MUMBAI, May 14: Almost every day newspapers carry stories about raids being conducted on this man's palace or that man's farmhouse. The taxmen, I suspect, never had it this good.

But it does give me pause to wonder what occasioned them to rise so suddenly from their slumber. Why did they keep their hands off this new criminal class while it was amassing wealth hand over fist? Were they waiting for a signal from on high? Or was discretion deemed the better part of valour? But if we only look at who the targets are, the gods and goddesses of yore, the answer becomes clear.

I, too, was once a victim of what the taxman terms a `secondary search'. That was back in 1980. I and my wife were at home in our modest flat when suddenly three men and a woman, looking rather like dacoits, barged into our drawing room. They made me sign a form and started pulling down everything within reach. Naturally, my wife protested. ``Mataji,'' the man who appeared to be the leader threatened her, ``we have the power to rip open the velvet of your sofa and to demolish all the tiles in your bathroom. Better tell us where you have hidden that one crore.''

One crore? The two of us had never seen that much money. In accordance with the provisions of the law, they had called two employees of the Tara Apartments, where we live in Delhi, to stand witness to what they were doing. One was an electrician who was in charge of the pump room. The other was a guard who was supposed to keep watch at the gate. Neither could remain in my flat all the time the gang of four was there, they protested. ``Never mind,'' said the chieftain, ``Just sign this document and buzz off.'' It was a prescribed form in which it was stated that the gentlemen were present right through the operation, which apparently lasted a whole day, and they had searched the pockets of the raiding party on arrival as well as at the time of departure and found nothing worthy of comment in them.

They ransacked my flat. The entire contents of two steel almirahs was thrown out. What did they discover? Ancient clothes which were given to my wife as dowry by her dear departed mother. My cupboards yielded no better prey just photographs of VIPs whose visits to various places I had covered and carbon copies of my articles, middles and short stories which newspapers and magazines had so kindly published.

``This man,'' the chieftain said to his boss over my telephone, ``appears to be an absolute kangal (pauper). He has nothing in his house except books and photographs.'' I do not know what instructions the boss gave to him, but the gang took away all my bank passbooks as well as two wrist-watches, some fountain pens, perfume bottles and other knick-knacks from the almirah of my son, who was then working abroad and had brought back some foreign goods.

After they had gone, I rang up a retired Income Tax Commissioner, an old neighbour in Rabindra Nagar, where I was living earlier. He said that I should have given something to the gang leader and the matter would have ended there. But good gracious God, that is not the way He wants His world to be run! So I walked into the room of the boss of all bosses in the Income Tax Office in Connaught Circus. He was apologetic, served me coffee, and explained to me that mine was a case of secondary search. Someone close to me, living in another town, was suspected of having unaccounted money. My flat was searched because of that. As for the behaviour of his men, he said that he knew that there were some black sheep in his department and that he was taking appropriate action to bring them to book.

As I walked out of his room, somewhat satisfied, or at least trying to look satisfied, his peon came running after me up to the lift, stretched forth his hand and said, ``Sahib, diwali ka inaam.'' Diwali had long been left behind.

Copyright © 1997 Indian Express Newspapers (Bombay) Ltd.