clothes and let him stop only when he was reduced to the last piece of cloth on his body.

I made sure Damu's underwear had no elastic threads. There have been many instances of suspects found hanging from their underwear. In fact, that is the most preferred mode of suicide for jail inmates.

"Move the chair to the back, the table is blocking my view," I said sternly.

The next 10 minutes went off without any conversation. I just kept staring at him.

"Can I have a glass of water please?"

"Of course, what do you think? We policemen have no heart?" I rolled a joint even as I called out for water. This was another weakness of his.

"Sir, that is not how you roll a joint. I will show you," said Damu, happy to get a chance to impress me.

By the time I started smoking, the glass of water had come. It had a slight yellow tinge to it.

"What is this bloody fool?"

"Sir, this is what we give our prisoners to drink. This beverage is named after a former prime minister."

Oh God! These policewallahs!

"You serve this to dacoits, Maoists, terrorists. Not this man. He is a respected businessman. Do you want to get into trouble with human rights activists?"

Damu smiled approvingly.

"Go get a glass of water. Pure water. Unadulterated H2O. And keep that glass here."

"Fun time is over, now let us get to work. Did you bet on cricket matches?"

"Not at all. I earn in millions why should I bet?"

"OK. Did you fix your team's matches?"

"No way. Cricket is religion for me. I worship Sachin Tendulkar."

"And you are in no way connected to hawala?"

"What is hawala?"

I opened by laptop and opened a spreadsheet that detailed the accounts and expenses of his cricket team.

"These papers show you pay an amount of 20 crore or more to the organisers every year. In addition, you pay your players salary, your wage bill runs into crores. What business is this which sucks in money and gives no returns?"

"Sir, you may be Jasoos Narayanan Kutty. But you know zilch about business. We are building value here. We are building a brand here."

"Can you explain?"

"Haven't you seen new age tech companies that never make any profit but are bought over by business giants for billions of dollars. The customer base, the brand, the goodwill -- all that has a value attached to it. Business is not a sum total of revenue and expenditure."

"Forgive my ignorance. You have already played 10 seasons of cricket league and your franchise is only for 15 years. Which dumb-ass is going to pay you millions of dollars for five years of cricket left?"

"There are other perks. The parties, the glamour..."

I threw the glass left behind by Minnal at his face.

"Next time I will make you drink that."

Damu was stunned. I left him alone in the room. All the while lights in the room went on and off. Questioning is a mindgame like cricket. There you sledge, here sledging itself might not be enough.

When I went back, I took a tandoor grill with me. In front of Damu, I marinated fish - fresh catch from a stream nearby - wrapped it in banana leaf and put it on the grill. The message here is subtle, like an Adoor movie. If Damu has any intelligence he will understand what I would be doing to him. If the message is lost on Damu, no problem, I still have the fish pollichathu to eat.

Hours went by but Damu didn't crack. In every endeavour, there are times when you realise when to stop. Business, sports, medicine - any profession you take - you may have to give up the race to fight another day.

I walked up to Damu.

"Machan, how about cutting a deal?"

"What?"

"I cut my losses, you cut yours. We will name you, we will shame you, but we won't charge you."

"That works for me. By the way can I go to the toilet now?"

"The deal doesn't cover toilets. Go try the hole in the corner."

Six drinks down, I now know why Damu is in this business.

Sachin is his god, Bill Gates his idol. He is in cricket for philanthropy.

Follow me on twitter @jasooskutty