The film Satluj revived memories of the visceral dread that stalked those living in Punjab during the dark years of terrorism, when violence hollowed out every living soul from within and without.It was a long, dark chapter of living in a landscape turned into killing fields, where the earth seemed to be sown with the blood of those cut down by the bullets of terrorists and men in uniform alike.The film also brought to life, in my mind’s eye, the two bruising encounters I had with the controversial protagonist of that era, the man widely credited with crushing the “Khalistani” insurgency and saving Punjab for India: Kanwal Pal Singh Gill, better known as K.P.S. Gill.It is difficult to recapture the exact unease his towering frame evoked. But I remember his unblinking eyes, devoid of any warmth, cold and calculating. They seemed to bore through me, lingering as though he were scanning every inch of my body from head to toe. I can still feel the force of that unwavering gaze, its invisible rays piercing beneath the skin.Strange though it may sound, he reminded me of a chess player who played with guns instead of pawns. It was the coldness of calculation that stayed with me. The unsettling impression that in the larger game he was playing, individual human lives counted for very little.Imagine confronting him on live television while he mocks your very existence as a sports journalist. Barkha Dutt, the celebrated TV news anchor, is moderating a debate on Gill’s controversial tenure as president of the Indian Hockey Federation. The channel repeatedly flashes images of the legendary Dhanraj Pillay in tears, accusing federation officials of bias. Gill brushes aside the allegations with a contemptuous wave of his hand before turning towards me. My support for Pillay’s grievances, he says is “the opinion of an illiterate sports journalist”.When he points at me and says, “What do these guys know about sports or the ethics of journalism? They do stories without even verifying the facts,” I push back. Why not answer the allegations of autocratic functioning here and now, I ask, when the whole country is watching? Why not respond to charges instead of attacking the messenger?It is immediately obvious that he is not accustomed to being questioned. By now he is visibly livid. The programme, ‘The Bucks Stops Here’ on the NDTV channel, is drawing to a close but the atmosphere in the studio is electric. What followed was even more dramatic. The inflammatory residue of that confrontation spilled from the studio into the corridor outside.But that story must wait.Also read: A Retired IAS Officer on How the #MeToo Movement Can Use Her Case Against K.P.S. GillFirst the background to this encounter. Its genesis lay in a telephone conversation that quickly degenerated into a slanging match, unpleasant, unnecessary and, in retrospect, strangely inevitable.Much like his polarising tenure as Punjab’s police chief where the war against terrorism became a ruthless exercise in brute force that cared little for police excesses and the collateral damage inflicted on innocent lives, Gill divided the hockey fraternity within days of taking over as president of its governing body.At a Delhi press conference in 1994, with still a year left for his retirement as Punjab’s police head, Gill was to unveil his vision for Indian hockey. The event, instead, became a display of ugly police power. Two journalists who questioned his sporting credentials were subjected to a vicious verbal assault. The two later alleged that they were physically assaulted and even threatened with abduction by members of Gill’s security detail. It made newspaper headlines for days together.As years passed and Indian hockey’s promised revival remained a mirage, I wrote a sharply critical column in the newspaper where I headed its sports department. I questioned his authoritarian leadership and apparent lack of vision.The next day, I received a phone call from the man himself. He was sarcastic and aggressive, and ridiculed my understanding of hockey and lack of objectivity. I too lost my cool. As his voice rose, so did mine, the exchange ending in an unpleasant shouting match.I had underestimated Gill’s influence and the deference he commanded from newspaper editors. I was instructed to call him back and apologise for my “misconduct”. I did call back, but not to apologise. I told him if he had anything to say, he should do it in writing. I had no intention of buckling under. The complaint then reached the owner. Fortunately, I survived the episode unscathed.My years of journalism in Chandigarh had left me with no shortage of stories about Gill’s strategic acumen, sweeping powers, arrogance and the influence he wielded over a vast section of the media. My own encounter, in a way, confirmed tales that had once sounded too extraordinary to be true.Looking back, I saw the confrontation in the TV studio and the one that followed outside as the culmination of the tension that had built up during our two edgy telephone conversations.In Gill’s mounting rage, Barkha appeared to sense the possibility of a dangerous confrontation. She followed me out of the studio, as if to form a protective shield, and urged me to leave quietly by a different exit. As we spoke, Gill came after us, visibly furious, with his security guard in tow. I did not wait to find out what might happen next and slipped away quickly without looking back. Perhaps I was fortunate that this was a retired Gill, no longer wielding the power and authority that had once made him a larger-than-life figure that still evokes fear, dread, hate, anger and admiration in equal measure.Pradeep Magazine is a sports writer and the author of two books, Not Quite Cricket and Not Just Cricket: A Reporter’s Journey Through Modern India.