The killers won’t return, they’ll strike miles away

Five murders in one lane, the fog, the freshly-cut trees, remnants of last night’s fire and not a soul around except the security guards. The lights and sounds of PVR Anupam seem eons away, but the multiplex is only half a kilometre from the lane.

Through the haze, blood stains are still visible on the garbage dump where the maid was most probably killed before being dragged into the park. A window at the Charys’ residence looks darker than the rest as it overlooks the lane and the dustbin on the opposite side from where their killers could have beaten a hasty retreat.

“At least, there is some light here now, earlier it was absolutely dark. But there was more activity here then. I think people have just stopped coming to this notorious place now,” Dayanand says as he pokes some bushes with his lathi before turning to take a round of the blocks.

He walks briskly, his eyes darting from the third floor of the SFS flats to the two parks below. As he completes his round, he stops to check the vacant plot behind the lane where the Charys were attacked.

The silence is broken by vehicles travelling on the Mehrauli-Badarpur road, but these sounds are muffled by the reassuring siren of the patrolling Hero Hondas. The bikes appear thrice during the morning with their red and orange lights flashing through the fog. The patrolling policemen stop to exchange a few words with the beat constable. “Sab shanti hai (Is everything okay)?” they ask. Dayanand nods and points towards the only window through which a light still shines. “Yesterday I noticed that they shut the window only at 4 a.m.. They know the times are bad. Is this the way to behave?” he says. Notes of an English song and light conversation float out of this window. “Under normal circumstances, if we knock on somebody’s door they just get angry and say that we are wasting their time. But when something happens everybody blames us,” the other night patroller says.

Dayanand and the two CISF personnel march up to the house and convince the residents to shut the window. “Aaj kal logon ka koi time-table nahin hai (These days people have no fixed routine),” says the beat constable on seeing a group of youngsters driving away nonchalantly.

Dayanand says that on the night of December 23, when the Charys were lying dead in the park, he saw a couple sitting inside a car in the adjoining block. “How is it possible for any beat constable to keep tabs on 1,500 houses. We are already short-staffed, then the same constable is asked to do night and day duty. It becomes very difficult for us to do our duty seriously,” he complains as a drop of cold water from a nearby tree wets his cap. A little later, he says that most of the patrolling is done on bikes now. Dayanand says that he does know some of the senior citizens of the area, but “they don’t even offer us a glass of water”.

He moves on. The private security guards sit huddled near fires or, better still, heaters. As the patrolling bikes pass the area again, their wireless system crackles to life with a conversation about arranging tea for PCR van personnel. “We are not as privileged,” Dayanand responds.

It is 2 in the morning and freezing cold. Dayanand quickens his pace. With five murders being committed in this lane, isn’t he scared about having nothing more than a lathi to protect himself and the others? “These criminals do not strike at the same place more than once. They will strike at a new place maybe miles away,” he says confidently before going inside the picket for a break.