This woman was promised the earth for helping the police nab Rajiv Gandhi’s killers. All she has got instead are death threats and the offer of a film role, complains K Muniyamma

This woman was promised the earth for helping the police nab Rajiv Gandhi’s killers. All she has got instead are death threats and the offer of a film role

The date, 19 August 1991, is etched in my mind. It’s my hane bhara (fate) that has played out for 20 years now. I have been victimised by the state for leading the police to former Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi’s killers. They—then Karnataka Chief Minister S Bangarappa, actually—promised me a reward of Rs 10 lakh. I am still waiting.

All that fame has gotten me nowhere. I have braved death threats and lived with police protection for many years. Only the CBI paid me Rs 60,000 as reward money. With half that money, I paid off my debts and bought more cows. I put the balance in a fixed deposit and got two of my four children married. I had dreams of owning a plot of land and building my own house with the money promised by the Chief Minister. It has remained an empty promise. Even to this day, I live in a thatched roof structure on encroached land. I can be evicted at any time.

I remember the events of that time very clearly, as if it were just yesterday. An affable young man, who spoke both Tamil and Kannada, approached me while I was milking my cows and wanted to buy half a litre. Pointing to a new house across the road—the only one on a huge tract of land—he said he was moving in there with his bride.

Later that evening, I saw him get off a city bus wearing a bright checked shirt. He asked if I could deliver milk to his home. A short while later, I knocked on his door. He opened it with a smile and stood while I poured the milk into a container. He went inside to get Rs 2.50. That was when I peeped inside and saw several people sleeping on bedsheets on the hall floor. I didn’t think much of it since it was common then to have little furniture in new houses.

Later that night, as we were drifting off to sleep, a few policemen came around asking if we’d seen a large group of Tamil-speaking men and a woman travelling in a Gypsy—Sivarasan, Subha, the standby human bomb, and five others, as I came to know later. They were apparently looking for isolated places to hide around Bangalore. I answered in the negative. It was quite normal for the police in Konankunte, 12 km on the outskirts of the city, to look for criminals here, as the area was quite isolated.

I started work the next day before dawn, herding and milking the cows. Then, I remembered the one-and-a-half litre order of the new tenant. When my five-year-old daughter Muniratna and her brother, Nagesh, woke up, I asked them to deliver the milk. The kids opened our neighbour’s gate, knocked on the door, and waited.

Still milking the cows, I paused to look up at the door, which was clearly visible from where I sat. I saw a hand put out a vessel and motion the kids to pour milk into it. There seemed to be no words exchanged and the children returned. I asked them if that ‘uncle’ had said anything. They said only a vessel had been thrust out and taken in once the milk was poured. They never saw the person’s face. I thought it a bit strange, but reasoned to myself that since the couple were newly-weds, they were probably not decently dressed.

A few minutes later, several men in plainclothes (cops, I soon realised) swarmed the place. Deputy Commissioner of Police Kempaiah also came there in a jeep. He asked me if I had noticed any suspicious activity. I told him about the new tenant and that morning’s incident. When I also told the police that there were other people sleeping on the floor, they were convinced these were Rajiv Gandhi’s killers. The house was put under surveillance. Kempaiah told me that if I spotted the tenant, I should inform him immediately. I nodded, a little excited at the prospect of action.

As it was time to let the cows graze, I led them to a grassy knoll behind my shack, which led back to the main road. Soon, an autorickshaw halted and a passenger called out, asking what the commotion was about. Being a talkative woman, I said proudly, “Rajiv Gandhi’s killers are hiding in that house.’’ I observed that the passenger was carrying some vessels, vegetables, coffee powder and clutching on to a bag tightly. “Oh, howda (is it?),’’ he said, a little surprised, and asked the autorickshaw driver to turn around.

As the vehicle struggled to make its U-turn, I realised he was wearing the same checked shirt I had seen the previous day. A closer look confirmed that he was the man the police had asked me to look out for. ‘If he was the tenant, what was he doing in an autorickshaw so early in the morning?’ I wondered. Wasn’t he supposed to have been in the house, taking milk from my kids?

My mind raced back to the morning’s events, especially to the man who had put out a vessel and refused to show his face. I immediately threw the grazer’s stick to the ground and ran through the elephant grass to where Kempaiah was sitting in the jeep.

“Sir,’’ I told him, breathless, “The man who asked for milk was coming here in an autorickshaw.’’ I told him about our conversation. A posse of policemen chased the auto and took Ranganathan—for that was his name—into custody.

As he was bundled away, he denied that he knew anyone in the house. A day later, commandos stormed the house to find that everyone had consumed cyanide and died. Subha, though, was shot dead, presumably by Sivarasan, who later turned the gun on himself to avoid capture. Those were the only shots fired from inside the house. When he was questioned further, Ranganathan denied that he’d ever bought milk from anyone. “I have not yet shifted my house, I don’t know who they are,’’ he told the police.

As the manhunt ended, a triumphant administration announced that I was instrumental in providing vital leads that helped the police close in on the killers. I gave interviews and posed with bigwigs who came to the spot for photographs. All of them promised to help me. I was taken to Chennai many times as an additional witness in the case. Though I didn’t have to identify Ranganathan in court, I have been credited with identifying the prime suspect without whose help Rajiv Gandhi’s killers would never have been traced.

Meanwhile, I waited for the reward. I was hoping to buy the plot we were living on and build a concrete house. My husband, Krishnappa, to this day, works on daily wages at a nearby fruit stall. In the 20 years that have passed, my shack has been demolished and troubles have only multiplied.

Last year, a local body felicitated me with a shawl and plaque for exemplary courage. The landowner who ousted us promised help too, but did nothing. The only silver lining was that I was offered a role in a film called Cyanide, based on the assassins—to play myself. My children advised me not to take it, as I was getting death threats and was under police protection.

Recently, someone herded away seven of my cows. When I went to register a police complaint, they chased me away, asking me to look for them properly. There is no justice here. I am angry and hurt that Rajiv’s daughter, Priyanka, visited Nalini Sriharan (who’s serving a life sentence in Vellore Jail) and forgave her. I am told that the Gandhi family is paying for Nalini’s daughter’s education in Chennai. Look at my fate. There has not even been a word of thanks by the ruling family.

As told to Anil Budur Lulla