The Night the Ambulance Left Deucha

The Night the Ambulance Left Deucha

Sometimes reality writes stories that no novelist would dare to submit to a publisher. The editor would probably return the manuscript with a polite note:

> “Dear Sir, this is all very exciting, but ₹28 crore in cash and 15 kg of gold? Please make the plot more believable.”

And yet, this is Birbhum.

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It was a restless night in April 2026. Somewhere in the dusty landscape around Mohammad Bazar, where stone, sand, politics and money often appear to travel together in very comfortable company, Tulu Mondal—better known as Nazibuddin to some—was allegedly beginning to understand that the weather was changing.

Not the Birbhum weather. That is quite another matter.

The political weather.

Imagine the scene. Tulu pacing around his office. Mobile phone glued to his ear. Dumper trucks somewhere in the darkness. Men waiting for instructions. And perhaps, outside, an ambulance.

An ambulance, you see, is a wonderful vehicle. It carries patients. It carries the sick. It carries hope.

And, according to the allegations surrounding this extraordinary story, it can apparently carry other things too.

Like cash.

Lots of cash.

The story goes that instructions were issued: increase the stone loading, move the material, keep things safe. The political wind was changing and, as every experienced businessman knows, when the wind changes, one must either lower the sail—or leave the country.

Tulu, it seems, preferred the second option.

From Helper to “King”

The rise of Tulu Mondal itself sounds like something from a Bengali crime thriller.

A transport helper, according to the reports and local reputation surrounding him, gradually rose through the stone and sand business. Dumper trucks multiplied. Routes expanded. Contacts deepened. And before long, he was said to be a major name in the transport and mining network stretching across the Birbhum region.

By day, the trucks carried stone and other perfectly respectable cargo.

By night?

Well, let us simply say that in certain parts of Bengal, a truck may have a richer inner life than its registration certificate suggests.

My Taxi Driver and His Intelligence Network

This entire affair took me back to 2023, when I was travelling around Birbhum.

As usual, the best intelligence agency in India was at work.

Not RAW.

Not IB.

Not CBI.

The Indian taxi driver.

I had hired a taxi near Guskara. The young driver pointed towards a large house and lowered his voice. Immediately I knew something interesting was coming. Indians do not lower their voices when discussing the weather.

“See that house?” he said.

I looked.

“Yes?”

“Very big man. Started as a helper. Now? Sand business.”

Then came the important part.

“Black money, baba.”

That single “baba” carried more information than a 500-page chargesheet.

He explained, in his own colourful way, that under the political protection of the day, anything was possible. Trucks moved. Sand moved. Money moved. And, presumably, the people counting the money developed excellent wrist problems.

He did not need to mention the name.

In small towns, everyone knows.

Only the police, for some mysterious reason, sometimes have to conduct an investigation.

Then Came the Raid

And then, on July 29, 2026, Birbhum woke up to the sort of news that makes you put down your morning tea and read the headline twice.

Police raided the house of Minar Mondal, a retired government bus driver and brother-in-law of Tulu Mondal.

A retired bus driver.

Now, I have travelled in government buses all my life. I have seen the driver, conductor, passengers, chickens, schoolbags and occasionally three people sharing one seat designed for two.

But never in my imagination had I thought:

> “Perhaps the driver is secretly sitting on ₹28 crore.”

The raid reportedly uncovered approximately ₹28.5 crore in cash and 15 kg of gold.

Fifteen kilograms!

I immediately began thinking of my own modest household jewellery and felt that perhaps I had misunderstood the meaning of “saving for the future.”

The cash was allegedly hidden in trunks, cupboards, sacks and various corners of the house. The amount was so enormous that several counting machines reportedly gave up their struggle.

Imagine being a currency-counting machine.

You are brought to the police station in the morning, ready to perform your patriotic duty.

One bundle.

Two bundles.

One crore.

Five crore.

Ten crore.

Twenty crore.

And suddenly—

Machine: “I resign.”

Five counting machines reportedly broke down.

I am told that retirement is normally a human privilege. In this case, the machines apparently retired first.

Why Gold?

The gold, of course, added a certain glamour to the whole affair.

Cash takes up space. Gold is more convenient.

Apparently, once one graduates from keeping money in cupboards to keeping crores in cupboards, one begins to think strategically.

“Where shall we put it?”

“Cupboard?”

“Already full.”

“Bed?”

“Full.”

“Suitcase?”

“Full.”

“Then buy gold.”

And so, according to investigators, cash could become bullion—compact, valuable and easier to store.

That is the advantage of financial planning.

Some of us buy fixed deposits.

Some buy mutual funds.

And some, allegedly, keep fifteen kilograms of gold biscuits.

The Man Who Had Already Gone

The most dramatic part of the story is that Tulu Mondal had reportedly vanished much earlier.

By May 4, 2026, sensing that things were becoming politically uncomfortable, he was said to have left India.

This is always the problem with political weather forecasting.

You must know when to carry an umbrella.

And when to leave the country.

By the time the big raid took place in July, the man allegedly at the centre of the network was already absent.

Police began investigating relatives, properties, associates and the wider business network. The alleged wealth trail stretched across vehicles, houses, businesses and more.

What had once been whispered about by taxi drivers had suddenly become a matter of national headlines.

From a Whisper to a Headline

That is what fascinates me most.

In 2023, a taxi driver had casually pointed to a house and whispered:

> “Black money, baba.”

Three years later, the newspapers were talking about crores of cash and kilograms of gold.

I have often wondered whether, somewhere in Guskara, that taxi driver opened his newspaper, saw the headline and simply said:

“I told you so, baba.”

And what about that ambulance?

That remains the most haunting image of the whole story.

A white ambulance disappearing into the night.

Normally, when an ambulance leaves, we pray that the patient survives.

In this case, one wonders whether the patient was actually a few hundred bundles of currency notes.

The Lesson

Tulu Mondal’s story—if the allegations and investigation establish what the police suspect—would be a very Bengal story indeed.

A man begins small.

Trucks appear.

Stone moves.

Sand moves.

Money moves.

Gold appears.

Politics changes.

An ambulance becomes unexpectedly busy.

And finally, the counting machines surrender.

For years, people may whisper. Taxi drivers may point. Local people may know the story better than any official document.

But there comes a moment when whispers become headlines.

And when that happens, even the deepest cupboard may not be deep enough.

As for me, I still remember that young taxi driver near Guskara.

Perhaps I should have asked him for stock market tips too.