The Stolen Necklace: A Small Crime in a Small Town

By Shevlin Sebastian and V.K. Thajudheen

When V.K. Thajudheen, a middle-aged man working in Doha, returned to his hometown, Kannur, after a few years, little did he know that instead of celebrating his daughter's summer wedding he would be put behind bars for stealing a gold necklace.

The local police, smug at apprehending a criminal in record time, wanted a confession to lock it in. Horrified and bewildered, Thajudheen showed proof that he had been busy with the wedding at the time of the crime. But all proof he provided crumbled in the face of the CCTV footage from that day, for it showed clearly that it was Thajudheen on the scooter, riding away from the crime scene. But how could he be in two places at the same time?

And so started a cat-and-mouse game between Thajudheen and the police-the former trying to prove his innocence and the latter hell-bent on pinning the crime on Thajudheen. The media caught whiff of this case and the whole of Kannur was talking about it.

The Stolen Necklace might seem to about a small crime in a small town, but with its incredible twists and turns, it is ultimately the story of a common man who fought the system and pulled off a miraculous victory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins India
• Release date: May 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9789356296756

Shevlin Sebastian

Shevlin Sebastian has been a journalist for over three decades. He has worked in major publications such as The Hindustan Times (Mumbai), The New Indian Express and The Week (both in Kochi) and Sportsworld (Kolkata). Shevlin has published over 4,500 feature articles on subjects like history, spirituality, literature, films and sports. His blog, ‘Shevlin's World', has received over 23 lakh hits. He has also published four novels for children.

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Preface

Anews item was brought to my notice. The police had arrested a middle-class entrepreneur, V.K. Thajudheen, in Thalassery, northern Kerala. They accused him of being a thief. Based in Doha, Qatar, Thajudheen had come to Kerala for the marriage of his eldest child, a daughter.

While the event took place in July 2018, there was an updated media report in March 2021. This was the one I saw.

I am a Kochi-based journalist. This could be a book, I thought.

This belief was confirmed when I did some research online.

I had been writing for newspapers and magazines for over three decades, but I had little experience writing a book. In journalism, when you write an article, you reduce the word count, because space is a constraint in newspapers. In book writing, it is the opposite. You expand.

Nevertheless, I took the plunge.

Thajudheen, forty-six, had moved to the commercial capital of Kochi a couple of months earlier from his hometown Thalassery, 253 kilometres away.

We met on a sunny morning in April 2021 at a restaurant in Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium.

We were neck-deep in the lockdown following the coronavirus pandemic. The place was empty. We sipped cups of tea and stared at the deserted road. Both of us could hear the chirp of sparrows sitting on the branch of a nearby tree. It was so clear it seemed like they were perched on our shoulders.

We got talking. Thajudheen had plenty to say. It had been an unforgettable experience for him. Some of the people he met in prison included criminals, mid-career professionals, child sex abusers and petty thieves.

Like any middle-class person in India, Thajudheen had lived in a bubble amidst family and friends. He enjoyed going for the occasional movie and attending get-togethers. The police, bureaucracy, judiciary—these were all far removed from his life. But all that changed when he was arrested.

Thajudheen was a slim man with a balding head. He had a thoughtful look behind his spectacles but when animated, his eyes twinkled and his voice rose. He gave off a bright smile and gestured often with his hands. A father of three children, he had had a love marriage.

Within a matter of days, we embarked on a journey of remembering his story.

Owing to the sensitive nature of the story, we had no option but to change the names of some of the people in it.

In the narrative, the Kerala Police is in focus. Some officers assumed Thajudheen was the thief, but there were others who took remedial measures when the media raised doubts about his guilt.

The book chronicles Thajudheen’s many experiences before and after his incarceration.

The point is: if it can happen to him, it can happen to you as well.

Shevlin Sebastian

Kochi, February 2023

1

Good Times

Anikah was taking place. It was of the Qatar-based entrepreneur V.K. Thajudheen’s daughter Thazleena with Shiraz Abdulla at Juma Masjid in Thalassery, Kerala.

On the carpeted floor, in a hall, the qazi sat in the middle, the Quran in front of him, with Thajudheen on one side and Shiraz on the other. With white handkerchiefs covering their heads, the bride and groom sat on their haunches, with their knees pressed to the floor. As they held each other’s hands, in a firm handshake, the priest intoned verses in a soft voice from the Holy Quran.

Thajudheen had a half-smile playing on his face. But that was not the case with twenty-eight-year-old Shiraz. His upper body was stiff, like the trunk of a coconut tree.

Thajudheen spoke to the qazi, offering his daughter in marriage. The priest passed the proposal called ijaab to Shiraz. The groom accepted it by saying ‘qubool’ softly.

Several male members of both families, including two witnesses from the girl’s side, sat cross-legged on the floor and observed the proceedings silently. Most of them wore white shirts and skullcaps. Thajudheen’s college-going son Thezin, along with his seven-year-old brother Thazeem, watched the process unblinkingly.

It was the time for the exchange of mehr—an obligation by the groom. Shiraz presented a gold necklace in a small box to Thajudheen. In return, Thajudheen gave a gift, which he had bought at Doha. It was a Roamer Swiss watch—a C-Line Gents, with pink hands and numbers against a black dial with a dazzling stainless-steel strap and valued at over Rs 50,000. Shiraz opened it, placed the watch on his wrist, stared at it transfixed but with a smile on his face. Eventually, he unclasped the strap and replaced it carefully into a chocolate-coloured box.

Following the evening ceremony, on 8 July 2018, Thajudheen and his family members were introduced to the relatives on the boy’s side. They exchanged greetings of asalaam-u-alaikum and wa-alaikum-u-salam. Over the murmur of voices, everyone hugged Shiraz three times and shook his hand. There were happy smiles all around; a good deed had been accomplished.

A young man moved around with a plastic tray with reddish-brown dates. The men took a piece each.

Thajudheen smiled a lot. Without too much of a search, he had been able to marry off his only daughter to an agreeable boy. Praise be to Allah, he thought, as he headed home in his car with his sons.

Two days later, Thajudheen called his sister Shameema and told her that he was coming over with the family for a visit.

Shameema said she would like the new couple to have dinner with them.

‘Is there any need for dinner?’ said Thajudheen.

‘Tomorrow, you are going to Bengaluru with Thezin for his college admission, and from there to Doha,’ said Shameema. ‘So, I won’t see you for many months.’

Thajudheen weighed what Shameema said.

‘Okay,’ said Thajudheen. ‘We will come early and help you make dinner.’

Shameema’s husband was not at home. Like Thajudheen, he worked in Doha. Thazleena and Shiraz had plans to spend the day together and agreed to drop by at night.

At 5.30 p.m., Thajudheen, his wife Nasreena, Thezin and Thazeem arrived in a hired car at Shameema’s place in Azhiyur, 19 kilometres from their home in Kadirur. Shameema stood at the entrance with a wide smile and greeted Nasreena with a hug.

As the women entered the kitchen, Nasreena took off her hijab and placed it on a hook on the wall. It was a spacious kitchen. Quickly, they set about making the famous Thalassery chicken biryani.

Shameema had already washed the kaima rice, an aromatic rice grown in Wayanad district and different in taste from the usual basmati rice. She had also chopped the onions, garlic and tomatoes and cut the chicken into pieces. Shameema’s daughter Shibna took out the mint and coriander leaves from the refrigerator and washed them under the tap, swishing the bunch backwards and forwards.

Nasreena began frying the onions on a medium flame in a pan with sunflower oil. A sizzling sound, like that of a steady rain, could be heard. Soon, the pungent smell of the spices rose in the air.

At one point, Shameema picked up her mobile phone from the kitchen counter, called a local restaurant, and placed an order for beef roast and Al Faham Chicken. This grilled chicken dish is from West Asia and also popular in north Kerala. Marinated in a spicy sauce, it is cooked over a charcoal grill or in an oven.

Thajudheen chopped carrots, potatoes, beans and onions into thin slices, and added coconut milk, cloves and cinnamon to make the vegetable stew.

Shiraz and Thazleena arrived at 10 p.m. While smiles and cheers abounded, they sipped a welcome drink of warm milk and Horlicks.

Everybody congregated around the oval-shaped dining table. Soon, the food appeared on plates and platters. When Shameema removed the lid on the biryani, everybody breathed in with delight the saffron aroma as it rose in the air.

As the family members began tucking into the food, Thajudheen noticed that Shiraz was hardly eating anything. Shameema glanced at Shiraz’s plate, smiled and said, ‘You remind me of my son-in-law, Naveed, who lives in Dubai. When he came to our house for the first time after the marriage, he was also shy like you.’

‘There is nothing to feel shy about,’ said a smiling Thajudheen, as he tore a piece of paratha and dipped it into the vegetable stew. ‘Enjoy the food. This is your home.’

Shiraz smiled and said, ‘Upa, if I actually eat, I will polish off the entire table.’

Laughter echoed around the room. Thazleena dabbed her eyes with a pink handkerchief. Her eyes were watering from all the laughter. Thajudheen was glad that his son-in-law felt relaxed enough to crack a joke.

After dinner, they congregated in the living room, sitting on sofas and chairs, chatting with each other.

The weather outside had changed. Lightning rent the sky with streaks of bright blue light. The rain hit the ground with a thudding sound.

They had to raise their voices to be heard.

It was nearing midnight.

Shiraz looked out of the window, stared at his new watch, and said, ‘I have to go home. My parents will be worried.’

Since the official function to celebrate the marriage had not taken place, Shiraz and Thazleena had not started living together. After hugging Thazleena, he left in his Hyundai Verna.

Thajudheen had hired a Maruti Swift. The owner called and wanted the car to be returned to his house in Paral.

‘We have a problem,’ said Thajudheen, as he looked around the room. ‘How do we get home from his house? Will we get a cab now?’

So Thezin contacted his friend, Rezaihan Pilacherry, who agreed to drive to the taxi owner’s place and wait for the family. By the time the family reached Paral, it had already stopped raining. Rezaihan was already there with another friend, Naheem Nazeer. The family returned the car to the owner. And got into Rezaihan’s car.

They were travelling on the Kadirur–Kayalode Road. Thajudheen was in an expansive mood. He looked out at the deserted street and saw the shuttered shop windows and locked house gates. He knew Shiraz was a decent boy and would look after his daughter well.

The soothing fragrance of sandalwood ittar from Nasreena and Thazleena’s clothes filled the car.

Near the entrance to his hometown, Thajudheen saw the four-feet high hammer-and-sickle concrete statue. It was embedded outside the office of the Communist Party of India Marxist (CPI-M). Somehow, it felt threatening.

In Kadirur, and in Kannur district, there is an ongoing bloody rivalry between the members of the CPI-M and the Hindu organization, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS). Rival groups had killed party workers. Sometimes bomb blasts took place too. People shot at each other. Occasionally, they were stabbed. So, there was the constant presence of police officers in the vicinity.

Middle-class people like Thajudheen gave a wide berth to the people of both parties. Politicians had a poor reputation in north Kerala. Because of the conflict, they regularly disrupted the economic activities of ordinary people.

To break the silence, Thajudheen said, ‘Thazleena, you are an adult and don’t need any advice. But just a small tip: always try to have a loving relationship with everybody. In short, adjust to your husband and get along with your in-laws. If you can achieve that, life will be enjoyable.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Thazleena, shaking her head rapidly.

‘We will all miss you so much,’ said Thajudheen, looking at his daughter. ‘Your life will change.’

To Thajudheen’s surprise, Thazleena dabbed the edge of her eyes with a handkerchief.

Before Thajudheen could offer more advice, Rezaihan switched on the music system. He selected the song ‘Senorita’ from the 2011 Bollywood hit film, Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara. With its mix of Spanish and Hindi lyrics and catchy tune, they listened in rapt attention. The road shone ahead as the car lights hit the wet tarmac.

As they approached their house in Kadirur, they went past the Pulliode Club. It surprised Thajudheen to see the lights switched on in the premises. Through the open windows, he saw over twenty youths sitting on the floor in front of a large TV. He asked his son what was going on.

‘Upa, France is playing Belgium in the Football World Cup semi-finals.’

As they turned into the bylane that led to their house, the family noticed a police jeep parked almost in the middle of the road. Behind it, there was another jeep parked diagonally at the edge of an open ground.

Rezaihan brought the vehicle to a stop. He switched off the music.

A police officer shone a torch. The beam hit Rezaihan’s face, who raised his palm to shield his eyes from the glare. Next, it was Naheem and then Thezin’s turn to protect their eyes.

2

The Nightmare Begins

The group inside the car stared at the policemen, their lips partly open, and breaths coming out in short bursts. Young Thazeem pressed his face against his mother’s arm. Had they been waiting for us? Thajudheen thought to himself. But why?Thajudheen’s upper teeth pressed into his lower lip.

The houses around were in darkness. It seemed as if no one in the lane was watching the Football World Cup, even though the sport was a craze in northern Kerala.

A policeman knocked thrice on Thezin’s window with his knuckles. Thezin pressed the button to lower the glass.

The policeman said, ‘Where are you heading?’

‘Our house is further down the road,’ said Thezin, pointing with his finger and keeping his voice calm.

The policeman peeped into the vehicle and observed all the passengers, his glance moving from one person to the other. He had protruding eyes, with a fierce look that seemed to say, You are all prey. I am a lion looking for meat!

Thajudheen counted eight police personnel. A couple of them, muscular men with sloping shoulders, had unsmiling faces. They stood near the second jeep. Three of them were in uniform including Sub-Inspector P. Biju of the Chakkarakkal police station. Biju had an erect posture, but this show of bravado was a result of his knowing that he was the powerful representative of state authority acting against a powerless individual.

The policeman asked whether the boys could help them. The wheels of the second jeep had fallen into a rut. Could they bring out the jack?

The three boys looked at each other. Then Thezin turned around to look at his father. Thajudheen nodded. Rezaihan switched off the engine. Since the air conditioner could no longer work, he pressed the button to bring down the glass panes of the windows.

The boys tumbled out of the car. Rezaihan opened the boot. Thezin took out the jack. The trio walked towards the other jeep.

The policeman looked at Thajudheen and said, ‘Can you step out?’

Thajudheen pushed open the door. As Thajudheen stepped out, the law-enforcer raised his palm and told the women to stay where they were. Thazeem stared goggle-eyed at the cop. Thazleena and Nasreena remained silent.

‘Can you help with the jeep?’ the policeman said.

Thajudheen said he suffered from lower back pain. It had been a hectic day, and he felt tired. ‘My son and his friends will help you,’ he said.

The policeman beckoned Thajudheen with his forefinger and said, ‘Please come to the front of the car.’

‘W-why, sir?’ Thajudheen said.

‘We need to discuss a matter.’

When Thajudheen stepped forward, the policeman led him to the back of the jeep, facing their car. Now his family could not see him.

‘Show me your ID?’ the policeman said, proffering his palm.

‘Why do you want to see my ID, sir?’ said Thajudheen.

‘Who knows, you may be a terrorist,’ he said.

‘What are you saying, sir?’ said Thajudheen, as his mouth fell open inadvertently.

Terrorism is a word everybody fears in India. Under The Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) 2019, they could jail you for months or years without bail.

‘Show it to me,’ the police officer insisted.

Thajudheen took out his purse from the back pocket of his trousers, rummaged through the folds, and proffered the license.

The man inspected it by switching on the flashlight of his mobile phone.

He looked at the photo and then at Thajudheen.

After a few seconds, he returned the card.

‘Show me your Aadhaar card,’ he said.

‘I don’t have it. It’s in the house,’ said Thajudheen.

As they conversed, another policeman began taking a video of Thajudheen, while a third took photos on his mobile phone.

‘Why are you doing this?’ said Thajudheen, raising both his hands in exasperation. ‘Am I a thief or what?’ All this took place while Biju watched silently from a distance.

Four of them surrounded Thajudheen. One held his collar and said, ‘You snatched a necklace from a woman’s neck, and now you pretend to be a respectable family man,’ said another police officer.

‘We are going to punish you,’ said another.

Tiny drops of spittle from the policeman fell on Thajudheen’s face. All Thajudheen could see was bared teeth and widened eyes.

They pushed Thajudheen from side to side. He grabbed for his spectacles which had slipped off his nose. What is happening? What necklace? Where? Surely, this is a case of mistaken identity, he thought.

Hearing the loud voices, Nasreena, Thazleena and Thazeem pushed their way among the cops and stood near Thajudheen.

The police stepped back. Thajudheen took this moment to put the spectacles back on. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the