by Farahad Zama
Leninkumar leaned forward, looking intense. “We have many poor people in our country. That will never change as long as the oppression of the working class by the bourgeois continues. All religions, all advances of technology only serve to deepen the social control over the poor and continue the tyranny of feudalism and imperialism, and that’s why our comrades started this fight. Our path is the Chinese path that Chairman Mao himself followed – a protracted people’s war, an armed agrarian revolution to set up base areas in the backward regions, and slowly spread these throughout the country, encircling the cities and finally capturing them.”
“How can you even think that something like that will work?” said Rehman.
“It worked in Nepal,” said Leninkumar. “There, the Maoists took over the rural areas, dragged the government to the negotiating table and forced the king out.”
“India is much bigger,” said Dilawar.
Leninkumar shrugged. “It simply means we have a bigger area to hide in, and a bigger pool of poor, dispossessed people to recruit from. Our comrades have an ambitious dream – nothing less than to see the Red Flag fly from the ramparts of the Red Fort in Delhi.”
“India has faced many enemies throughout history and yet endured,” said Ramanujam. “And we will outlive your insurgency too.”
Leninkumar laughed. “That’s exactly where you are wrong. All its other enemies hit India where it is strongest: in its religious tolerance, its thriving cities and its democracy. We are different. We strike India where it is weakest – among its poor and dispossessed, its aboriginal tribals and landless labourers. We operate where the government is non-existent; where there are no schools, doctors, roads or electricity. Where a policeman does not mean law and order but, rather, a demand for a bribe. People come to us for protection and to settle disputes. Here, in our own state of Andhra Pradesh, agricultural workers used to be bonded to one landlord and paid a pittance. They were born in debt, they lived in debt and they died in debt. Since we’ve started fighting, workers are paid the minimum wage and are free to move jobs if they wish. That’s why the people love us and we will eventually succeed regardless of the atrocities of the police.”
Rehman said, “I agree with you that this is not a law and order problem to be solved by police action alone. But if you are so confident that the people love you, then why don’t you fight in the elections? India is a democracy, after all. We have elections – too many, if anything. You can then address the problems from inside the system much more successfully than by creating all this mayhem and violence.”
“That is not possible,” said Leninkumar. “Politicians are just puppets in the hands of capitalists and their lobbyists. How can you talk about democracy when votes are bought for cash or alcohol, and when those in power boast of their ethnic, religious and caste loyalties? Our armed struggle will unleash the huge, latent, revolutionary potential of the oppressed people of India and create a wave of mass political struggles in the country. That is the only way to change our society.”
“I disagree,” said Rehman. “Governments are generally vulnerable to mass movements because they don’t know how to handle them. But a modern state has several different options in which to counter insurgencies. They can use overwhelming police or paramilitary force, or they can create armed vigilantes like Salwa Judum, or they can round people up into guarded camps or…Whatever they do, the ones who’ll suffer the most are the very people whom you claim to fight for. Gandhi realised this, which is why he stuck rigidly to non-violence and did not support revolutionaries like Bhagat Singh or Chandrashekhar Azad when fighting the British.”
“Gandhi!” The sneer in Leninkumar’s voice was clear. “My father, Mohan Babu, was a Gandhian all his life. He believed in non-violence and turning the other cheek. Fat lot of good it did him. He was shot dead by the police when leading a procession for a separate Telangana state. The system is too corrupt. Nothing can be achieved without a revolution.”
“That’s not true, you know,” said Dilawar, who had been listening intently to the conversation. “Look at the gays, they’ve struggled against even greater odds, entirely within the law, and they’ve succeeded. You heard the prime minister on the radio.”
The second guerrilla broke in, “You mean those queers. They are weaklings, not even proper men. We are not like them. We are strong.”
Dilawar said, “The gays are the ones who are celebrating on the streets of Delhi at the moment while you are skulking out of sight like cockroaches scared of the light.”
“Why you – ” said the guerrilla, jumping on Dilawar and smashing his face with clenched fists.
Taken by surprise, Dilawar went down like a pole-axed steer, but after a couple of moments he started fighting back, twisting his body and landing a punch to the side of the guerrilla’s stomach.
“Aah!” grunted the guerrilla, his mouth opening and his eyes closing with pain. Suddenly, Dilawar felt the other man’s weight lift from his chest and he scrambled to a sitting position, not taking his eyes off his assailant.
“Enough,” said Leninkumar forcefully.
All conversation stopped as the captives held themselves tensely, wondering what was going to happen next. The only sound was the heavy breathing of Dilawar and the guerrilla. Dilawar’s lip was split and he felt gingerly along the base of one tooth that seemed a bit loose. But he took grim satisfaction from seeing the twinge on his attacker’s face as he gripped his stomach.
Dilawar heard the tinny tune playing in the distance for a moment before he recognised it as the ringing of a mobile phone – the sound was so out of place in the natural surroundings of the forest around them. But then, so were the green camouflage clothes and the firearms carried by the Naxalites. The ringing stopped but he couldn’t hear the actual phone conversation.
The leader of the squad, Adi, came striding towards them with three of his men behind him, looking grim. Dilawar had the sinking feeling that it wasn’t good news.
“Who among you has a mobile phone?” Adi asked.
They all stared at Adi, mute. Dilawar struggled mightily not to sneak a look at Aruna.
Adi glared at each of them in turn, then pulled up the landlord by the front of his shirt. Terrified, Mr Reddy closed his eyes and moaned incoherently. Adi gently patted the landlord’s cheek and said softly, “You tell me, my friend. Who among the people here used a mobile phone?”
“She,” said the landlord, gesticulating wildly at Aruna. “She said that she had a phone.”
Adi let go of Mr Reddy, who crumpled in a heap, sobbing.
Adi’s glittering eyes turned on Aruna. She shrank away from him, leaning into Ramanujam, whose arms encircled her.
“Well, well, well,” said Adi. “The doe has a voice.” He extended his hand towards her, palm open, as if expecting a gift.
“I don’t…” began Aruna and looked into Adi’s eyes, like a mouse staring at a cobra. Her throat dried up. Mutely, she reached into the blouse that she wore under her sari and handed him the phone.
Adi caressed the sleek instrument, still warm from being against her skin. “What else have you got there?” he asked, reaching forward and touching her breasts through her clothes.
Aruna gave a squeak and Ramanujam swung her away from Adi.
“How dare you touch my wife, you son of a widow!” he shouted and rushed at Adi.
Adi took one step back and drove a punch into Ramanujam’s stomach. Adi’s fist hadn’t travelled far but it stopped Ramanujam as if he were a railway carriage hitting a buffer. Before Rehman and Dilawar could react, they were staring down the barrel of a revolver. To Dilawar’s eyes, the small gun looked crude, as if it had been home-made, but the hand holding it was steady and Dilawar had no doubt that it was just as capable of killing him as one made in a modern factory. The two friends froze.
Ramanujam fell, retching, to the ground. Aruna screamed, “Raaam – ” and flung herself over his body, trying to cover and protect her husband from further blows.
Adi eyed the prone man. “You are not even a capitalist worm to waste my energy on. It is your wife who has registered the land in her name – she is the class enemy.”
Adi dropped Aruna’s phone on the dry, red soil of the forest floor and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. The screen cracked in a crazy pattern and the keyboard shattered. When Adi was satisfied that it would never work again, he turned to his men. “Tie them up. We are leaving in five minutes.”
The sun had already reached its zenith and it burned Aruna’s back as they walked east.
♦
The house was steeped in gloom, its inhabitants rendered mostly silent. The computer in the verandah was off. Everybody had gathered in the living room.
Mrs Ali said, “The newspapers have been full of stories about Naxalites kidnapping people. I told you the last time that Rehman was taking a big risk in going to all those villages. But when did you listen to me?”
Before Mr Ali could reply, Azhar, Mrs Ali’s brother, raised his hand and stopped him, then turned to his sister.
“What has happened has happened. Nothing will be achieved by throwing accusations at each other. And anyway, you are talking as if bhai-jaan pushed Rehman to visit those places. The truth is that Rehman is a grown man who followed his own heart. Let us concentrate on what happens next.”
Mrs Ali sighed. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her hair hanging lifelessly down to her shoulders. Each one of her sixty years was clearly visible on her lined face. She looked at Pari and said, “Shouldn’t you go and collect Vasu?”
Pari stared at her in horror for a moment, before wildly checking her watch. It took her a couple of seconds to realise that she should have been at the school gates five minutes ago. She fumbled through the address book of her mobile phone and called the mother of one of her son’s classmates, asking her to take Vasu home with her for the evening.
“Oh!” Pari cried, after hanging up. “I am a bad, bad mother. How could I forget?”
Mrs Ali closed her eyes. “It’s all right,” she said. “All women go through this at least once. And you have more excuse than most. You must have been so worried about Dilawar.”
Pari shook her head. In truth, she had not given much thought to Dilawar. She had been worried only about Rehman and as a result she now felt guilty. What kind of woman was she? She had forgotten her son and her fiancé. I will be a good mother to Vasu and a good wife to Dilawar, she thought, making a resolution.
Silence reclaimed the room. Pari thought back to the lunch they had eaten, just a few hours earlier. It had been such a happy occasion. After clearing the table, she had been walking towards the living room when she had heard Mrs Ali’s phone beep. Mrs Ali was still in the kitchen, putting the leftover curries in the fridge.
“Chaachi,” said Pari, raising her voice, “I think you’ve missed a call.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Ali. “But it was strange; the phone gave just one chirp instead of the normal tune.”
Pari took the phone out of its cotton holder and flicked it open. “You got a text message, chaachi.” She pressed a button. “From Aruna.”
“Aruna?” said Mrs Ali and joined Pari. “Why would she send me a text message? What’s wrong with talking?”
Pari shrugged and opened the message. As she read it, the blood drained from her face and her legs almost buckled.
“What is it?” said Mrs Ali. “Is everything all right?”
Something about her voice had attracted Mr Ali from the living room. Pari had looked at the elderly couple. “Kidnapped…” she managed to croak.
After several minutes of confusion, things moved rapidly.
They had called Mrs Ali’s brother, Azhar, who had phoned a police inspector friend of his. Together they had all rushed to the nearest police station. Azhar’s friend was already there, even though he worked at a different station.
On being assured that this could not be a hoax message, Aruna’s text had been copied down word for word and a First Information Report filed. They had discussed calling Aruna back, but Pari said that might put the prisoners in danger, if Aruna had not set the phone on silent. That was exactly what had happened in a movie she had seen some time ago. The heroine had hidden herself in a closet while a murderer searched her flat for her. He had almost given up and was about to leave when the hero called the heroine on her mobile and the murderer had found her. The police agreed with Pari and they decided not to call back.
“Your Aruna is such a clever girl,” said the police inspector admiringly. “She has even included the latitude and longitude in her message.” He turned to a constable standing near by. “See what maps we’ve got.”
The case was shifted to the main police station, near the barracks. Ramanujam’s father had also been informed and had added his weight to the proceedings over the phone, telling them that he was rushing back to town. Soon the most senior police officials were involved. Even without Ramanujam’s father’s influence, the police had been galvanised by the precision of the information they had received from Aruna and their communication channels started buzzing.
In half an hour, Azhar’s friend joined them in the small windowless room and said, “The Greyhounds have been informed but they are currently on operations in the Nallamalai forests and it will take them some time to get here. Meanwhile, Inspector Verma has volunteered to lead a posse of police and we are organising it at the moment.”
The Greyhounds were a special force of commandos trained to fight the Naxalites.
Mrs Ali and the others nodded – not knowing what to say. The inspector looked directly at Azhar and sighed. “You are my friend; I won’t hide it from you. We’ll get the men to head out there but we don’t have the right vehicles.”
“I don’t understand,” said Azhar.
Mr and Mrs Ali looked at each other with concern. What was the problem now?
“The location pinpointed by Aruna is in the forest and there are no driveable roads near by. We need several four-wheel-drive vehicles to take the men as close to the area as possible but the jeeps are all out in use.”
“Can’t you call them back?”
“The ruling party is holding its convention in the next district and they have all been deployed there. We have made the request but it will take time. The commissioner has sent a strongly worded message so I am sure it will be taken seriously.”
Mr Ali spoke up. “In a case like this, time is very important, isn’t it?”
The inspector nodded. “Yes,” he said.
“I might be able to help you with the vehicles. Get me a directory and a phone.”
Mr Ali was soon making his call. “I need to speak to your boss urgently…Tell him it is Mr Ali from the marriage bureau.”
A few seconds later, Mr Ali continued, “Mr Chandra…I need a favour.” He outlined the situation.
Mr Chandra said, “Of course, sir. My whole fleet is at your disposal. You know my entire story; how can I refuse you? After what the Naxalites did to the family of my friend Surya, killing them all, and indirectly causing both his death and my daughter’s unhappiness, I’ll even drive the police myself if that’s necessary. However, I have some drivers from the villages near by who know the area very well. They’ll be with you in ten minutes.”
♦
The Alis’ doorbell rang and Pari went to answer it.
After the police posse had left, the family had returned home. Aruna’s parents and her sister, Vani, were standing outside the verandah gate. Pari silently led them into the living room. Aruna’s mother took one look at Mrs Ali and burst into tears. Aruna’s father and sister stood awkwardly by her side, looking grim. Mrs Ali went up to Aruna’s mother and the two ladies hugged. Tears started flowing down Mrs Ali’s cheeks too. Slowly, they all sat down.
“I did not really believe it until I saw you,” said Aruna’s mother. “Oh, what a cruel day this has been. What harm have our children done anybody?”
Mrs Ali made no reply.
Pari
turned to Vani and asked her in a soft voice, “How did you know?”
“Aruna’s father-in-law sent us a message,” Vani whispered back.
Pari nodded. “Come on,” she said to the young woman. “Let’s make tea.” They went ino the kitchen.
“We must not lose hope,” said Mr Ali. “Because of Aruna’s courage and intelligence, the police and the Greyhounds know exactly where they are being held. Men are already heading for the spot and, God willing, our children will be free any moment now.”
While he was putting on a brave front, Mr Ali too was very worried. The Naxalites had recently declared that anyone owning more than five acres of land was a class enemy who needed to be punished. He was sure that Aruna’s father-in-law had far more than that, and that Aruna and Ramanujam had gone to the village to buy even more land.
He wondered how Rehman and Dilawar had got caught up with the insurgents. He was just glad that the young people had been kidnapped and not summarily executed. While there is life, there is hope, he thought to himself.
Mrs Ali said to Aruna’s mother. “It is the first time you have come to our house and it is for such a dreadful reason.”
“What do the Naxalites hope to achieve by kidnapping people like us?” said Aruna’s mother. “We are not politicians. We don’t have the power to change any policies.”
Everybody fell silent again. Finally, Aruna’s father got up heavily and said, “We will go to the Hanuman temple and pray. We believe that all travellers are under his care.”
Mrs Ali said, “We will go to the dargah of St Ishak Madina on the hill.” She turned to Mr Ali and said, “You are coming too.”
Mr Ali, who rarely visited saints’ tombs, nodded in agreement.
Azhar said, “I’ll come with you as well, aapa.”
Pari declined. “I have to look after Vasu,” she said. “But my prayers will be with everybody.”
“Yes, let’s pray,” said Aruna’s mother, sounding bitter. “What else can ordinary people like us do?”
♦
“Nobody here, sir,” said the constable to the inspector, merely declaring what everybody could see with their own eyes. There were signs of a camp, but it was deserted. Inspector Verma gazed around him. What should he do now?