Still on the job : Julio Ribeiro

Julio Ribeiro, the plain speaking former police officer, tells Meeta Bhatti how activism and his grandchildren make him embrace his 70s

Cars of all sizes, honking tempos and hand-pulled carts laden with wheat and rice sacks. Crossing the narrow lanes of Bhendi Bazaar, a Muslim-dominated area in South Mumbai, is an exercise of all senses. It's 2.15 in the afternoon and the road to the municipal school, the only one in the area, is lined with visitors' cars. It's unusually crowded and the first floor of the building is like a waiting room. A group of women, young and old, and well-dressed men are waiting for Julio Francis Ribeiro, Mumbai's former commissioner of police.



As promised, Ribeiro arrives at 2.30 pm, sharp. He is followed by a security guard carrying his briefcase. Today, the former police officer is attending a regular fortnightly meeting on the communal situation in the city. The meeting will be followed by a computer class for women, who, at the end of the session, will exchange ideas about secularism between conversation about knitting and their men, with Ribeiro listening in.

Ribeiro still exudes the same power-packed energy and directness of his days in uniform. The man who policed Punjab and Mumbai, both high on crime and touchy politicians, is now a cop in plainclothes. He fights communalism through Mumbai's mohalla (neighbourhood) committees that he founded 10 years ago after riots following the demolition of the Babri Masjid. What started as a platform for Hindus and Muslims to ease out frictions, if any, has now evolved into groups of Hindu and Muslim girls who discuss communal harmony after a computer or sewing class.

"It's a job suited to Ribeiro," says Satish Sawhney, former commissioner of police, Mumbai, who now works with him at the committees. "He is one of the most natural leaders I have known." Ribeiro, however, brushes off the compliment with, "I am a people person and want to contribute to society. And I can still do it because, thankfully, I have not had a major medical problem."

Beneficiaries of his "people projects" include the residents of Dharavi. Once a fortnight, Ribeiro walks through Mumbai's largest slum. He addresses most people by their name, and asks them in Marathi about their problems. The concerns range from the land mafia and water shortage to the education of their children. There are no simple solutions. It takes meeting state officials and municipal corporators frequently, and keeps Ribeiro on his toes.

Ribeiro also works as a spokesperson of the Indian music industry-his team and he track buyers and sellers of illegal music. With his daughter Neena Engineer, he also works to protect intellectual property of companies like Hewlett Packard and Citibank. "That's something I get paid for. Very few officers get paid as much as I do," says Ribeiro.



Considering his new responsibilities, a suit has replaced the uniform; his burly, over 6-ft frame as proud as ever, his voice sometimes too loud for comfort. No one knows it better than the recalcitrant officers that he disciplined, or former home minister of Maharashtra Chhagan Bhujbal who launched an intemperate attack against him for his campaign against police corruption two years ago. Or the VHP, whose members he labelled as "pseudo-patriots" after the Gujarat riots.

Ribeiro, who will turn 76 this month, is still shorn of any fear of bullets or people. "My bite is still as hard," he says. "Not just metaphorically, but literally too," he adds, before flashing his teeth to show a pair of half dentures that conceal his own stubs. It is impossible to see Ribeiro at work and not reflect on how he spent so much of his life as a police officer but without packing a gun.

His transition from a small-town police officer to the director general of police, Punjab, from 1986-88, at the height of terrorism, came with its share of occupational hazards-political interference in his handling of communal clashes in Pune in 1965, and later in Mumbai in 1984; two assassination attempts; two attempts to denigrate him; one attempt by a senior to dislodge him; and numerous attempts by politicians to make him conform.

Ribeiro says he never allowed politicians to interfere in transfers. "During my tenure as the commissioner of police in Bombay from 1982 to 1985, Vasantdada Patil, the then chief minister, once asked me to make one exception," he recalls. "He said, 'I will never ask you again'. I replied, 'Sir, if I do that, I will lose credibility'. So I refused, making it clear that if they wanted it their way, they could have it after relieving me of my duties." Even today, while lecturing IAS officers, police recruits and students, he includes 'Resisting the Pressures of Transfers' as a topic.

"I never asked for any posting. They [politicians] could take me as I am, or let me go," says Ribeiro, who didn't protest when K P S Gill objected to his "not hard enough" approach in Punjab, before succeeding him as the DGP. There were many others who didn't agree with him then. But long-time friend Sydney Pinto-he went to Government Law College in Mumbai with him in 1950-disagrees. "He wanted to win over the population first, not be alienated," says Pinto, adding that no one was as deft in dealing with politicians as his friend.

Even today, Ribeiro's handling of politicians in different situations is an example for those who complain of political interference. For those who only know him as one of India's best-known policemen, Ribeiro's account of his tenure as a cop, envoy and mayor, Bullet for Bullet (Penguin Books, 1998), is a must-read. It's an apolitical, unbiased autobiography.



The family man

The one person who gives Julio Francis Ribeiro cold feet is Melba, his wife. "Mrs Ribeiro" will not let her husband pose for the cameras, or be interviewed at home. And Ribeiro has no option but to meet journalists at the Cricket Club of India (CCI) or his office in Worli. "She doesn't like publicity," he reveals. "I have tried telling her that we are accountable to the people. Her logic is that now I am not accountable to anyone but myself, so I needn't do it."

Ribeiro says the fear of their women comes naturally to all Indian men, and he has often addressed his message of secularism in the slums to men through their women. "After the Gujarat riots, I got 600 Hindu and Muslim women from Dharavi to join hands and not let their husbands fight," recalls Ribeiro.

I am Catholic, but I believe that all religions teach the same universal truth. I also believe that the fear of God brings in the sense of good and bad," Ribeiro goes on, his steely gaze turning soft, remembering his tenure as the Indian ambassador to Romania. "I was also accredited to Albania, where the Muslim population was 70 per cent. I went there long after dictator Enver Hoxha had abolished religion. There was something about the faces of people there; something that was different from people from elsewhere in the world. Later, when I read about gangs from Albania involved in prostitution rackets across the world, it somehow made sense."

The God-fearing Ribeiro makes it a point to attend Mass every Sunday, before planning the weekend with his family, another ritual. It means spending time with Melba and his daughters Neena and Anna. Anna's two daughters are studying abroad, and Neena's son and daughter are at boarding schools. "Mrs Ribeiro is a Page 3 reader," he says. "So if she thinks there is a movie to be seen or an art gallery to be visited, we go. On other Sundays, we eat at the CCI." There, they often bump into friends like former cricketer Dileep Sardesai and his wife Nandini, as we do today. "As handsome as ever, Julio," says Sardesai. He always says that. The two go back a long way. "He is from Goa like my wife," explains Ribeiro, "and I have often lectured Mrs Sardesai's students at St. Xavier's college."

Every night, Ribeiro sleeps with the thought of getting back to his desk next morning at 9.45 am. "Life is about fixed hours now. Reading the sports pages of three newspapers. 9.45 am to 1 pm at work. Lunch at home, followed by a nap, and more work till 6 pm," he chimes, adding how he no longer needs to apply for leave to either attend his granddaughter's graduation at Sheffield College, in London, to go to Goa to oversee the construction of his house, or to go to the races.

"Two types of people go to the races," he says, "those who gamble and those who go there to relax. I go there to have a good time." He made Rs 4,076 at the Mahalaxmi Race Course in March, after paying Rs 700 as taxes. "That's approximately how much I spent on the sport since January," he chips in, adding, "I've done everything I could dream of."

The one thing he now hopes to achieve is to learn how to use a computer. "Recently at a mohalla committee class, I presented a Muslim lady with a computer certificate. I guess she was older; she had two front teeth missing. Being told that I still didn't know how to use a computer, she laughed, and I saw more teeth missing. Well, if she could, I can too," hopes Ribeiro, looking at his watch. It's time for him to go back to work.

Featured in Harmony Magazine
May 2005