World is Abstract

Survival....

2012-01-20T13:28:00.000-08:00

The tube light kept flickering in his cabin. He had removed all his personal things including the mask, a colleague got him from Nepal. The walls in his cabin were stripped of all the frills. Only the nails remained. He was ready . There were no memories. No tears. No regrets. People around him had already started looking like strangers. There was a spiral staircase. Going up. He had stopped using that. Stopped going up. Last time he did, noxious fumes hanging in the air nearly killed him. As he gasped for breath, he saw shapeless figures floating around. Some of them lay on the ground, coiled up like snakes. The place was crawling with snakes and cockroaches-hissing together. Within minutes, they were all over him. He was dying. As he tried to fight back, he saw the laughing hyenas slowly surrounding him. Waiting for him to die. Waiting to pounce on the dead caracas. Feast on his rotten flesh. . A huge vulture was pecking furiously at his stomach, trying to dig out the entrails. And then suddenly he slipped down the spiral staircase. He was bleeding. Stings of cockroaches and snakebites had nearly disfigured him.

That was sometime ago. He had managed go survive. But the scars remained. He touched them. They didn't hurt anymore. Wounds had healed. He picked up his bag. His car keys. Opened the glass door. Stepped out of the building. Turned around to see it for one last time. It had disappeared. He started walking......

2011-12-13T08:16:00.000-08:00

Finally I faced the demon, ,

it had been stalking me..for days now,

could hear the footsteps,

felt its hot, rancid breath in the room,

I would get up, look under the bed,

pull down the curtains,

run all around...

Wanted to confront it, wanted to see its face.

And finally I met my demon...

this time I did not hear the footsteps,

it had tiptoed in and stood in front of me,

I gripped the broken lampshade,

flung at it...

I smashed the mirror...

The room......

2011-11-13T10:01:00.000-08:00

Me and my laptop. And memories sharing my bed. Nothingness- a void. I sing, I talk to myself and I dream. I cry, I laugh, all by myself. Alcohol to numb my feelings, my senses. People get busy, memories fade..the bed turns into a coffin... I die....

Discarded dreams, fall off the shelves, while dusting. They are swept off and dumped into the garbage bin. My body was removed yesterday..perhaps buried or burnt...did not matter. It was lifeless. It felt no pain.

I had occupied the room, the bed... for years. Now the room is being cleaned. Fresh bedspread is being spread.. Some even suggested to paint the room-to get rid of that stale smell of death..... All done ! Its now ready for a new occupant......

Dead Ants.......

2011-11-13T09:43:00.000-08:00

Those tables are still there,

and chairs,

those empty cups,

some broken glasses,

a few empty bottles

those empty divans,

covers of the sofa - faded, corners torn....

no one sits on them anymore,

empty bed, stares blankly,

cobwebs hang loosely over the bedlamps,

dead ants litter the floor,

spiders, crawl out of some empty bottles

stale smell of nicotine hangs in the air,

burnt ciggarette ends overflow the ashtray...

if you listen carefully, press you ears against those

dark, damp walls,

you can hear laughter, songs...

voices arguing over R.D. Burman , Coen brotrhers,

Satyajit Ray and Marxists

Is BJP communal, or Congress secular ?

faces have disappeared,

voices remain....

weak rays of the sun, struggle to get through the dark window panes,

a broken guitar, some unfinished paintings, lay scattered,

no one lives here anymore...

Eternal rebel (A tribute to Nazrul)

2011-06-26T07:50:00.000-07:00

I am reckless, I am ruthless, cruel, the savage

I follow no rules, no rule books, I am the judge and I am the jury,

like those frenzied waves, that unbridled, insane tornado, I seek vengeance....

bring in the dark clouds, time to feel the tempest...

I am the burning sun, lungs filled with hate and anger, I spit out lava, destroying life in its path....

....

I'm the night, its gentle breeze, sound of a flute, an angel's smile

first ray of sun, shade of the tree, I'm the shepherd,

rainbow, after the storm....

I am your tears and I am your smile,

I am the flower that blooms at night

I am the sound of trinkets...

....

I am deluge, avalanche,

blizzard, blinding hailstorm

the falcon, a serpent who waits...

...

a deer, dancing in the woods,

whispers of the ruffling leaves

music of the flowing stream

a cupid's arrow....

And then...I am the...

spear lunging to kill,

a leaping inferno , hellfire.

Lucifer, lord of the netherworld.

......

I am the first shower,

first day of spring,

the butterfly with rainbow in its wings,

I am the first love

the first kiss on your lips....

.....

I am that ferocious, feral, brutal barbarian,

I tear apart the universe with my bare fangs,

I am life's eternal hell,

I challenge God to the game of death...

2011-04-30T14:09:00.000-07:00

My imagination ?

Shadows run across my room ,

I try to touch them, shadows,

they run from one room to the other,

they lie down by my side,

I try to touch them....the shadows..

they play with me..

my only companions,

in the vast empitness of my room....

Every night I return to my shadows,

they wait for me...quietly....

2011-03-14T12:25:00.001-07:00

Come a long distance...One day I just decided to move and moved on...That desire for chasing my dream or some quest made me move again..Once again, I perched my tent, unpacked my belongings and tried to settle down..But as I began, unpacking, I realised, something has gone missing....What ? I have no fucking clue !!!
I tried ..I really did..but, somehwhere, I went wrong..Where ?? I keep asking myself...cannot find the answer. Dreams are still there..where they were, in your mind, when you go to sleep...But, every night, emptiness tip toe in. I stare into a void. I get sucked into an abyss..I have become a stranger in my own world...I stare into the mirror...it demands an answer..and I have none..
aaina mujse meri paheli si surat mange
mere apne meri hone ki nishani maange
mein bhatakata hi raha dard ke viraane mein
waqt likhta raha chehere pe har pal ka hisab

Random

2011-03-04T10:54:00.000-08:00

Impossibility of the situation stared at his face. Long, lonely, never ending roads stretched to nowhere. Icy winds hissed like angry serpents. Fatigue, numbness, migraine infiltrated the body. Darkness engulfed darkness. Sound of silence, drowned voices, screams. Desires melted into melancholy. Fear, uncertainty, blended with frustration. He banged his head against fate. There were no lines on his palms.

Faced her like a stranger. No words, no glances were exchanged. Conversation led to paradoxical situation. Specters danced on the pyre. Unfulfilled dreams, unrequited feelings. Roads never traveled upon. Destinations never reached. Words never said. Compulsions coiled rapidly, crushing life. Unfazed by the lashes, peeling skin, back all torn-bleeding, the chained man struggled.

Someone trying to sleep: Tired eyelids, heavy with fatigue.

A man was kneeling down, a gun pointed at him. He wanted the assassin to pull the trigger. He wanted to sleep the sleep that knew no breaking. He wanted to dream forever. No more waking up to reality. The road ahead is blurred. Phantoms stalk silently. Flowers on framed photographs wilt. Silhouettes play with silhouettes. Shadows make love. Skin smells of cancer. An existential crisis stem from a new perception in life.

To love is to lose.

Heathcliff digs his grave. Blind bats fly out of crypts. Moses fail to part the sea. Jesus drags his cross. The matador is gored to death. Hungry lions tear apart rotting carcasses. Blood spills on the bed. The portrait turns ugly.

He had shut the door and threw away the keys. The oversized knob on the massive wooden door had rusted. And then one day, the knob was given a wrenching turn. The door was swung open. Rusted hinges shrieked in anguished complaint. The room was dark and cold. Shattered dreams hung, trapped in the cobwebs of memories.

Looked outside...

Roads still ran around frenziedly Like a confused cobra.Time drifted away like a drifting kite. Satan and God stood holding hands. Smiling. God served the forbidden fruit. Devil laid the table…

Then he was free.....

2010-09-20T03:35:00.000-07:00

Days, months, years passed by. He had remained locked in the room. Had lost track of time. He remained in a daze. Life just fleeted by.
Then one day, he woke up. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Rains had stopped. Slowly he got up from the cot. He went to the window. Rays of the morning sun swept over his body. He no longer yearned for darkness. He could see the blue hills, meadows, trees swaying to the rhythm of the gentle breeze. He smiled. There were no shadows. No more ghosts.
He turned and walked to the mirror. He saw his reflection. His hairs have grown grey. Wrinkles of age scarred his face. He looked at his bony hands. Veins stuck out. He sat down on the chair.
He has been dreaming all this while. The dream had taken him through a roller caster ride. Ups and downs. Smiles and pains. Tears and laughter. Flowers and fire. Passion and despair. Finally it was all over. He was wide awake. He touched his face, felt the dry skin. Somehow, he was not sad anymore. He shaved, , washed himself. He felt relaxed. He put on the jeans and the shirt, which he wore, the day he was brought into this place. He closed his eyes. No faces. No memories. No more pain.
He looked at the empty cigarette packet on the table. Often, he would think of it as a mobile and talk into it. He threw the packet into the bin. Then he waited for them. "You look different. You look fine," they opened the door and walked in. "Think he is ready to go," they said. He followed them.. "Move on," they shook hands, as he was led outside. He walked on. Didn’t look back.
He felt relieved, free.
He had slipped into a world of delusion. He had nobody to blame but himself. He was now back on his feet. Snapped back into reality.
He looked at the sky. A rainbow arched over, connecting heaven and earth. He tossed away the rucksack, filled with memories. And then, he started running towards the world he belonged to. It didn't hurt anymore.....

The Last Post......

2010-08-27T07:56:00.001-07:00

"Hi what's up...been waiting...nothing much...just work...what to do, yeah that's life....I knew I had lost the game even before it began, no worries, will wait, eyes open, ha ha....as they say- " the bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone"....Who says time is the greatest healer..I don't buy that-not all scars show, not all wounds heal..I feel it that way...feelings are always peronsal, private, you take them to your grave..Don't recall who said this, but someone did-" It's hard to hold on to something that you know would never be yours, you just have to learn to let go..." Wish I was greedy and diabolical..But I'm a fool, rather a dumb asshole...glutton for punishment.....sometimes, I want to just get lost, sit alone, all by myself and watch the world go by...Ok, bye, I got to go..the call has come..remember, I'll wait even after I'm gone...take care..Fuck it hurts..."
They took away the empty cigarette packet, he was speaking into. . "Insane", someone whispered. They slowly closed the door...

2010-08-26T04:16:00.000-07:00

magical moments......

Waiting....

2010-08-25T09:06:00.000-07:00

He was waiting,
looked at his watch,
his phone...
Nothing.
looked at the sky,
the moon was static,
clouds drifted aimlessly,
It rained all day,
he looked down.
Cars ran across the drenched streets.
A couple seemed to be arguing over something.
He was waiting. Nothing happened.
Looked at his watch, time ticked away.
Lit a cigarette and then sat down.
"What the hell"..he screamed...
He started reciting a Tagore poem loudly-
" The song I came to sing remains unsung to this day.

I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument..."
He got bored after a while.
He was stuck on the terrace
One could only come up...there was no way down.
He continued to wait...
Nothing better to do, he tried to sleep,
May be, may be tomorrow the wait will be over. He fell asleep.
Burning rays of the morning sun, swarming flies woke him up...
He looked at his watch...time ticked away,
picked up his phone..no calls. Battery was dying.
There was no shade on the naked terrace
Day long he fought the sun, the flies..
In the evening, it started to rain.
Lashing rain pierced his skin.
There was no shade, no place to hide.
The phone had stopped working, so was his watch...
He lost track of time.
Threw away the phone...
Leaned against the parapet and waited..
After a few days, they found the body..leaning against the parapet, eyes open...
still waiting....

The Inevitable...

2010-08-23T07:19:00.000-07:00

A glimpse of happiness and the next moment you are dressed in mourning. Truth is always bitter, reality is stark. Grief is a companion one has to learn to live with. Pain is perpetual. Smiles are artificial, merely a brave attempt to cover the hurt. Living with nothingness, staring at a void, waiting for Godot, fill the blank spaces of life. Dreams remain dreams. Dreams, happiness are like but rainbows, they appear to disappear. You wait for the call, which stops coming. Accept the brutal truth. Try to rise like a Phoenix and then perish again. Ashes to ashes-dust to dust. That’s the ultimate destination-the final call-the truth. You die a thousand death, yet walk on like a dead man. Move on like an automaton, performing the rituals, climbing up the ladder to realize the loneliness. You stare at an empty space and feel the pain, hurting even your fingertips. You bow out of the stage. The play is over. Laughter, applause, adulations, are done with. The hall is empty. Audience have gone. You have played your part and perhaps failed. You accept the silence. Silence speaks softly. Tells you to return. You have played your part. You have had your chance to smile, feel good, Thank Life for that. You walk towards the sunset- like that cowboy, “who saddles his pony to ride through the dark nights alone.” --

Tears of the sky

2010-08-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

Some bathe in rain, some get burnt. For some rain heals, for some-tears flowing down with all its fury. The sky is crying. The windshield of the car is covered with lashing rain. One cannot see outside. Vision is blurred. Visibility almost zero. The wipers move frenzily, fighting the relentless downpur. Children jump play in the puddle, a boy cries, his tiny paper boat is sinking. No hope for a glimpse of the sun.

2010-08-20T09:25:00.000-07:00

A reason to smile !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Life and me

2010-08-20T03:46:00.000-07:00

That day I bumped into Life. "Why do you feel so lonely. Whats the pain, where is the pain," Life asked. I wanted to say something. Couldn't. Tried to smile. Life smiled back. Held my hand.
Shadows started growing longer. There was no sound. Shadows covered the ground. "Let it get darker, will show you something," Life said. "What", I asked. "Wait," Life whispered. It was dark now. "Come with me," Life started moving. I followed.
We came to an open ground. "What are these", I asked. "Memories," Life looked at me. "Whose", I asked. "Life's", Life said. He stepped on one of them.. "Fuck you," I screamed, "that hurts !!"
"Does it ?" Life smiled.
"What are you going to do?" Life asked. "About what ?" I said. "Memories," Life replied. "Can we get some fire," I wanted to know. "Yes in that corner," A pyre was burning. I picked up a burning log. Rushed towards the memories strewn on the ground before us. I set them ablaze. Frenzied flames leapt from one memory to the other. Fire ripped through the ground. Stench of burnt and burning memories filled the air. Black smoke. scarred the skyline. The night sky turned red. I fell on the ground. Pain shot through my body, my bones. And suddenly it was all over. The pain was gone. I opened my eyes. Embers had died, leaving gutted remains of the charred memories. I looked at Life. I stretched my hand. Life stepped back. Slowly it started fading away. I closed my eyes. It started to rain.

From here to eternity.....

2010-08-18T03:23:00.000-07:00

Life never ceases to surprise you. When you have just stopped expecting anything more from life, it unfurls another path. A path, never travelled before, a path unknown. Confused, uncertain, we often step on this road to nowhere. As one treads cautiously, life suddenly opens up another unforeseen territorry. Life hurtles you towards that moment of truth-you lunge, you grab the truth and you say- "yes i do." You say- "yes I do believe in life, i do believe in existence, yes i do." Life is existence. Existence is life. As we exist- do we need to ask, what the world needs from us and do we need to comply ? Or, do we need to do things, which make us come alive ? Don't world needs people, who are alive ? Win Borden writes : " If you wait to do everything unitl you're sure it's right, you'll probably never do much of anything." In life, I suppose, it's better to know and be disappointed, than never to know and perpetually wonder. Say for instance- it does hurt to love someone and not be loved in return. But what can be more painful is to love someone and never find the courage to let the person know how you feel.
I recall an old quote- "The difference between life and school is that in school, you're taught a lesson and then given a test, in life you give a test, which teaches you a lesson." Does life sucks, is life a bitch ? Is life beautiful ? I suppose its a combination-life is a blend of sadness, happiness, smiling, crying, loss and love. Everything in life need not be justified. One can not justify everything. Life does not justify everything. There's a saying- "the tragedy of life is not that it ends so soon, but that we wait so long to begin it."
And then the end....
Maut aaye jise sakoon mil gaya,
ke murjaya hua phool to khil gaya,
tadapte to voh hain jo martein nahi,
zamane se kuch log dartein nahi

Untitled

2010-08-17T03:22:00.000-07:00

2010-08-10T03:43:00.000-07:00

Death bothers me no more. In the last one and a half year, I lost my mother, father and my pishi (father’s sister). All of them died at our old Karaya Govt Housing Estate. My “pishi” (aunt) lived in an Old Home. She had recently moved in to be with my brother, who went to sign some legal documents concerning the flat. He was to return to Delhi and pishi to her Old Home-“”Navaneer”, which means “New Home.”. She never did. Six months after , my father died (January 9, 2010), pishi followed her dada (elder brother). She died on August 8, 2010. Both baba and pishi died around 3.30 am. Ma died at 2.30 am.
Flat F 3, Karaya Government Housing Estate - Only a couple of decades back, the flat was full of activities. People trooping in-trooping out, people quarrelling, laughing, screaming—servants, tired of serving tea and cooking for a string of unexpected guests landing up during lunch or dinner time.- the doors of this flat were latched only around 1 am, when the last visitor left. Even today one forgets to latch the door. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Rarely someone knocks.
I was perhaps in class VI, when the flat was given to my grandmother by the then Bengal PWD minister, Jatin Chakraborty.
Every summer vacation I would go to Kolkata and stay at Karaya. All my relatives would then pour in and in those two rooms, the bunch of us never felt any lack of space. We would sleep on the floor, beds , wherever we could manage. Nobody complained. And when it was time to return to Delhi, pishi and thama ((grandmother) would start wailing-as if they’d never see us again. It was a sight ! In 1983, I moved to Kolkata after I got my first job with The Telegraph. My professional, personal journeys began from this house. In this house I learnt to dream and in this house I learnt to wake up to reality.
Each and every corner of this house is filled with memories. Memories-some make you smile, some simply kill you. Touch the walls, press your ears to them, you can feel those vanished touches, you can hear those faded voices from the past.. Keep staring at the door, you might find ma entering to ask “kire khabi na (its time to eat)” or may be baba walking in after puja, putting bibhuti on our foreheads.
I can still find my thama and ma cooking in the kitchen, at times fighting. I can still see my pishi making “chashir payash” ( a Bengali sweet dish), especially for me. I can still see my parents glued to the bong soap operas..
One generation goes away. The other awaits its departure. There was a time, when death scared you. There was a time when you never expected bad news even if you got a call at deathly hours. Time changed it all.
Tublu da ((he died last year) once said-“we too have reached the station. Waiting on the platform, for the train to arrive.”
Was reading a Kushwant Singh . He quotes Yas Yagana Changezi-
“Khuda mein koi shak ho to ho,
maut mein nahi koi shak (You may or may not doubt the existence of God, you cannot doubt certainty of death).
Death is inevitable. So is growing old. He quotes Asadullah Khan Ghalib-
“Age travels at a galloping pace, who knows where it will stop.
We do not have the reins in our hands, nor our feet in the stirrups.”
It seems only yesterday, when ma woke me up and prepared me for school. I can still see that old, balding school bus conductor calling out my name as the driver honks irritably .I can still see Bapi and me pouring powder all over the floor and trying to skid on it. It seems only days back, when I went for my school admission and my father forgot my date of birth. It was only a few years back, when I saw the naxalites charging down and burning my school-St Andrews in Jadavpur. As if it was only a few days backs when I went to watch Hemant Kumar singing in what we then called Durga Puja function with my parents. My first love, my first love letter, my first job, my first salary-I still remember.
Everytime we celebrate birthdays, we take a step towards death. When the end comes one may feel so little has been done, so much could have been achieved.. We look back, rewind time in our memories. We don’t like the present, future frustrates us.
Life always has surprises stored for you. As for me -my heart still beats to the rhythm of life. I still love to hear –“zaban pe laga laga re namak ishq ka”. We all still try karaoke, till we drop dead listening to our shrieking voices striking wrong notes and cracking up at every turn of the music.
Some live with regrets, some live on memories. Some just wait for the last journey. Some lived life, the way they chose to. Some did what they wanted to. Times they were wrong, times they were not. There were times when they followed their hearts-recklessly, without thinking of consequences. Some dreams remained unfulfilled, some milestones were crossed. Yet every relationship in life taught us something. No malice towards people we met along the way…..
Khushwant Singh writes- “When time comes to go, one should go like a man without any regret or grievance against anyone.” He quotes Iqbal –
“You ask me about the signs of a man’s faith ?
When death comes to him.
He has a smile on his lips.”

(My Painting title-Death)

FIRE

2010-07-28T01:06:00.000-07:00

SNAP !!!! He woke up. First rays of the sunlight peered through the windows. He looked down. A shadow lay sprawled on the floor. Just the shadow. He rubbed his eyes. Carefully stepped over the shadow. Pages of some unfinished poems were scattered all over the table. Some burnt pages of a history book. An album with no photographs lay open.
Slowly he cleared the table. Shut the album. Dumped the unfinished poems, the history book into the bin. He turned around. The shadow was still there. Motionless. He was tempted to touch the shadow, see if there was any reaction. Decided not to. Someone has left the shadow behind. It was hidden in the darkness of night. For some reasons, the shadow had decided to stay back.
He stepped out. Morning breeze swept over him. He felt refreshed. There was no shadow here. Sun rays filtered through the morning mist. He walked ahead. Stopped near the pond. A small blue dragonfly was perched on the top of a curved blade of a grass. Golden rays of the sun sprinkled on the crystal surface of the pond. No shadows here.
He walked on. A giant blue spider was spinning a huge web between two old oak trees. The spider seemed to have an innate artistic sense. Well, it seemed to him. The rays of light pierced through the web and water droplets, clinging to the silky threads. He watched - a butterfly hovers closely, lowers, rises, sits on the web and spreads its wings.
Sunlight reflected on the unmixed colours of its wings. And then, suddenly there was an invasion of colours. Thousands of butterflies fluttered in, drowning the giant web and the blue spider in a sudden surge of colours. Then the butterflies rose again. Bright hues-red, orange, blue, green, yellow floated around. The garden was now filled with dancing flowers. The web swung, the blue spider, now painted in rainbow, danced to the rhythm of the swaying colours.
He spread his hands and started running. He wanted to fly like a butterfly. Spreading colours till it dropped dead. The branches, leaves, whispered in thousand voices. He soared high. Higher. He was high up in the sky-like that falcon-looking down on creation. The clouds like those dark flowing hair, floating all over her face.
He soared higher. And higher. Till he could fill the warmth of the sun rays. He rose higher. The warmth now turned into unbearable heat- his skin began to peel off. He was melting. He wanted to escape. But, now he was surrounded by leaping flames. Turning, twisting, swirling, they charged like hundreds of angry serpents. There was no escape. The rings of fire, like that python slowly coiled around his body.
The bed sheet was on fire. He jumped up. The half burnt cigarette had fallen from the ashtray. He quickly poured a bottle of water to douse the flames. It was still dark outside. He switched on the bedside lamp . She had left, some time back. He lit another cigarette. It tasted bitter. He threw it. He turned to switch off the light. And then he saw. A shadow lay sprawled on the floor. He touched the shadow. It didn’t move. He switched off the light.

Painting (Sin-series) by me

Abstract.....

2010-07-19T04:34:00.000-07:00

Why are dreams so rich in colour and reality so dark…pale…ashen. Life takes a turn. Suddenly. Past fades away. Present takes over. Momentarily. Then its back to the past, all over again. Dreams hang from sleepy eyelids. Reality gnaws at them. Dreams-- like those flashing, disappearing falling stars. Reality-the dark moonless sky. Smoke swirls upwards from a cup of coffee. Half eaten truffle on the plate. A few steps. A lizard rests near a flickering light on the wall. Outside the moon tastes bitter. Trembling hands. Trembling hearts. That insane man on the pavement, draws up squares and boxes. Snakes and ladders. Looks up. Challenges God to the game. No response. He screams-“ I ‘ve won.” People laugh. The painter runs his twisted brush on the canvas. In a frenzied pace. He has no colour. The canvas remains spotless. He admires his painting. She watches her reflection. In his eyes. He closes them, she melts into his soul. Memories take over the body. Like vultures they dig deep into the flesh. Like hyenas they tear the body apart. Memories kill. Memories killed him. Its dark outside. He waits for the sun to rise. Sky turns red. A butterfly with rainbows in its wings, flutter in. A dragonfly spreads its transparent wings. Flowers bloom. Sun rises from behind the blue hills, Sound of a flute blends into the rhythm of the flowing stream. Bodies blend. Beads of sweat flicker on the grass. Someone dreams….

Painting(oil on canvas)-sin series by me

2010-04-27T03:56:00.000-07:00

A bit of washington....

War Monument

White House

can't grow..never again

2010-02-04T22:38:00.000-08:00

Running --rushing-rushing-running--- school/exams, marks/ percentages-college... good college/bad college, career, struggle, hard work, work harder, dreams-shattered.... compromises, struggle hard, please all, suck up , dreams-shatter.... marrriage/marriages. child/children-his education/his pain...your guilt...their education, his career/ their career..no money-need more money, no property/need property.houses-houses. more compromises-more money. Money fall short/work harder......

Fall sick-nothing doing.....mother dead-report back. father gone-so what ??? Need time-at your peril-took time-at what cost ??
I am good-says who?? Experienced--fuck you. 27 -years in the job--too old--need promotion--too young !! I am good--not upto the mark !!!

Need some sleep-wake up!!!-But he- is sleeping !! so what !!

More money-time's running out--instalments/EMIs---money fall short-no time--rush..rush

I am tired..falling down....

" Give me some sunshine, give me some rain, give another chance, I wanna grow up once again-" someone sings--" Bachpan to gaya, jawani bhi gayee, ek pal to hame jine do, jine do....." he goes on...
Want to live just for once.. see the sunshine, chase the rain---

No I can't stand straight...never again..........

Till we meet again....

2010-01-11T20:26:00.000-08:00

And then came the end....the journey ends...another begins...

The Communist---Baba , part of an Indian trade union delegation, giving autographs in China...

“Tui phele eshechish kare
mon, mon re amar,
tai janam gelo shanti peli na re,
mon, mon re amar…”

(who have you left behind, oh my heart,
in this life, you never could have peace,
oh my heart…”)

My Father's favourite number..... I picked it up from him. There were so many songs and things I picked up from him.

Baba was like “dhritarashtra”, my relatives would say. He was blinded by love for his son. That’s me. He never found fault with me. Even when I was wrong and I often was.
“Tui aai. Aami ekhon thik acchi, duto nurser dorkar nei. Toss kore nish kake rakhbi. Aami Delhi ashbo (You come. I am better now, there’s no need for two nurses. Toss and decide, which of the nurse you want to retain. I will come to Delhi)”…he said to me on the phone on January 8, 2010. “Aami magic korbo, Rintu chole ashbe (I am going to perform a trick and Rintu will come back)…he told the nurses and my aunt At 2.45 in the morning on January 9, he died. The day before he had shaved and cut his hair. He wanted to “look good.”
My mother would often recall : “Once there was an earthquake in Kolkata. Rintu was small. He was sleeping. His father just picked him up and ran outside the house. Once out, he realised we were still inside and started calling for us. For him all that mattered was Rintu…”
“O amar shonar chhele (he is my golden boy),” he would tell everyone. He would boast to his friends about me. “My son is a journalist,” he would keep saying and then force them to read my stories. There was no escape from that !! Open the albums, they are filled with pictures of Baba rocking me, holding me.
Could I have saved him ?? Kept him alive for a few more years ?? Few more weeks ?? A few more days ?? He was 83 and had been hit with old age ailments. After my mother expired last year, Baba was shattered. He would keep crying. He felt lonely. He needed me. But I was away, I had no time. I had my job, I needed a career, I needed to secure my future, buy a flat etc etc etc….

I wanted to bring him and my brother (Pintu) to Delhi…but he was not keen. And maybe I did not force him enough. May be I hesitated….
Baba virtually lived for us. And for me. He believed in me and believed in what I did, even if that was completely wrong.
Baba, wanted to be with me, but I couldn’t be with him. I kept running like that race horse, flogged, whipped by circumstances. As I gained speed, I left behind my ailing parents, my brother. I sent them money.
Baba, who had come to India from Bangladesh before partition was like that street fighter, who managed to survive. Like that survivor, he had his shares of arrogance.
With him around, I always felt secure, …”baba to ache (Baba is there if I am in trouble).” But could he think the same way ??? Perhaps not. He would keep calling and want to know, when I am coming then say :: “Na na tor chakri achche (no no, you have a job). And I went on doing my job.
I feel very lonely. Guilty. How does it matter, what I achieve or do ? Who’s going to run around and talk of my little, insignificant achievements ?? Who’s going to force and make his friends suffer my articles ??? Who’s going to declare.. ”my son has a flat in Delhi ?” Even if it is in a godforsaken place.
The day I bought my first car, a second hand fiat in Kolkata, my father called up all his friends to announce the event. When we went for a ride, the car broke down. We pushed it all the way back home
A few days before he died, he would ask me to sell his shares and take the money. He felt, I was spending a lot on his treatment. Everytime I sat beside him, tears would trickle down his tired eyes-- “You look a lot like my father,” he would touch my face.
That day when I touched him...He was cold. I gently pushed him, trying to wake him up. I kept trying till the body was pushed into the furnace. I kept whispering---” Baba otho (Baba wake up).”

kolkata-kolkata

2010-01-06T23:50:00.000-08:00

Once again I am back to my old favourite topic--Kolkata.. Everytime I visit the city, it draws me like never before. Kolkata's streets, Park Street, Free School Street, Uttam-Suchitra films ( dvds), rickshaws and those yellow obsolete taxis and trams...so what if the city has not been able to keep pace with time...Kolkata still attracts...

.....meoww...

Bazaar Kolkata

Kolkata and tram..

The greatest pair of all times-Uttam-Suchitra..

It's mahanayak all the way...Uttam's movies still a big draw..

dear old Flurys..

Park Street..

Rickshaws...

Old records/gramaphone and Free School Street..

Kolkata police..

Kolkata jam..

Taxi,taxi..

My Kolkata home..

2009-12-22T01:54:00.001-08:00

Chhoto Belar dinguli

Mone pore chhoto bela, chhuto chhuti koto khela,

Luko churi, hasha hashi

goli te shei khelnawalar bashi...

Dupurer rode ghama, brishti te bheja jama,

Shei shondhyabelar shankh,

Durga pujor dhak...

Goromer shei chhuti gulo

kothai jeno hariye gelo...

Babar ador, maier boka,

bhaier shathe carrom khela,

moner bakshe bandho chhilo

hotath keno baire elo...

jiboner ei shandhyakale,

Keno je aaj khuje berai,

dhuloi dhaka almirah te

Sukumarer--Kumro Potash,

Gangaramer biyer khobor..

On Assignment

2009-10-27T00:12:00.000-07:00

Arrival at Hotel Courtyard Marriot, by Media Bus at Hua Hin,famous beach resort, 200km from Bangkok(23/10/09)

View from hotel room...overlooking the ocean

Morning sky..view from hotel

speeding across-Hua Hin

Night Bazar..Hua Hin

PM's interaction with media at Hilton Hote, Hua Hin (25/10/09)

Media Centre(Marriot)

Photo exhibition. Dusit Thani hotel, venue for 15th ASEAN Summit, Hua Hin

Me and Nirmal Pathak..waiting for Godot..Hua Hin

Media Marquee, Dusit Thani

Venue-15th ASEAN Summit, Hua Hin, Thailand

2009-09-27T22:46:00.000-07:00

shubho bijoya............

Life, Love and Death

2009-09-09T22:43:00.000-07:00

an audio visual journey....

2009-08-10T03:55:00.000-07:00

click on the file to enlarge... (mail today, July 15, 2008)

My Father

2009-07-28T05:44:00.000-07:00

Never told me how to live

He lived his life

I watched him live it

My father.

Never said, it's time to sleep.

Instead he showed me stars and

told me how to touch them.

My father

Never held me when I cried

His silence spoke in thousand voices.

He bought me toys

and then cigarettes...

and my first bottle of whisky

My first second-hand car

we pushed togther...

I sat on his shoulders

held up the flaming torch

watching the red sun setting

behind the Marxist stage...

He was a communist

Yet taught me how to pray

He believed in revolution

But told me not to wait for it .

My father

He did not know how to dream

He learnt to dream through us.

My Roots

2009-07-07T03:02:00.000-07:00

As I stepped out of the aircraft that typical Kolkata heat hit me. Muggy, sweltering heat. Within minutes, I was drenched in sweat. Inside the taxi, I rolled up the windows. Suffocating fumes blended with the heat, simply sat on your skin. Yet, I felt good. I was coming home.
I live in Delhi with my family. Delhi, should be my home. Somehow, I could never consider Delhi, my home. Nothing wrong with the city. It has it's pace, it has given me my career. I have friends, who I can trust. Yet, somehow, I just could never relate to Delhi.
Kolkata in contrast remained frozen in a time zone. The "taxis" are still those black smoke emanating ambassadors, crowding and choking the streets and pavements are hawkers, vendors, and beggars. Even today arthritic trams continue to hold up traffic and kids scrounging for food crumbs in those garbage dumps desperately try to keep the city clean.. Walking through Gariahat (a shopping area in south Kolkata) is an art. Dodging people and evading those never ending stalls on the narrow footpaths is a thing only a true Calcuttan can do.
Kolkata hasn't changed much. Thoroughfares have not been widened. Protest rallies, political demonstrations, mass dharnas in this Marxist bastion choke the city.
Attempts to industrialise Kolkata has fallen flat. Industries including the much hyped Nano's manufacturing unit have fled, Naxalites have returned and one is not so sure about Kolkata's prosperity as compared to other states. In the midst of this colossal chaos and Kolkata's refusal to move ahead, recently built fly-overs and rising glitzy malls seem to be making a feeble attempt to bring in a change.
I went to Press Club with my cousin, Tamal,( see the post: Those are the days ) working with Economic Times. Nothing has changed, even the faces, I left behind decades back.
For many, life has not moved beyond, Satyajit Ray and Uttam Kumar. And despite the invasion of titans like Hindustan Times and Times of India, Kolkata still remains the city of Anandabazar Patrika and The Telegraph.
The Telegraph was my first step to journalism. I started my journalistic career in Kolkata in 1983 Worked for a decade and moved to Delhi. A friend from Kolkata days, Soutik Biswas, now in Delhi with the BBC once told me : "The day I was leaving Kolkata, I cried like a child. I was so attached to the city."
I had left Kolkata in 1971. I was in class V or VI. From Delhi I was travelling to Kolkata during my summer vacations. I did a funny thing. The moment I got down at Howrah Railway Station, I touched the platform and then my forehead, a typical Bengali pranam. "Ki korchish, haath matite dichchish, nongra hoye jabe (what are you doing, touching the platform. Your hands will get dirty), " my mother pulled me. "Kolkatar mati ke pranam korchi ( I am saluting Kolkata), I replied with oride. "Ki boka chhele, dekho ki bolche (What an idiot. look what's he saying)," Ma told my father, who was by then was busy haggling with a coolie.
Today even when polluting fumes suffocate me on the streets, I get roasted inside a cab stuck in a massive jam, I cannot hate Kolktata.
Time stands still at Karaya Road, my "para" (locality). The buildings have grown old and so have the owners of theose two "all item shops", outside our building---Dhirenda and Pradyutda..
"Karaya Housing Estate ta ekta old homer moto hoye geche. Bachhara shob kete porechhe aar buro buri golo pore acche (Karaya Housing Estate is now like an Old Home. Children have gone away, leaving behind their old parents)," Tubluda used to say. This time, Tubluda, in his early 50s could not meet me. He was suffering from kidney failure and was on dialysis. Tubluda died on July 6, a few days after I returned from Kolkata. He too left behind his old father.
Tublu da was a "typical Bangali", a quintessential Bong. He loved to laugh, loved to drink, smoke, eat and hated work. He was staying with his father and was happy doing a small time job. No Tubluda did not change. He just died.
Sounds, lights and restaurants, watering holes, hotels---stretch from one end of Park Street to the other. Peter Cat, Flurys, Moulin Rouge, Oxford Book Store, Giggles and vendors, selling chewing gums to condoms rule Park Street. Park Street has'nt changed.
I don't remember the year. It was one of those Bangla bandh days. Around 8 or 9 in the evening Soutik and I were walking down Park Street. Everything was closed. Hardly any people or cars on the streets. Suddenly a voice from behind whispered. "Dada chai naki. Ekdom Kalir maton (Dada want it ? Like a bud)," we turned around. A man, clad in a half sleeve shirt and a lungi. A pimp, trying to lure us to a girl. "Kothai (where) ", we asked. "Karnani Mansion e" (At Karnani )," he smiled. Karnani Mansion, a residential building, behind Park Street was notorious for such activities. We refused, but the man kept following us, pleading, repeatedly asking us to have a look at the girl. Finally he gave up, when we got into our vehicle, with that Press sticker on.
Cutting across Park Street is Free School Street. you get everything ranging from pirated DVDs, old Mad comics to dying Anglo-Indians and prostitutes. Every night, when inebriated men stepped out of Park Street's watering holes, rows of rickshaw pullers, apt at guessing the level of inebriation jingled their bells. They knew where to take the customer, desperately seeking flesh. Rickshaw pullers have gone, but, the adventurers remain.
A few yards away from Park Street is Wood Street. Bobby, working with The Telegraph has a flat there. Like Kolkata Bobby too hasn't changed. He is been working in the same organisation for nearly three decades. Bobby has'nt changed. He still loves his drink, his food, the nuggets he keeps heating up in his microwave.
There were days, when Bobby's flat was our hub for weekend parties. We drank and danced to the beats of old Hindi numbers till wee hours in the morning. Bobby had once been to Tito Dey's dance party at Oberoi Grand. Soutik was also there. The occasion was recorded and the organiser had given us the video cassette. The screening of the casstte brought an end to Bobby's dancing. He could'nt bear the sight of his desperate attemps to set the floor on fire.
He never danced again. Soutik's partner, slipped while dancing or walking ( I can't recall).
In Kolkata all of us felt secure. There is this softness about the city. Forgetting Kolkata will be like forgetting our roots. Despite pollution, jams, political violence and that stagnation, Kolkata still has a striking sense of vibrance and energy. Kolkata, unlike other cities finds way into your heart. Some say, Kolkata is not a city--"its a feeling." That confluence of art, literature, society, warmth--you will never find anywhere. Where will you find a song in which the poet seeks his beloved in his tea cup and then in the revolution on the streets ?? Where will you find the confluence of Tagore, Nazrul, Sukanta, Satyajit, Suman, Sunil Ganguly and Shirshendu ?? Nowhere.
All of us had moved away and moving like those rootless tramps, we built houses, resting places, but never a home.

2009-05-26T05:54:00.000-07:00

" The dead sit at our tables long after they have gone." .....For One More Day by Mitch Albom.

Everything comes with an expiry date

2009-04-30T06:32:00.000-07:00

"Everything in life comes with an expiry date.." It does..food stock, life, friendship, love...everything. That's the essence of life. Things start rotting and they need be discarded. Your body, your life your love, your emotions, once nurtured so carefully, with utmost fondness and care, start rotting, move rapidly towards expiration. You invest so much in these products, you invest in making a particular brand of packed food, you invest so much in emotions, feelings, you toil hard to get the result..the best result.... and then one day they all expire. We celebrate birthdays, they are so precious to some of us..without, however, realising that these birthdays are pushing us rapidly towards that day, when we shall expire...it's something like..what begins has to end. Even memorires...they come with an expiry date. Over the years..memories fade and the hurt ???....well that too has to come to an end some day. Our views, outlook, our looks, well that too change over a period of time. the change is constant and we keep evolving through all such events, which had expired...

Ma...

2009-04-20T00:51:00.000-07:00

She was looking at us. Smiling. From the wall. Her black and white portrait, framed, was finally hung. Only a few months back, she lay amidst a huge pile of flowers. Smoke swirling upwards like hundred snakes looking for an escape route, had filled the room. Vermillion smeared on forehead, my mother slept the sleep, which knew no breaking. And then, after a few moment, her body was pushed into the fire raging inside the metal frame. Within minutes, Ma turned into a bowl of ashes.

Only a few years back, I clung to her fingers, walking beside her. Only a few years back, she was making those balls of rice mixed with daal and running after me. "Eita ekta matha, ei tor mukher modhyo porlo (This is a head, which is now going to fall inside your mouth)," she put that ball of rice into my mouth. A few years back, she refused to play, when I cheated in that game of ludo, only a few years back she was screaming at me, when I failed my maths exams. It was a few years back, when I learnt to walk, holding her fingers and as I walked on and on...she slowly learnt to walk without my support...

Everything was still there in the room. Her comb, that tiny little box of vermillion, her glasses and that ludo. Everything was still there. Her songs, her writings, her grief, her pain, her tears were scattered all over the room. I often tugged at her saree, to wipe my tears. She learnt to use her wrinkled hands to dry her eyes. I screamed and cried for my toys, she waited silently for me to send money home...

"Rintu eshe gechhe (Rintu has come)," she would announce, waiting in the verandah, whenever I came home from Delhi. That day there was no announcement. My father was sitting beside her. "Ma chole gecche (ma has gone)," he announced.

September 2008, I don't remember the date. It does not matter anymore. Three of them, (my father, my brother and ma) staggered out of my house in Delhi. Three trembling skelentons. A few drops of tears fell on the floor. Later the maid wiped them off the marbles. One by one, they left. The hissing metal serpent carried them away to nowhere. She was trying to smile and scolded my father for "crying like a child". "Abar to ashbo, kandcho keno (we'll come again, why are you crying ?)," she was trying to tell my father, as the train signal turned green. I stood and watched. Later my father had called from Kolkata. Told me, Delhi suited her health and if I could make some arrangments for her to stay there permanently...

Whenever they fought, ma would tell baba, "bujhle rambabu tomar aage ami chole jabo (rambabu I will leave before you)." Ma kept her word.

I remember, when I went to see "Aakhri Khat" with Ma at Menoka Cinema (A Movie hall). The film was about a child, who had lost his mother and kept looking for her. I had started crying loudly. I wanted to get out of the hall. I couldn't bear to sit through the film. Ma took me on her lap and kept telling, "ei to ashbe, ma ekhuni chole ashbe.(She will come, his ma will come just now)"...

This is one of Ma's favourite number, she would keep humming..Till she could...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=873Jy1MZZag..

2009-04-16T03:27:00.000-07:00

shubho nabobarsho.....

Ramblings.......

2009-04-07T09:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, pain dosent hurt you anymore. It becomes your shadow, your friend. You learn to live with it, laugh with it and share your secrets with it. You miss him at times. you look for him, when he is not around.
"How can you be so loney in such a crowded world ?" Life often asks me. I say..."bheer mein ek zamane ka ghira hun lekin, apni tanhayee ki ahsaas, rulata hain mujhe...
Life goes on, we all move on and as Gulzar says.."sirf kile rahen jaaten hain (only the forts remain)"... they remain, as witnesses of that past, maybe beautiful , maybe not. They remain as memories, which refuse to disintegrate. But one day they develop cracks, and slowly, very slowly they disappear and blends with the soil. People start walking over them.
I have this suitcase full of memories, packed with tears, filled with faces. I have this tent, I pitch it unpack my baggage and try settle down. And when the worm moves, I move on. This time I did not move, but the world moved on. "What the fuck will I do ?" I ask. " I don't know," life replies. "Where do I go ?", I ask. " I don't know", life replies. Life sits beside me, holds my hand, puts her head on my shoulder. "I got to go," she says. "Why" I ask. "I don't know," do I see tears in her eyes ?
I see a cactus in a desert. It lives on by extracting life from the dry, parched sand. It's raining again. I am running in the rain. I am running alone. I lose my way in that maze of life. I want to get out. I feel claustrophobic. I see faces. "Where are you", I scream. Who am I seeking ? I don't know. I sit down. Life sits beside me. Holds my hand. Puts her head on my shoulder. "Relax, I got to go. Let me go," life pleads.
"Go", I am not screaming anymore. I am not crying anymore. I don't feel the pain anymore. I will never feel the pain anymore. I am numb.

What If......

2009-03-30T22:27:00.001-07:00

What if...there were no nights and the sun forgot to set ?
What if...We sailed on the storm and rode those lashing rains ?
What if...I was dead and gone and you lit the lamp on my grave ?
What if...I were the clouds, and cried everyday ?
What if...I was the desert wind, whistling that lonely song ?
What if...I were the raging waves crashing against the rocks ?
What if...I frittered around, across your room everyday
and watch you play, laughing aloud playing that family game ?
What if...I was just a grave, where no one came to care ?
What if...I was dead and gone and you, your way ?
Will you ever...pause to think and pass those lonely stretches,
the roads we travelled, chasing the rains, kissing and holding hands ?
When your black and flowing hair fall across your face
Will you look at your empty lap and miss my vanished touch ?
Someday when I am dead and gone, think of me, my love,
Every morning when you see that sun, try to look for me,
I will be there, everywhere, whenever you call my name...

That day....

2009-03-26T08:01:00.001-07:00

That day,
somebody knocked on my door,
"who's there," I asked
no response...
knocking turned into a loud banging,
"who's that", I screamed
no response.....
someone was now trying to break open the door,
"who the hell is that"- I tried to raise my voice over the frenzied rattle of the falling latches,
two rats ran over my naked feet,
the lights suddenly went off,
the door was falling apart...
I pushed the bed against the door,
everything in the room was flying,
the table lamp, the paperweight, my television,
as if caught in a violent rotating column of air,
whizzed past me,
and then fell on the floor, shattered....
And as suddenly as the knocking had began, it stopped
creaking, complaining the door fell apart,
outside, the breeze hissed like a furious serpent,
no one was there.....

2009-03-24T09:44:00.000-07:00

How Long ?

2009-03-24T06:31:00.000-07:00

Have you ever lived in a world of illusion ? A make believe world ? A world of lies and deception ? A world where you are forced to believe the unbelievable ? A world where you cannot ask questions ? You cannot afford to ask questions ? Cause you know the answer would shatter your make believe world. There are times you want to come out of this illusion. But something within you holds you back. You are in a pepetual sruggle with yourself. Struck by a dilemma of Hamletian proportions. Sound of silence defeans you. Like that Lady of Shalott, you keep spinning a web and hum to yourself. You know a curse will befall you, if you try to look beyond the web.

"There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott."

Yet one day she said --" I am half sick of shadows."

And one day, when she left her web, stepped out..." Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. "

But for that fleeting moment, she was free from her shadows. She did not care about the curse. She lost it all. She lost her life. Yet she managed to free herself from that world of illusion, from that world of curse.

Can one break the shackles ? Can one go on and on playing with shadows ?

Bondhu bollo...

2009-03-22T04:11:00.000-07:00

Bondhu bollo, amar aatitirish (38), tor aatchollish (48)...

hotath pechhon phire dekhi, she ekhono aathash (28)...

aachhe ekhno shei bhalobasha,

premer shei unmadona,

dekhi, ekhono du chokher kone chholchhol korche, duto chhotto chokher jol...

"ekhnono tumi ki coloutful ?" jigesh kore bondhur bou,

"na, ekhon aami black and white"--kanchapaka chule aar gofe hath ghuriye bollam...

shotti, bocchor gulo kakhon jano beriye galo,

chuler rong bodle galo,

chosmataro power berechhe,

kintu, she to badlalo na,

ekhono rod jola dupure

she roilo hoye aamar jiobner Ruby Roy (rai)...

monta ekhono chhute beray shei maya mriger pecchone,

Hemantor gaan..."mon haralo, haralo mon haralo", ekhnono monta gun gun kore gaye...

A translation :
That day , my friend said.. i am 38, you are now 48..

suddenly i looked back, she was still 28..

that love still lingered,

flames of passion, still burning,

i could see, two little drops of water, in corner of her eyes,

"are you still colourful,"---asked my friend's wife...

"no, now i am black and white,"---i pointed to my greying hair and moustache...

True, the years just passed by, before i could realise,

colour of my hair changed,

power of my spectacles went up...

But she never changed

Even today in this midday of my life

she remained my Ruby Rai,

my heart still chased that golden deer

That Hemanta Kumar's number--" I lost my heart somewhere...", my heart still sang...

2009-02-16T04:59:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOfzh_BYQKs
check this out.......

My Brother PINTU

2009-01-26T22:14:00.000-08:00

"Mar shathe ghumai (I sleep with Ma)...." was Pintu's reply, when I asked, where do you sleep these days. At first I didn’t get it. I asked again : "No I mean, where do you sleep these days ?" "Mar shaathe (with Ma)," he replied again. "What do you mean-I asked Pintu, my younger brother. "Everynight, Ma comes and sleeps beside me. I can feel her presence. Morning I just open the window and she leaves. I am telling you the truth," he was trying to convince me.
Our mother died on November 24, 2008. My brother is --"mentally retarded," so we say.
Since childhood, his life had revolved around Ma. When he was a kid, I had named him---Ma boleche (Ma said so). Whenever he wanted something, he would make Ma agree to his terms and then mount pressure on me and Baba. He would then say ---"Ma boleche."

Ma died and life moved on. I moved on. Three days after Ma expired, I was back in Delhi following the Mumbai terror attack. Baba was shattered and it showed. He would start crying everytime he thought of her or anybody mentioned Ma.
Nobody saw tears in Pintu's eyes. Pintu had no time to cry.

He gets up in the morning, makes tea for Baba, gives his medicine, cleans his urinal umpteenth time a day, puts on his socks for him, takes him to the bathroom, massages his feet, manages the house, speaks to our relatives (They keep pouring in hordes after Ma's death) and tells the servants what to do and how to go about things. Also if the maids don't come, Pintu is there to call them up. This boy, a mentally retard, has taken charge of the situation.

The day Ma died, we all cried, we all wept. I had not seen tears in Pintu's eyes. It was late in the night. I woke up to go the bathroom. Darkness had blend with that deafening silence. Then I heard someone sobbing. It was Pintu. After the world had mourned Ma's death, after all of us wept, howled, wailed and went off to sleep, this boy in that pitch darkness was sobbing quietly. There was no open display of his grief---Pintu cried silently. On seeing me getting up, he went quiet. He did not want to disturb us with his grief.

I never believed in rituals. I don't. Pintu shaved his head and was willing to perform all the 13-day rituals, being planned and dictated by our relatives, till I realised he was falling sick and I put an end to them. On the day of Ma's Shradh, Pintu had fever. If I was sitting and performing the last rites, Pintu stayed indoors.

I returned to Delhi to carry out the required duties of a journalist. I had no time.
Pintu and Baba clung to each other. Rather Baba clung to Pintu. He could not do without him. This 84-year-old man was perpetually seeking him out. "Pintu where are you," "Pintu give me this," Pintu my medicine,"..."Pintu, Pintu Pintu..." he would go on and on. And even in the nights Pintu would stay up with Baba, if need be.

Three days after Ma died, I was to catch a 6 am fight to Delhi. I got up at 4 in the morning and found Pintu in the kitchen. "What are you doing ?", I was surprised to seem him up at that hour. "Making tea for you," he smiled. I had that tea and left to catch my flight. Both Baba and Pintu came to see me off to that taxi stand. None of them can walk properly and they returned home holding on to each other.

A few days back, Baba was rushed to ICU. Pintu called me. I was in office. Baba is back now and Pintu sleeps on a sofa beside Baba's bed. "Oh it's fine," he said, when I asked whether he could sleep properly. On the night Ma died, her last words were---"aami uthte parchi na re ar. Tor ki hobe ( I cannot get up anymore. What will happen to you) ?" Ma died , thinking what will happen to Pintu, who will take care of this mentally retarded boy. Little did Ma know--- Pintu was going to take care of all.

No Pintu does not work, my 44-year-old handicap brother plays football with kids and takes care of our ailing father....

Darkness.....

2009-01-05T19:59:00.000-08:00

I stood alone. The room was dark and empty. The stale air hit me. I could see nothing. The cold granite floor melted under my feet. The chill rising from the ground rattled my bones. Suddenly I wanted the white sky to break into my face. Golden rays of the sun drill through my bones--for that warmth.

Nothing but darkness filled with silence engulfed. Outside I could hear the sighs rising from the dead sea. I had crossed a grave. An abandoned, uncared for. The epitaph read-"Regrets Only ".

Inside the room, a wave of self pity rose from the pit of my stomach. I wanted to cry, scream, bang my head against the cold granite walls. My rebellion, which I had nurtured all my life was melting into melancholy. Everything seemed futile. Except the darkness.

I touch my shoulder. I feel the dampness. The tear drops had not yet dried. I feel a hand pulling my muffler. Trembling fingers, tugging at the leather strap of my wrist watch.

I am an escapist. I want to run. I am fleeing. I am rushing towards that darkness. It's all black. I can't see anything. I don't want to see anything. I hate the sun. I don't want the it's golden rays to drill through my bones. The dampness spreads rapidly. My clothes are drenched with tears.

Now I am flying...no...may be falling...hurtling towards the unknown. Dampness stays. Tears blend with my blood....

2009-01-02T03:30:00.000-08:00

H A P P Y N E W Y E A R

outsider

2008-12-14T04:14:00.000-08:00

a video mix by me...njoy..if u like it...

Walking into sunset

2008-11-17T23:55:00.000-08:00

Age has caught up.
So has financial distress.
Batteries of the pacemaker have worn out.
The heart threatens to stop beating.
Have purgatives mixed with curd,
Any form of stress, the doctor, says can be lethal.
Doctor asked me not to get out of the bed,
Walk as little as possible,
Son's girl friend gifted a walking stick on my birthday...
wants me to walk five kilometeres a day !
Labels on the colourful medicine bottles,
range from teramycin to erthromycine,
My sins ?
A few days back, there was a commotion in the building,
The next door woman, jumped down from the roof,
She fell on her husband, kissing her sister,
Husband died, sister survived
"God's miracle", people said
both sisters now share the flat
My neighbour’s son tried to hang himself,
With his father’s belt
The belt snapped, his nose broke
the suicide note later found had read:
“That day she cried a lot
Spoke of compulsions
rights and the wrongs,
took my handkerchief..
wiped her tears, blew her nose,
Then she returned to her family’s fold
Next I heard, her engagement was six months old”
Poor boy was left out in the cold
I open the newspaper,
"Prime Minister found dead on bed",
The headline screams
The next story reads,
"A lawyer accidentally sues himself,"
Eighty-year-old Ranen Das, storms in,
“Someday he too will get old, ” curses his grandson, baring his gums.
His teeth, kept in the jar overnight, have gone missing
Raheman is dying,
All his savings, he invested in a tomb
In the loneliest corner of a local cemetary
“This is my home” he proudly shows
To all those, who are getting old.
Finally one night, there was a knock on the door,
Death came calling in,
“Time to go” he asked me to follow,
Three things I packed for the trip,
My walking stick, a faded sunshine and
a slice of life’s discarded dreams.

Shadows...

2008-11-10T21:36:00.000-08:00

One by one, they tiptoed in.
the shadows,
one by one,
the shadows,
spread all over me.
screams of silence, rent the damp air
bounced against the walls of insanity,
window panes came crashing down, like my trembling thoughts.
shadows cast across the blood red floor,
outside, the creatures of darkness howled,
twisted blades of that celing fan moved in a frenzied pace.
"The door is shut," a voice screamed.
The bulb suddenly glowed, like a thousand sun and exploded.
Shadows moved in the darkness,
unrequited, tormented emotions scream.
Flames all around me,
shadows all around the flames--an impregnable cordon,
A piece of broken cloud, crash through the roof,
dead stars litter the floor.
Flames leap,
shadows glow,
faceless shadows weep,
dead butterflies fall,
on falling, withered petals,
the drip drop of acid,
melt the earth,

bodies are missing from the graves...

2008-11-10T05:57:00.000-08:00

All doors are shut !!!! I wait outside....

I too ran

2008-11-06T04:06:00.000-08:00

As the saying goes--"the problem of being in the rat race, is that you still remain a rat, at the end of it." That's so fucking true. Everywhich way, you look at it, somehow, we are chasing something. From career to emotional needs. The moment you think, you are there, you realise, you are not there. You are miles away from what you have been chasing, running after.

Yet, can you be out of the rat race ? Can you bid your ambitions good bye. Can you let the love of your life disintegrate in front of your eyes ? Can you ?

A friend once told me, its better not to expect anything. Its better not to be ambitious at all. Then he played the Anjan Dutta number on "Haripada kerani (Haripada the clerk). " This dimunitive, sickly, Bengali clerk had no ambition, lived in a mess, had nobody to love to. He just passed his days looking at the sky....and one fine day, the ETs came and took him away.What remained on this earth were his tears..

So, what's better ? To be a Haripada or chase your dream, work furiously to reach your dream destination ? There perhaps is no clear cut answer...the clerk was a loner, the clerk died a lonely death...he had only his loneliness...he could have been a happy man, not in the rat race, not being ambitious...he perhaps was, but at the end of the day, he perhaps hated his loneliness.
What if one chased his dreams ?

Macbeth did, rather, he was tempted to do it. Macbeth lost his sleep. Lucifer defied God and he was banished from paradise. Caesar wanted to be the king or a dictator. He was assassinated. Attila had the reputation of the highest ambition and plundering anything that would get in the way of it. Attila died on the night of his marriage. What a way to go !!! Well that was unfortunate as one might say..unlike others...anyway his empire disintegrated with his death.

In our lives, somehow, we all chase that golden deer. The chase does not end in a happy note.
There's one life. Either we live like our old Haripada or we dare to chase a dream. True, in that chase, you will be hurt, you might have to ride roughshod over things close to your heart, you might have to be ruthless, wait patiently like that cobra to strike at your target, fly endlessly like that vulture over that lost man in the desert and then swoop down as he falls dead.
It is said that for those who fail in life, ambition is a dirty word. Take out ambition from one's life, he become Anjan Dutta's quintessential Bengali clerk.

So why I am writing all these ? I don't know. We all have our amibitions. I have mine. I had mine. I am still chasing that golden deer, I am still flying like that vulture, I am waiting like that cobra to strike..

So what do I get at the end of it all ?

Perhaps nothing. I sit in a cabin, which was once occupied by a very high profile journalist. She had once decorated the room with paintings and potted plants. Had told me, "I will retire from here." She did retire. But her retirement was forced. I moved into that cabin. The pictures were all gone. Only the patches remained on the wall. The bare nails, used to hung her framed paintings were the witness of an amibtious past. She had bared her fangs to strike.They were smashed.

Is it really worth the trouble ? One can also live life happily, without much expecations, without any ambition and accept what life gives you. You can sleep your sleep, you can look at the frenzied pace of those ambitious people, running, rushing, falling, getting up and then back to running. You can turn around say---" Thank God, I am not one of them !!!" Life could be pedantic, boring, but life could be normal. From your balcony, you can see the sun set, sipping on that hot cup of tea. And then one day, you die, without anybody noticing or missing your absence. You were there and one fine day you are not there.

When I was switching jobs, a friend told me--"why do you want to take the trouble. You are doing well. You are getting good money. So what if no one notices you, you have a good life." The worm moved inside me. I wanted to be noticed. I took up the offer. Bartered my peaceful existence for a job, where it's a fight for survival, gave up my peaceful existence for something painful and unachievable. I moved on.

I accepted the everyday hammering, professionally and emotionally. It is a fight for survival-both ways. But then, what the hell, in this struggle, in this path full of pain and hurt, I realised, I too am moving towards a dream--I might never achieve,--yet--my resolve, will show me what I had never seen or experienced. I know the destination will always elude me. But I will reach that "half way," which have its own rainbow and the rains.

Forgotten dream

2008-10-22T00:54:00.000-07:00

Was strolling across the sand,

When something, hit my feet,

Something soft, tender.

Picked it up,

blew the sand away, dusted it clean.

It was someone’s, forgotten dream,

buried under the sand,

forgotten and uncared for.

The glimmer, the luster, the sparkle had all gone,

result of years of neglect, perhaps.

The dreamer had long discarded this dream for reality.

I looked around, saw a family playing with the waves.

“ Did you lose your dream Sir ?”, I asked the man.

“Nope,” this is my dream, he splashed the blue ocean water on his giggling son.

Then I saw her.

Taking pictures of her playful clan.

“Your dream ma’m, did you lose any ?” I asked.She looked at me.

“I don’t dream anymore,” and she looked away.

I moved on.

Looked at the object, in my hand.

The tenderness had lingered,

in this dream, once, a world was created,

with care and love,

with passion and courage.

Every night, and in that lazy afternoon,

this dream was dreamt.

Then one day,

like every dream,

it was dropped, when nobody looked, years ago.

I lifted my pillow,

put the dream, back to its place, where it had once belonged.

Tonight and everynight, I shall sleep,

with someone’s discarded dream.

half way

2008-10-21T09:25:00.000-07:00

She had told him, she may lose and lose it all one day. But he held her hand, said, he will always be there. Today she is turning out to be a loser. She can't have him completely and cannot let go of him either. "One cannot go half way and try stop in life..." he cautioned.
She knew it all along. The path she was treading with him would only leave her half-way. He didnt warn her then. Instead gave her the strength to go on. Today he dosent want her this way. What can she do ? But plead and ask him to be there for her, not push her so hard that she cant even crawl back one day.
She would remain where he left her and stand strong till she can. She wonders what could make him change his mind. Only if he could still hold her and tell her he's there. Only because love dose not demand but gives. She will never never judge him. She believes in his love. If he wants to blame her today it's his love, which is making him do that. I want to tell him that he's more precious than her dream. If her dream to be with him can not be achieved, atleast he can live happily she will be happy seeing him smile and she will be happy for those minutes she used to be with him.
Maybe not alone anymore, not dreaming together anymore, but still if she can look at him and look into his eyes amidst the rushing life she will bow her head and feel grateful to him... for showing her what love is and showing her how to love the pain. She pleads again: ---please keep me in your life. I cant afford to lose you having travelled this far---"the half-way".

stand alone

2008-10-21T07:30:00.001-07:00

It stopped raining,
the roads stretched to loneliness,
drops of water dripped from the drenched leaves.
Weak rays of the sun, desparately tried to reach the earth.
She had gone...
The vastness of the surrounding,
the silence of the heart,
the soft drip drip of the raindrops..
he could almost feel her,
standing beside him, shivering...
A piece of glass lay on the mud track.
He saw his reflection,
it was distorted.
He could see only a part of his face,
rest of it disappeared into the soil all around..
Those were broken pieces of his shattered mirror.
She had gone..
the hollowness was slowly nibbling at his flesh.
The headlights of the rushing car, blinded him,
he was run over and killed.
It was raining now,
the flames of the pyre had doused,
She was not there....

2008-10-14T01:14:00.000-07:00

It takes time to train yourself not to allow your emotions to betray what you are thinking...
The best way to stay unreadable is to look consistent, whether you are happy or sad.

SUN IS DEAD....

2008-10-08T23:38:00.000-07:00

Eyes welled up,

a burning sensation,

something corrosive, like acid, perhaps had got in.

She lay beside him, her hair floated on the pillow, like a cloud of grief,

the impossibility of the situation, defeated him.

That lizard on that cliff, which came to bask in the sun

to absorb the warmth, for the cold night ahead,

does not come anymore...

wings of those dead moths, clutter his staircase

a cocoon hangs from the lampshed on the wall..

old canvasses have died..

it was time to go, she picked up her clothes,

blew off the broken moth wings, from her dress...

outside the car was blowing its horn and her phone rang relentlessly...

the nailpolish on her toes were wearing off, she didn't care....

a confused dragonfly entered the room, sat on the hot glowing lamp and was charred...

Someone shouted on the streets, "sun is dead."

That bloody worm.......

2008-09-03T08:08:00.000-07:00

the worm was hiding inside, somewhere
it was concealed deep inside...
everytime the worm moved
the body writhed in pain
nothing worked,
nothing could ease the pain,
there was no medication,
the body cringed to caring touches,
when the worm moved inside..
didn't know how or when it got inside,
but, it did, unknowingly,
without any warning,the worm had slithered its way in.
once he tried scotch all night,
nicotine for breakfast,
vomitted throughout the day,
desperately hoping to get that bloody creepy crawler out of his system.
But, it remained inside,
stuck somewhere
Had gone to a surgeon,
he cut open the body,
rummaged through his entrails
but, couldnt find that creature.
then one day, he found the cure
a rusted blade,
he ran on his wrinkled wrist,
there was no pain, silently flowed the blood
out of his veins, slowly and then rapidly
he watched, waited to catch that slithering maggot,
and then he saw it,
struggling to stay inside,
even as gushing blood
pushed it out,
it was his last chance
he caught it finally,
with one big pull, the worm was out,
out of his body, his soul, his system...
then he felt the heat,
the warmth of fire
healed his pain
he heard voices chanting aloud
may be some Hindu mantra
it didnt matter
the worm was out
and the pyre purified him...

Somewhere, at some place...someone played this Yesudas number...long forgotten.....

2008-08-02T09:26:00.000-07:00

Ten days I spent with them. The dreaded soldiers in the green. For the security forces, they are trained to kill. The merciless assassins, who stalk the jungles of Chhattisgarh. Their ideology, if you ask me, is somewhat warped. The call for annihilation of the "class enemies" has actually lost its meaning. Yet they carry the guns to bring about a revolution, which, even they know would remain a distant dream. While spending days and nights... I discovered the other side of these killing machines..They laugh, they want to live and they are often shy and of course they were the women, who carried our luggages, when we failed to carry them....and the jungle calls...which haunt us...even today

2008-06-11T08:30:00.000-07:00

Me and Hemendra Sharma of CNN-IBN crossing
a stream with the help of the PLGA soldiers inside the
Chhatisgarh jungle (Pix by Ranjan Basu, photo editor, The Sunday Indian)

Maoist rebels begin urban push
By Sanjay Basak
New Delhi
June 10: Maoist rebels, who are now observing "Jan Pituri Saptah (revolutionary week)" in Chhattisgarh, have blown up power lines and disrupted communication links, targeting industries and power stations in the Abhujmar and Bastar regions and plunging much of the state into darkness.
A senior state police officer, in a telephonic conversation with this newspaper, said that the Maoists, who had declared a "parallel government" some time back, were now trying to move from the jungles to urban areas. The blast at Durg on June 8, in which three CRPF jawans were killed, and the attack on the Bishrampur police station "are clear signals that they are pushing towards urban areas," he said. Comrade Sonu, a top Maoist central committee member, confirmed this. "If we fail to build our movement in the cities, the revolution will remain a dream," he told this newspaper.
The police officer also said there were intelligence inputs that the Maoists were trying to teach Hindi to their Gondi-speaking "red cadres" from south Bastar as it was getting difficult for them to interact with Maoist leaders from Andhra Pradesh. The top leadership of the CPI (Maoist) is run by Andhra cadres.
Chhattisgarh’s DGP Vishwa Ranjan told this newspaper that due to the Maoist-imposed blackout, the administration had arranged to supply at least six hours of electricity to affected areas. "We have moved 100 huge generators to give relief to people." He also claimed adequate forces had been deployed to provide security to possible targets, including towers and transmission lines. "The Maoists are hitting soft targets," he said.
The DGP said the state police was fully capable of handling the situation, and did not need help from the Centre. The so-called "soft targets" attacked by the Maoists included the Essar Steel Plant at Kirandul in Bastar. The Maoists had set the plant and 20 trucks inside on fire.
Last year, while observing the "Jan Pituri" week, the Maoists had plunged the entire Bastar region into darkness for almost a fortnight.
A police officer in Kanker district pointed out that so far not a single political leader in Chhattisgarh had issued any statement condemning the "Jan Pituri" week, which ends on Friday. A state government official based in New Delhi said, however, that since the "government is at war with the Maoists, there is no point issuing statements on their activities."
(The article was published in The Asian Age on June 11, 2008)

2008-05-31T09:08:00.000-07:00

me with the maoist soldiers in chhattisgarh jungle

Maoists' form revolutionary government in Chhattisgarh (Pix by Ranjan Basu, photo editor, The Sunday Indian)

Taking control of the entire tribal belt stretching from Abujhmar, Bastar and Dandakaranya, the Maoists in Chhattisgarh have announced the formation and functioning of their first-ever parallel "revolutionary government". This "government" has also announced the formation of "ministries" of agriculture, finance, judiciary, health, school and culture and forests.
The Chhattisgarh government appears to have completely lost control of this remote tribal-dominated region, over which soldiers belonging to the dreaded People’s Liberation Guerrilla Army (PLGA) hold sway. While the Maoist health ministry is creating awareness on family planning and hygiene, the education ministry has come up with its own version of "revolutionary history." Attacks on the government-sponsored "Salwa Judum" movement is a part of the "red" syllabus.
A top central committee member, Comrade Sonu, told this newspaper: "We have rejected imperialist history and are teaching tribals about the revolution and of great heroes from their tribes." The outfit plans to set up similar revolutionary governments in other Maoist-infested states like Jharkhand and Orissa. Though there is no "foreign ministry" as such, the highest policymaking body, the central committee, maintains links with the coordination committee of Maoist parties and organisations of South Asia.
In a telephonic conversation from Raipur, Chhattisgarh’s director-general of police, Mr Vishwa Ranjan, said, however, that the state police had been successful in "smashing" the Maoist bases and that the Naxalites were on the run. He claimed that the "so-called parallel government" had been made "defunct" by the police onslaught. He said that apart from forming a special task force, the state police was also coordinating with the Greyhound force of the Andhra Pradesh police in its battle against Maoists.
Running short of arms and ammunition, the Maoists are now planning another strike on the lines of its February raid on the police post at Noigarh in Orissa. During this attack, the militants killed 13 policemen and fled with a huge cache of arms, including AK-47s and light machine-guns.
It is learnt that the Maoist agriculture ministry had taken complete control of forest products, the main source of livelihood of tribals. Even the prices of the "tendu patta" (tobacco leaves) are being fixed by Maoist leaders. "Private contractors have been paying a higher price for the leaves to the tribals than had been fixed by government contractors," the Maoist leader said.
The Maoist "judiciary" controls the kangaroo courts, where "justice" is delivered by self-styled Maoist "judges". "We let local people decide punishments for culprits," he said. The culture ministry teaches children revolutionary songs, such as "Take the bow and arrow, and axe and finish the imperialist government."
The Maoists claim to have set up at least 100 primary schools, from kindergarten to Class 5. Besides Mangal Pandey, children are also taught about "Babu Rao Sarmek" a tribal hero who rose against the British during the 1857 uprising. The children are also trained in armed combat by the Maoist-controlled "Adivasi Bal Sangathan (tribal children forum)." In history class they are taught that "Gandhi and Nehru had misled people" and that "true patriots are Maoists."
A state committee member said the Gonds, the dominant tribe in Chhattisgarh, are being told that they were named "gond" by the government since they "ate cow meat." Tribals living in Abujhmar are told that since the government considered them "idiots (abhuj)", the region is called "the land of idiots."

(The article is published in Asian Age on 31 May, 2008)

2008-03-28T21:39:00.000-07:00

Sanjay Basak interviewing the second-in-command in the Central Committee of the Maoists, Comrade Sonu....(top)
Maoists...our guides in the jungles of Chhattisgarh
Training camp..somewhere in Chhattisgarh (Pix by Ranjan Basu, photo editor, The Sunday Indian)

Inside the Maoist World (The Sunday Indian)
As the weak rays of the red sun struggled to break through the dense mist on a frosty wintermorning, we saw her for the first time. Clad in a green uniform, with a .303 rifle firmly gripped in her left hand, she was leaning against the door post. The comrade, a soldier in the band of dreaded Maoists, was supervising the preparation of our breakfast, “Poha” (a mixture of beaten rice and peanuts).” The day before, travelling in a Bolero, on that isolated stretch of Pakhanjur Road, notorious for the IED blasts carried out by the Maoists at regular intervals, we were heading for a village in the Kanker district of Chhattisgarh. Around 9 pm, after driving for nearly seven hours, racing past several fortified police stations, the vehicle stopped at a lonely stretch. As we sat inside the vehicle in pitch darkness, we saw a figure stepping out from behind the bushes. The man got inside the jeep and led us to the village, from where we began our journey into the land, lorded and controlled by the soldiers in green. In the region, while Maoist men are called dadas (elder brother), women comrades are referred to as didi (sister). At another isolated spot, with our baggage on our backs, we were shifted to motorcycles. The bikes raced through the uneven muddy tracks, prickly bushes, manoeuvred through the rows of tall sal trees. The ride came to a halt when we approached a river. In that all-engulfing darkness, we took off our shoes and waded through knee-deep water to cross over to the other side. Across the river, all trappings of civilisation simply disappeared. We were brought in front of a hut. “Yahaan electricity nahin hai (there is no electricity here),” our guide said. For the next 10 days, as we moved from one village to another, we found even 60 years after Independence, the region lacked basic amenities like “bijli, sadak, paani (eletricity, road and water).” Also, the Maoists need the cover of darkness to survive and carry out their lethal operations, which is why they choose such locations. Inside, in the courtyard of the hut, two men warming themselves in the chill had huddled around a bonfire. Suddenly we heard a voice from behind. “Lal Salam.” We turned around. In that glow of the flickering flames we saw a woman, sporting a shirt and trousers, clutching a self-loading rifle (SLR). She extended her right arm. “Lal Salam comrades,” she smiled. We repeated, Lal Salam, after her and followed her gesture to raise our fist for that red salute. She introduced herself as a member of the Divisional Military Commission (DVMC). Enquiring about our trip, she asked us to take rest for the night. It was already close to midnight. As we were being led into a room, we noticed two boys in green with rifles, standing at the entrance of the hut. “So jayie, kal apko pahunchna hain. Abh raat ho gayi. (Sleep. Tomorrow you all will have to reach a place. It’s late now).” Having no clue of our final destination and the journey ahead, I said: “Hum abhi bhi chal sakte hain. Agar apko takleef na ho to (We can go now, if you do not have any problem).” She smiled again and repeated: “So jaiye (Go to sleep),” and quietly left the room.

In the wee hours of the morning a man, wearing a black shirt, khaki trousers, with an AK-47 woke us up. He introduced himself as Ramu (name changed), a member of the DVMC. He informed that after tea and breakfast, some comrades would lead us to another village. “Where are we going, what’s the programme?” I wanted to know. “Pata nahin, aapko comrade log bata denge (No idea. Some comrades will tell you),” he feigned ignorance. Later during the course of the journey, we realised that the comrades never let you know their programme in advance. It was then, for the first time, we met comrade Revati (name changed), who would lead us for the next six days; she was at the time making our breakfast. As we were about to leave, Ramu politely cautioned us against taking any picture of the comrades without clearance from the high command – the Central Committee. He indicated that there was a “possibility” of meeting some members of the Central Committee (CC), the highest policy making body of the CPI (Maoist).On February 5, around 6.30 am, in that foggy winter morning, led by Revati and three others, we began our long march. The next 10 days that we spent among the Maoists, we got to see the human face of these killing machines. After the usual “Lal Salam” ritual, Revati informed : “Teen ghante chalna hai (we have to walk for three hours).” In these inaccessible tough terrains of Dandakaranya, the Maoists do not calculate distances in kilometres. As per their rough estimations, one can walk 4 kms an hour in those tortuous terrains with deep forest cover, turbulent rivers and steep hills. “We calculate distances in hours and minutes. For us time and speed are of essence,” a senior member of said. A .303 rifle slung on her right shoulder, a chest belt with holsters carrying six grenades and 20 bullets, comrade Revati marched ahead, leading the team. Her satchel, with PLGA (People’s Liberation Guerilla Army) inscribed on it, carried the bare necessities. This included, two soap cakes (Lifebuoy and Rin), coconut oil, a towel, Vaseline (during winter), Dettol, a torch and a blanket. We were being led by two women (including Revati) and two boys. All of them were armed to the teeth. After an hour of walking through dirt tracks, we were gasping for breath. The luggage on our backs felt heavier with each step. As we dragged ourselves, the comrades, moved like panthers on the uneven tracks of the paddy fields and the forests, eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of the enemy. After nearly three hours of that strenuous trek, we reached the outskirts of a village, close to the forest. The Maoists often camp outside the villages and stay close to the forest. In the event of any attack by security forces, this vantage point gives them an opportunity to disappear into the jungles.

We were taken into a fenced area with a huge haystack in the middle of the field. A cot lay under a thatched roof. As we collapsed on the cot the comrades did not even bother to take a breather. While a woman soldier stood guard, Revati and two boys disappeared into the village. Whenever the Maoists camp near a village, the members of the village militia, the armed party members – whom they prefer to call Jan Militia (people's army) – provide them with foodstuff, including rice, vegetables, spices among other things. The group then sets up temporary base camps and cook up a "feast", in which members of the village militia and their families participate. The “ganjis” (utensils in Gondi, the tribal dialect) are also provided by the village militia.The band led by Revati then returned with the “ganjis” while some villagers followed them with the bags full of provisions. The comrades gathered firewood. Despite living in jungles, the sense of hygiene and cleanliness of the Maoists are remarkable. Immediately the comrades started scrubbing and cleaning the utensils and then they put water for boiling. “Chawal banayenge? (Cook rice now?)”, I asked. “Nahin pine ke liye (No for drinking),” she replied. These people do not drink water (either drawn from the running streams or bore-well) without boiling. The water from the bore-wells installed by the state government contain high quantities of iron and is one of the main causes of dysentery among villagers. Water-borne diseases like jaundice, Hepatitis A and B are rampant among the tribals. The Maoists have launched an awareness campaign among the villagers in this regard. After boiling the water, the soldiers strained the water and filled into the water bottles. Suddenly one of them spotted my colleague, who was reclining against the haystack. “Uth jayiye,(get up) ” the boy screamed. In that huge pile of haystack, the Maoists had concealed grenades, arms and other paraphernalia. This was the last time, we ever ventured near any haystack during our stay. The group then pulled out blue tarpaulin sheets from under the haystack and started cutting them into large pieces. On asking, they informed that the sheets were for sleeping. Stretched out on the cot, we told them not to bother, since were comfortable enough. Revati started laughing. “Rat mein sone ke liye. Chalna hain yahan se (These are for sleeping during the stay. We have to move),” she said. From that day onward, the “jhillis (tarpaulin sheets) became our bed rolls. As we mingled with these band of women guerillas, we sensed a strange blend of feminity and fierce determination to “liberate the people” and “wage the protracted war against imperialist forces.” Once we asked the purpose behind this “futile exercise and mindless game of death.”

Frowning, this indoctrinated cadre of the Maoists replied : "Samrajyabad ke khilaf ladna hai. Dushman ko marna hai. Marna hai (We have to fight against the imperialism. We have to kill the enemy. We have to die)”. The hands that scrubbed the utensils, cooked with care, swept the floors, could as easily kill and maim the enemy without a moment's hesitation. The 25-year-old, Revati an Area Commander (AC), is a lethal shot and an expert on explosive devices. The battle kit being carried by Revati contained multi-meters (for IED blasts) and a target board, apart from her .303 rifle. All the ammunition carried by the Maoists are either snatched from the security forces, or locally manufactured. Those who do not have guns carry bows and arrows. “They are more dangerous than guns. The arrows kill silently,” a soldier said. The arrows have left several dead or disabled in this war zone. “Khana khayenge (Want to eat)?” The food was ready. These Maoists started finding our small appetite quite amusing: “Bas? Is that all you eat?” Whenever we groaned in pain after hours of gruelling treks these “professional revolutionaries,” would blame it on low food intake. Their mantra for survival and walking tirelessly is: “Datke khao, datke chalo (Eat big, walk hard).” Barring the top commanders, all the recruits are between the age group of 15 and 25 years. There are also orphans (whose parents either died natural deaths or were killed in police encounters), move around with the Maoists. “We do not use them for our operations. We educate them,” claimed comrade Sonu, Central Committee member. The Maoist history taught to the children of the region eulogise the tribal freedom fighters, denigrate national leaders like Nehru and Gandhi. Their courses attack the Indian Communist parties like CPI(M) and CPI and call them “fascist forces.” For them the “Naxalites are true patriots.” One of the leading propaganda units of the Maoists is the “Chetna Natya Manch (CNM),” a dance drama troupe, that composes songs in praise of PLGA to counter the Salwa Judum, a government-sponsored movement to wean people away from the Maoists. After lunch, Revati informed, “Ab thoda aram karenge aur phir jayenge (We shall proceed after a short rest).” We were expected to start around 2.30 pm. The Maoists move in two phases during the day. They begin their first phase around 6.30 am in the morning (if not earlier) and walk till about 10 am. Then they begin the second movement, after 2.30 pm. This is mainly because they suspect that the main movement of the security forces is between 9.30 am to 2.30 pm. During the late afternoon, the police are generally hungry and tired, they claim. This is the time they prefer to move or attack, apart from the darkness of night.
After resting for nearly five hours, we took off. Revati carried a bag of rice on her head. As she marched on, crossed rivers, the bag stayed perfectly balanced on her head. After crossing a river, she asked us to hand over our luggage to the comrades. “Pahar chadna hain (We have to climb),” she pointed towards a cliff. Our sense of chivalry came in the way. “De dijiye (give them to us),” she insisted. “No, it's okay,” we were determined to carry the load ourselves. She smiled and began the climb. The climb was steep, the track was rocky and we had to push through dense bushes and trees. Within 15 minutes, we were completely frazzled. My colleague had virtually given up and lay sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily. “De diijye saman (give us the luggage),” she again said. Who cares for chivalry? Without a murmur of protest, we handed over our bags to the women. Everyday for the next 10 days, we walked at least seven hours a day. We reached a village around 7 pm and were taken to a ghotul (a cultural centre of the village). We found some members of the “jan militia” waiting for us. A fire was immediately lit inside the ghotul. Exhausted, we crashed out on the jhillis, spread out before the bonfire. As the pain started easing we heard them humming a tune. “What about a song ?” we asked. “Hindi gana nahin ata (Can’t sing Hindi songs),” Revati replied. Majority of the comrades sing only revolutionary songs composed by the CNM. After much persuasion, they agreed to sing a group song. It was an eulogy of a comrade, “Mantu dada,” killed during a raid against the security forces. In that dead of night, the lilting tune, “re re loye ra re re la,” floated across the jungles of Dandakaranya. Maoists are atheists. “We don’t believe in God. We believe in ourselves,” Revati said, while cutting up a papaya. They are also spreading the concept of atheism among tribals. For them religion is the cause of superstition. Earlier, instead of taking a malaria patient to a doctor, “the family members performed various rituals,” a member of the SMC said. The region, being a malaria-endemic zone, the Maoists move around with basic medicines like chloroquin and paracetamol tablets for the local tribals. They also carry vitamin injections for the ailing and the weak. To woo the villagers, these people also offer them clothes and blankets. Lack of blankets and bedsheets have resulted into deaths of many children in this region. Fire is lit near the beds to keep the sleeping babies warm. Stories of the tiny tots falling into the fire in their sleep and succumbing to the burns are common in this tribal land. It was in early 2000, a handful of Andhra Naxalites entered Chhattisgarh to extend their guerilla zone. “History is witness that the tribals of Bastar never allowed any outsider. Yet they have accepted the Andhra Maoists, there has to be a reason,” Sanjay Pachouri, a local scribe at Narayanpur observed.

Life here is tough. Death lurks in every corner. And death comes in various forms, if not by bullets, then by disease. Malaria has become a major cause of concern for the Maoist soldiers. A senior member of SMC, who could be promoted to the Central Committee and is popularly known as “Motu”, is a chronic malaria patient. “I get hit by malaria every 15 days. The infection is not going,” he said. These self styled revolutionaries cannot venture into the cities for a medical check-up. Most of the time they do self medication. Caution and constant vigil is another way of survival. Icy winds cut through our bones as we spend sleepless nights in the jungles, listening to the constant and heavy sound of dew drops falling on the makeshift tent, the boys and girls fan out for the night vigil –“sentry duty.” Every one and a half hour there is change of guard. Braving the chill, drenched by the thick fall of dew drops, from the leaves of the tall sal trees, they melt into the cover of darkness and are ready to shoot at the slightest stir. Lack of infrastructure has not been able to weaken the network of these Maoists. Instead, it works to their advantage. “Mobile or satellite phones can be intercepted by the security forces, but you cannot intercept a human network,” a commander told us. This is one reason why development activities have come to a halt in the Maoist dominated areas. They do not allow building of roads and foil attempts to set up any communication network. Information is passed through letters delivered on foot. The messages are also carried across from one village to another by the sound of drums. In the jungle, the Maoists also signal by mimicking calls of various birds. Moreover, in this impenetrable forest, the security forces are alien to the terrain. Often, deep inside the forest, we would come to a point with at least four different tracks. Never once did our guides lose their way. The Maoists refrain from alcohol; only a very few smoke. These Maoists have also launched an anti-alcohol drive in the villages. Tribal men are heavy drinkers of Mahua, the local brew, and by the afternoon they are usually drunk. While they drink and focus on cock fights, their favourite pastime, women have to work doubly hard, balancing household chores with economic activities like collecting forest products and selling them in the local market. “There is also major gender bias among the tribals,” a comrade revealed. “It is mainly because of these reasons, a large number of women are joining us,” he claimed. He argued that the party affirms equal dignity for women. “Moreover, joining the party gives some meaning to their life,” he maintained. Forty per cent of PLGA soldiers are women.
The party completely controls the lives of their comrades. Cadres cannot marry without permission or outside the party, unless the person is already married before joining the outfit. The party does not encourage soldiers to have children. The Area Commander, Revati, is married. Her husband is also in the PLGA. “We meet maybe once a year. We both have work to do,” she said. And children ? “Nahin, paristhiti theek nahin hai (No. The situation is not right for children),” she said. I asked a senior member whether he ever missed his wife, who is a DVCM in the party. “Yes," he replied with a sigh, "I do,” and then quickly regained control. “These are distractions. We both have work to do,” he said. The general secretary of the CPI(Maoist), Ganapathy’s wife is reported to be an Area Commander, operating somewhere in Andhra Pradesh. If the party is against its cadre having children, it is encouraging childbirth among the tribals. Jaggu dada, a DVCM member revealed that the tribal population in the region was rapidly going down. The party is now exhorting tribals to have at least three children. Incidentally, these children of the tribals are the future soldiers of the party. On the fifth day, Revati’s information that we might have to stay put in that village for at least two days, since she had no further communication started bothering us. We still had not met any Central Committee member and had no clue of our final destination. As we were lying down after lunch, Revati was engrossed in reading party literature. These activists also move around with a transistor. They are avid listeners of BBC Hindi news; Chhattisgarh News in the evening is a must for all of them. “This is the most important link with the outside world," a party member said. Old Hindi newspapers are carried to the comrades in the forest by the carriers. They pounce on these old dailies like a pack of hungry wolves. There is also an effort among the young Maoist cadres to educate themselves. Most of the soldiers we met were school dropouts.
On the fifth day, as we wondered vacantly about our next movement with Revati refusing to share any information, suddenly we found her jumping to her feet. We spotted a huge platoon of Maoist soldiers led by a man in a kurta and jeans, carrying a sten gun. All the four comrades, leading us rushed to him and stood in rapt attention. The man came in and summoned all the soldiers for a roll call. Only then he approached us and introduced himself as comrade Sonu, a top ranking member of the Central Committee. He informed that we would be taken to a spot, where the Maoists plan to observe Bhumkal divas (the day when the tribals rose in rebellion against the British). We then realised that Revati had complete information all along, but deliberately kept us in the dark for reasons of “security of the senior comrade.”Day Six. None of us had bathed or changed clothes. There was no provision to enjoy this basic human pleasure. The soldiers, constantly on the move, follow the same routine. As for clothing, the soldiers are given two sets of uniform and a green pullover for a one and half years. They carry a sewing kit to mend the torn portions, since they are perpetually dressed in battle fatigue. On the seventh day we came across an SMC member, comrade, Pandu dada. A former PWG member from Andhra Pradesh, he has been operating in Chhattisgarh for the last 20 years. As we moved towards the venue of the “Bhumkal celebrations,” we saw hordes of villagers, including women and children, carrying muskets, axes, guns and bows and arrows rushing towards the function. The strong support base created by the Maoists among the tribals was evident. It was Revati’s turn to leave. “Handing over” the TSI team to Pandu dada she came to bid farewell. “Hum jayenge, (I will leave)”, she extended her right hand for a handshake and with swift gesture raised her fist for the final “Lal Salam." This soldier of Mao then melted into the crowd of villagers and armed comrades.
The journey from here onwards became perilious. We now moved into the Dantewara region. The number of soldiers accompanying us had also increased. We were moving towards an undisclosed location, to meet villagers, who fled from the Salwa Judum camps. Leading us now was a , stengun-toting, cautious senior member of the State Military Commission, Shyam dada. This commander, preferred jungles to the outskirts of villages. The nights inside the forest were eerie. The strange silence of the jungle was occasionally disturbed by the croaking of frogs and the rhythmic chorus of the crickets. Hundreds of fireflies, which lit up the area, disappeared one by one, as the temperature fell rapidly. Sleep was impossible, as the chill rose from the ground. The darkness and forest cover, so coveted by the Maoists, had started getting to us. We were visibly jumpy and would startle at routine sounds like when people broke off branches from a tree in the deep forests. From a distance these sounded like gunshots to us. The pressures were telling on us.

It was the last day of our journey. Since we would be approaching a village close to the highway, a complete platoon, with 27 members, escorted us. Around 8 pm, we reached the outskirts of the village. Two motorcycles were waiting to take us to a hut in a village near the highway. On reaching the hut we saw an electric lightbulb after 10 whole days. “Light!” we screamed. There were two cots, one with dirty and soiled quilts. I wrapped the muffler on my face and simply crashed out under that quilt. Around 4 am, a man with a blanket wrapped all over, came to escort us to the bus. In that pitch dark as we followed him we heard the furious noise of the turbulent Indravati river. My colleague had a small torch, which was hardly of any use in darkness so thick. As we approached the river, suddenly the man asked us to take off our shoes. “What do you mean?” we almost screamed. “Where is the bridge?” we demanded. “It's there, its middle section is a bit submerged, but we can still walk over it,” he replied with no trace of agitation in his voice. You could see nothing. The sound of gushing water was fearsome. “Follow my footsteps,” he firmly said. “Keep that damn light of the torch on his feet,” I told my colleague as, I held on to our escort with shoes in one hand. The chain moved slowly. Suddenly the man moved on to the edge of that so-called bridge. “The middle section is broken,” he cautioned us. Cursing under our breath, we moved on. Those 10 minutes were the longest of our lives. I looked outside the window of the speeding bus. The sun was rising from behind the mountains dotted with dense impregnable forest. I could still see the soldiers in the green, walking in that “single-line formation,” marching forward, to carry on with their "revolution". They wait for history to judge them.

2008-01-08T01:42:00.000-08:00

Pablo Picasso's Guitar

Those were the days my friend…

The reptile did not move. It was trying to hide behind those tall grasses. One could only see its head, somewhat propped up. Bapi, my cousin, slowly picked up a stone, a heavy one. Swiftly. In the blink of an eye, the missile traveled at a furious speed, towards the garden lizard.
Thwat !!! the head of the little dragon had split open. “Phatiye diyechish (bravo, you really did it),” we all jumped up, clapping our hands. Dilip, our friend dashed towards the bush and picked up the dead lizard by its tail. He then tossed it up high on the air. The lifeless body of the bloodied reptile hurtled down and lay motionless on the ground.
The hunter, Bapi with his hands on his waist, stood smilingly. He was our Orion for the day. Led by him, we moved on. On that bright shining hot morning, this was just the beginning of our royal hunt. Moral compass ? At that age, we did not have any.
I was in class VII and had come to spend my summer vacations in Durgapur, an industrial belt in West Bengal. Coming to Durgapur during my summer vacation was a must for me. Bapi, a year senior to me was my closest ally. My cousin, my friend.
Till lunch time, we chased lizards all over the red soil in the MAMC township. My uncle, used to work in the Mining and Allied Machinery Corporation, which later became a sick industry and still limping to survive. We took our aims, including our Orion, but the lizards managed to escape the charge of the light brigade.
Tired, we decided to play the war game. While me and Bapi were on one side, Dilip and another boy (I don’t recall his name), were our rivals. Bangaldesh war, still fresh on our minds, we decided to stage a war game between India and Pakistan. Since none of the team wanted to be on the loser’s side, the war ended before it could begun.
After lunch, it was time for cricket. All our friends had gathered and we split into seven- a-side team. This time, Bapi was my rival. His team had won the toss and decided to bat. I was to open the bowling attack and Bapi, the batting. Tossing the cork ball and taking that long run up, I charged. I was clobbered four a four. Seething I charged again. I pitched the ball on the leg stump. An in-cutter and before Bapi could remove himself away from the ball, the red cherry struck on his knee cap. “Shala” (bugger) he writhed in pain. “You did that on purpose,” he hissed. I did not even bother to look at him. I was avenged. To cut a long story short, at the end of the day, his team won the so called match. On our way back home, we did not speak to each other.
At night, Bapi and me went to bed. We used to share the same bed. After a while, he pulled at my shirt and said, “ekta joke shunbi” (Want to listen to a joke)”. I do not remember the joke. But I still remember, the way we laughed. We were friends again.
Barda (elder brother), another cousin of mine also used to live in Durgapur. Barda worked at BOGL, a glass factory, another PSU which eventually turned sick. Barda’s cycle, on which he used to go to work, was a major draw. Whenever we could, (me and Bapi) would take the cycle and ride on the long lonely stretches of Durgapur.
I remember, when I was in class IV (we used to live in Kolkata then), during summer vacations, Bapi used to come to our house. Those days, most of the Bengali houses had something called “chaubaccha (a cement tank for hoarding water to bathe).” Both Bapi and me would often sneak into the bathroom and get inside the tank. The game was to find out how long can one go on jumping inside the tank. One day, it was Bapi’s turn to take the plunge. After the first jump, he just could not move. We both panicked. “Is there a snake coiled around your feet,” I was scared. For Bapi and scared of getting caught. What if our parents found out ? I tried pulling him out, but, he just could not move. And before I could realise, Bapi was howling. “More jabo re, ami more jabo. Shap joriye dhoreche (I am dying. There’s a snake)”. Hearing the screams, our parents rushed. They just could not believe it. “What the hell are you doing ?” my mother screamed. “Well, Bapi, fell into the tank and is not being able to get out ,” a bad lie. The tank was merely upto our waist, so there was no question of anybody falling into it. It was found that Bapi had somewhat managed to get his feet into an weird angle and got himself trapped into that narrow “chaubachcha” . Finally a huge hammer was brought and the tank was smashed to get him out. Somehow, our parents had taken a pity on their children shivering with fright. One of those lucky days when we managed to escape a thrashing.
I remember the times, when both of us with that three rupee worth stringed musical wooden instrument, dotara tried to play all kind of tunes, like that man selling it along with other toys No, we never got the tunes right. And those black crocodiles made of paper, we dragged them all over, and those colourful whistles, we kept blowing till our parents blew their top.
Time marched on and so did we. Durgapur, the chaubachcha, the lizard, the dotara faded away.
Today, while going to work, the Anjan Dutta song—“shunte ki chao tumi…khuje pete chao ki shei anchan kora dupur, phire pete chao ki shei khelnawala take, tar khelna dotara she bajachhe kobe theke (do you want to listen to that old haunting music, do you want to get back that afternoon, the afternoon, when the man in your lane played that dotara, today somewhere in some memory lane he is still playing that same old tune…) playing on the car stereo, somehow brought back the memories.
These days, when I am in Kolkata, me and Bapi meet at Press Club, over drinks, we laugh about our graying hairline, we laugh about the girl, we spotted near a stream in Durgapur and fell in love instantly. Bapi would often go back to the stream, to get a glimpse of her, but like our childhood, she never ever returned….

And the war wages on.............

2008-01-02T04:48:00.000-08:00

Police burning a martyr's column of a slain maoist, Raju

school buildings in remote chhattisgarh village, demolished by he Maoists..

These are some of the pictures of my journey into darkness.. (Pix by Ranjan Basu, photo editor, The Sunday Indian)

Below...my journey into the land of darkness

Life here is cheap and death comes easy...

2007-12-22T01:28:00.000-08:00

on my trip to the jungles of Chhattisgarh along with a local police officer... (Pix by Ranjan Basu, photo editor, The Sunday Indian)

“Heaven is a forest of miles and miles of mohua trees, and hell is a forest of miles and miles of mohua trees…”

The dry season made it impossible to tread silently in the jungle. As we walked around restively, we trampled upon dead leaves. They let off a wave of loud crunching noises. Surrounded by five armed policemen, including three special police officers (SPOs-former Maoists), we were made to wait in the bushes in the forest touching Barga village in north Bastar, a Maoist-infested belt in Chhattisgarh, a region where death is a silent, invisible stalker.

“Awaz kyun kar rahan hain, (Why are you making that noise),” hissed the Dhanera police station havildar from a perch behind a huge rock, his AK-46 in an assault mode. The object of his indignation was a gun-totting SPO, who dared to walk away from his assigned position. The only sound piercing that deathly silence was the gentle ruffle of the leaves of the tall sal trees.

Led by Ajit Ogre, in-charge of Dhanera police station, the other members of the team quietly disappeared into the forest to try and nab some Maoist members of Barga Dalam (Dalam is a village unit of the Maoists) who were reportedly camping on the outskirts of the village. Half an hour later, Ogre led the team back. Getting whiff of the impending raid, the Maoists had fled.

Early in the morning, the 14-member police team had rushed in seven motorcycles to trap the Maoists in Barga village, nearly 25 kilometers from the police station. The journey on the motorcycles and on the muddy, uneven tracks between the thorny bushes was fast and furious. In that convoy, it was everyone’s responsibility to ensure that they were checking front and back for that deceptive enemy. One had to speed over the narrow streams, since any slowing down could make the police personnel a sitting target for the Maoists, who could be anywhere, anytime. The team working in these Maoist-dominated belts has to rely on speed and stealth. So do their enemy.
“From here begins their territory,” SI Sahu, a havildar announced after crossing the Mokabera river. A few weeks back, the Maoists had successfully ambushed a police team while it was trying to cross the river. “They also have the support of the villagers,” an SPO revealed. North Bastar is being controlled by Sujata, a CPI (Maoist) leader from adjacent Andhra Pradesh. Sujata remains faceless for the police even today.
Despite crores being pumped into the state in the name of an anti-insurgency drive, the Maoists continue to grow rapidly.

Some areas in south Bastar have been declared “liberated zones” by the ultra-Reds. The roads and even the highways, which have been declared “dangerous” (owing to regular IED blasts) in Bastar region include the 22-km stretch from Bijapur to Gangalur, the 66-km stretch from Narayanpur to Orcha, National Highway-22 (Sukma to Konta, 80 kms) and NH-43 (Bijapur to Bhupalpatnam).

Development agencies do not dare to venture into these areas. Weak policing, inaccessible, hostile terrains and the tough topography of the region have made it difficult for the security forces to track down the enemy, trained in guerilla warfare. It’s a “malaria endemic zone” and there are reports that a number of personnel from the elite Naga battalion have succumbed to lethal mosquito bites in the jungles of Bastar.

As we left the Barga village after that futile raid, the motorcycle posse suddenly spotted a huge wooden martyr’s column erected in an open field at Kongur village in the memory of a slain comrade, Raju. When the policemen failed to kick down the column, they poured petrol on it and set it on fire. As the flames rose high, the armed riders sped off, leaving behind a blazing track.

Maoists have traditionally been against the existing education system. They have their own mobile schools, telling the tribal children about the so-called “class enemies” and “how to counter them”. The reds’ hatred for the educational system was evident when one spotted rows of primary and higher secondary schools completely razed to the ground in the remote village of Kongur in north Bastar.

The children now pursue academics in shacks. The other reason for demolishing the structures was to prevent the security forces from camping there during any heightened activities against Maoists. For decades (even before creation of Chhattisgarh), this part of India had been reeling under Naxalite violence. The main reason for the rapid growth of Maoists in Chattisgarh (nestled between Andhra Pradesh and Orissa—two Naxalite-dominated states) has been grinding poverty, government’s neglect, lack of development and illiteracy. Neither the government nor any development agencies took steps to reach the inaccessible terrains where the tribals live.

Life here is cheap. Death is not merely due to police or Naxalite killings, in these remote areas, death also comes in the forms blood dysentery and malaria and other water-borne disease.

With the help of an NGO, Disha, operating in the remote areas in Kanker, we then reached a forest village, called Semar. The hand pumps set up by the state government in this poverty-stricken village haven’t worked for years. Those that are still working have been abandoned because of the high iron content in the water.

Amidst slush, grime, silt and floating nightsoil, the villagers dig deep down for potable water. This source of water connects to the grime lying around and is a breeding ground for mosquitoes. Unfazed, Netam, a 16-year-old boy, took some water from the hole to clean his utensils and as he quenched his thirst, I clung to my only bottle of mineral waterfor dear life. Without it, we couldn’t have continued the journey into darkness.

2007-11-28T03:34:00.000-08:00

Broken wings (A Poem)

A drop of blood trickled down my eyes,
tears i thought.
I put the glass of whiskey on the table,
stub the cigarette butts in that skull shaped ashtray,
overflowing with ashes and stale ends of the burnt out sticks.
I look at my brown nails, feel the nicotine patches on my lungs.
The twilight filters through the broken glasses of my window,
two moths, resting on the orange lamp shade, fly away, disturbed
by that smoker's cough once again.
Blood from my mouth, from nostrils
gush out.
I get up, grip that old godrej almirah,
rusting in one corner of the room.
Then I see her, or I don't ?
Some faded images, float around.
A lizard falls down, dead.
Broken wings of a butterfly, still stuck to its mouth.

My Kolkata

2007-10-17T08:26:00.000-07:00

This was the city, where I was born. The city, where I learnt to walk and then run, clinging to my father. We both ran for our lives. Don’t remember the year. It was those violent and turbulent 60s.

I was small and had gone to a Durga puja pandal with my father. Suddenly, there were shouts, screams, and before I could realize what was happening, my father pulled me and started running. Everybody was running. From what I didn’t know. Only thing I knew that I had to run. Sensing, my steps were too small to flee from the danger closing in, he picked me up and kept running. Then he slipped and fell. He threw his body over me, to save from a near stampede, which could probably have crushed me to death.

It was over as suddenly as it had began. I remember, when we reached home, my father’s hands were bleeding profusely. I still can remember the sight of blood, dropping from his hands and blood on my shirt. It took sometime, before he could recover. Later I was told that that a group from another locality had attacked our area and were hurling bombs (called "peto" in bong slang) and soda bottles. In Kolkata, clashes between two groups in the mid 60s (this was also the time when naxalism began taking roots) had become a ritual. Kolkatans learnt to live with it.

Today I again stand before him. He can barely see. His can barely move. Those hands, once saved me from being crushed to death, can scarcely hold a glass. My mother-- I used to be so scared of her, can barely shout. My brother-- After his birth, when the nurse was going to take him for a wash, she accidentally dropped him. He hurt his head. He is what the world calls-mentally retarded.

My Park Circus house, once used to an endless stream of visitors, have only three trembling shadows moving about. The ears, which can barely hear, wait eagerly for the door bell to ring. My father sits in the balcony, trying to read the morning newspaper with a magnifying glass and my mother waits for the maidservant to come, cook and to talk to her. My brother does not like watching television anymore. Life has slipped him by. He looks around, when children play and people go to office. He comes in and sits down.

Life is passing me by too. My job, my struggle to survive, chasing a better life has finally taken its toll. In the race, I realize there is nothing much that I could gain. Neither I could breast the tape, nor could I get out of the track. I simply ran in the middle.

In the 70s, hounded by the naxalites, our family fled to Delhi. My father had refused to pay up the naxalites and they struck back by burning down his showroom-“Carpentry and Colour House.” My father had a furniture business, which once did well. He was a Leftist, supporter of Revolutionary Socialist Party. I still remember the day, when in 1967, the Left parties (then called Juktafront-now its called bam(left)front) came to power in Bengal. It was one summer afternoon, my father rushed in beaming.

“Juktafront jite gechche (United Front has won),” he shouted. “Lets go”, he asked me to dress up and then tied a red handkerchief round my collar and a red band on my wrist. I was his little Marxist. The taxi took us to Brigade Parade Ground. I had no clue to what was happening. I was happy because my father was. But the sudden roar of “Inqalab Zindabad” scared me. Say “Lal salam” my father put me up on his shoulders. I raised my fist and screamed, “inqalab zindabad.” As the red sun went behind that huge podium, flaming torches, thousands of them, lit up the approaching darkness. The reds had come to Bengal.

“Can you do something for my freedom fighters’ pension,” my father these days asks me in a shaky voice. He was in jail with the then RSP chief and the man who had contested Presidential poll, Tridib Chaudhury. I have not been able do anything, nor I think I can ever do anything. It’s the Marxists government, (for which he once dragged me to Maidan) sitting on his files. I know, he needs the money. And I know I cannot do anything. I send him, whatever I can.
But, I know, the man, who once stood tall, gave his children the best possible life and often said, “This head would never bow before anyone, I will never ask for a favour,” bleeds slowly.

Often the feeling of not being able to do anything, gnaws you. It gnaws you slowly. Steadilty. Sometime, I see myself bleeding. Only I can see the blood. I put my hand into it. No my hands do not turn red. Just pale.

LEFT TO THE WOLVES

2007-07-24T06:52:00.000-07:00

February 2, 1995. Ashok Kumar was about to board the train at Chakmaru Station in Pakistan. His destination was Lahore from where he would cross over to India. Suddenly, two Pakistani rangers, appeared from nowhere and accosted him. “Why is there mud on your shoes?” the probing eyes of the rangers sought to know. “Sukumal gaon se ayah hun (I have come from Sukumal village).” Ashok replied. “What’s your father’s name, what do you do, what about your family, wife and children,” the barrage of questions did not stop. “Come to the rest room,” the rangers ordered.Inside, Ashok was made to take-off his pathani suit and his undergarments. The game was up. Ashok, spying for the Indian security forces since 1989 was caught. For the next eight years, this man would go through a nightmarish journey of terror and torture. The TSI team located Ashok and others from Dadwan and Kang villages in Punjab, who risked their lives for the nation, only to be left in the lurch, after being caught by the Pakistani forces.Dadwan, which falls under the Gurudaspur Lok Sabha Constituency, is known as “Jasuson ka gaon (Village of spies).” Poverty, unemployment and agrarian crisis force the men of these bordering villages to work as spies for India. They are recruited by the Border Security Force and once trained, are handed over to the Army. After further training they are pushed across the border. The mission is to get strategic information and location of Pakistani armed units, camps and forces. These rag-tag James Bonds are paid between Rs 2,000-Rs 6,000 per month – the price fixed for being a martyr. The car stops near the serpentine lanes and by-lanes of Dadwan, a christian dominated village. The car stops near the serpentine lanes and by-lanes of Dadwan, a christian dominated village. Parveen is washing clothes in the courtyard. It takes some time to win over her confidence, considering her suspicion that the TSI team may be actually from the Research and Analysis Wing (RAW) or Intelligence Bureau (IB). “My cousin, who stays next door, worked as a spy. He has been in Pakistan jail for over eight years. Repeated representation to the Army officials, politicians and ministers evoked no result. The Army has disowned him,” gritting her teeth, she squeezes the drenched clothes with full force. Parveen calls 16-year-old Lucky from the next house. Lucky’s father, David, working as an Indian spy, is languishing in Pakistani jail for over eight years. The boy unscrolls a crumpled letter from Central Jail, Gujranwala, Block No. 5 B, Pakistan. The last line shows the agony of the Indian, left to the enemy wolves by his masters. “Panchhi uda, ja baitha bahut door. Milne ko dil bahut karta hai, nahin milne deti taqdir (The bird flew away. Sat on a distant branch. It wants to meet you all. But the fate prevents him), Lucky read out the letter. “I am told I could be released soon. No idea. How is Lucky and other children? Give them my love. Have faith in God, he would find a way out,” David had written. To feed the family, Lucky’s mother works as a maidservant.We cross over to the house of David’s brother, Paul, another spy, languishing in a Pakistani jail. Three little girls, Jyoti, Rahi, Najra, are huddled together on the roof in front of a tiny bonfire. “Mummy kaam karne gayi hain (mother has gone for work)” 10-year-old Jyoti, oldest among them, smiles. It is the same old story. After Paul’s arrest, their mother has been forced to work as a maidservant. None of the children go to school. From their rooftop, these three little girls watch children playing on the school ground, being run by the local church. “Pachas rupeey lete hain. Mummy kahti hai, paise nahin hain (They charge a fee of Rs 50. Mummy says we have no money),” Jyoti grins again.
Sitting in the South Bloc, with an electric heater gently warming the room, an Indian Army official, refusing to be identified, laments on the plight of the prisoners in Pakistani jail. “It is sad, I know,” he nods his head vigorously. “But we are in touch and taking necessary steps,” he said. “Most of them cross over for smuggling. Army has nothing to do with them,” he scoffs. “I told them I am a smuggler. That was the only way out,” Ashok said. After being picked up from the Railway Station, Ashok was shifted to a Sialkot Jail. “They kept torturing me and I was subjected to 13 months of solitary confinement,” Ashok narrated. He was again moved to Gujranwala Jail where he was kept for nearly three years. ”Kutton ko jo khana deten hain, wo hamen milta tha (They gave us food served to dogs),” he recounted. Every six months, Ashok was put up before the Federal Review Board, chaired by three judges and Intelligence officials. “I stuck to my smuggling story. Never admitted that I worked for Indian intelligence.” He was released on 21 August, 2002 and handed over to Punjab Police Station. But, his miseries were far from over. “Punjab police refused to believe that I worked for Indian Army,” Ashok went on. The police wanted Ashok to confess that he was a militant, trained in Pakistan. He refused to toe the line. Charged for crossing the border without a valid passport, he was prisoned for nearly one and a half year. “Till date, the case is going on,” Ashok, who is now out on bail said. The Army has completely disowned him. Ashok is now working as a coolie in a vegetable market near Dadwan village; his misery continues...Like Ashok, there are Pakistanis languishing in Indian jails. They too had been lured and then deserted at the time of crisis. So much for Indo-Pak bonhomie, talks of confidence building measures and people to people contact. Clinking goblets under those dazzling lights, these gallant rulers are engrossed in larger issues and peace talks. But for those hundreds rotting behind the bars, the war is still going on.
Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can. Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying. It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.Q) But what is the government doing for them ?When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can.

Interview

Vinod Khanna, BJP MP from Gurdaspur constiuency talks to TSI : Q) A large number of people from Dadwan village, which falls under your constituency, are languishing in Pakistani jails for years. They were recruited by the Army and Indian Intelligence for spying.

A) It’s my constituency. I am really concerned. I am doing whatever possible for the people.

Q) But what is the government doing for them ?

A) When I was Minister of State for External Affairs, I had taken up the issue with Pakistan. It’s not that we did not try to do anything. But then, there had been not much positive response from the other side. You know, how it is.

Q) What about compensations for those have who returned. Any move to rehabilitate them ?

A)It is a problem. But in my constituency, I am doing whatever I can.

The Last Soldiers of Mao

2007-07-24T04:04:00.000-07:00

February 19 2007. Deep inside the jungles of Jharkhand bordering Orissa, one hundred delegates, comprising the core of the Maoist leadership in India had gathered. The event was the much awaited 9th Congress of the CPI(Maoist). A protective umbrella was thrown around by the armed People’s Liberation Guerilla Army(PLGA). Several sentry posts were put up inside the thick forest to keep a constant vigil. Patrolling teams formed by the comrades of the Central Military commune, called CM-KC commune, continuously scoured the area for any slightest sign of enemy movement and the villages surrounding the forest had been asked to act as “eyes and ears of the Party.” For any trespasser or any suspicious character, the order was :”Shoot to Kill.”
According to a document in possession of the TSI, homage was paid to two “martyrs”, comrade Chandramouli alias Naveen and his wife, a divisional committee member, Karuna, who were “arrested tortured and murdered” by the police. The document, while speaking about the meeting stated: “ All the guerilla zone areas were placed under the intelligence scanner with special surveillance on unusual movements in and around these zones.” The Congress was inaugurated by that elusive, dreaded commander, carrying a reward of Rs 50 lakhs on his head and whom none had seen so far. He was the CPI(Maoist) general secretary, Ganapathy. The Congress justified killing of the class enemies across the state including the brutal murder of JMM MP, Sunil Mahato. The meeting exhorted the comrades to “come forward to support the ongoing people’s war and free the society from the chains of imperialism and semi feudal bondage.”
And on July 10, 2007, inside the deep, dense forest of Chhattisgarh, the red band of Maoists trapped 115 policemen. “As we moved deeper into the woods, the Maoist guerillas suddenly started firing in the air. We all panicked.”, a policemen, who managed to escape, narrated. “There was an immediate silence. Only the sounds of our footsteps disturbed the silence,” he went on. “And then suddenly they attacked us with mortars and AK-47. Those who knew the terrain managed to flee, others were trapped,” the policeman told his tale. Fighting against the so called “class enemies” (read: rich landlords, bureaucrats and politicians), the Maoist disfigured the faces of the dead policemen with axe blows and stripped the corpses of shoes and socks (for their use in the jungle). The encounter left at least 24 policemen dead.
Forty eight hours later, they struck again by blowing up a TV transmission centre in Vizag. And on the same day, the Maoists called a bandh in Malkangiri in Orissa in protest against the killings of some comrades.
Over the years, the challenge thrown up by the red-ultras has taken a menacing shape. In the red corridor formed across the broad swathe in southern, central and eastern part of the country, this well organized extremist force have acquired the muscle to paralyse the state and its economic system. Flash strikes, bandhs, armed attacks, killings, destruction of the communication and transport network, jail breaks have become a regular feature in the Maoist infested states like, Andhra Pradesh, Orissa, Bihar, Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand and Madhya Pradesh and Maharashtra.
Between 2002 to 2006, over 3000 people have been killed in the Naxalite-government conflicts in Andhra Pradesh. And this was the state, where the Congress sought the support of the red-ultras to come to power during the 2004 assembly elections. Following the breakdown of the peace process between the then People’s War Group, which later merged with MCCI to form CPI(Maoists), the killings resumed.
The uprising in Naxalbari, which began with the call-“land for the tillers”in 1967, continue to flourish amidst the alienated population, particularly in the tribal belts. Some of the NGOs, operating in Chhattisgarh claimed that the “poor tribals are often at the receiving end of both the police and the Maoists.” However, they argued that tribals “hit by the government apathy are also easy recruits for the extremist groups.”
For the past seven years, the tribal dominated Malkanagiri district in Orissa has continued to reel under the red-terror. Nearly 43 per cent of the total number of cases have been reported from this area alone. There had been over 230 attacks by the Left wing ultras in this particular area. Other naxalite infested zones are Raygada, Gajapati, Sambalpur and Koraput. Speaking to TSI, the director general of Orissa police, Amarananda Pattnaik said: “Combing operations have been intensified, there has also been a massive deployment of Special Operation Group (SOG).” Speculation is rife that the Maoists plan to establish a corridor linking Nepal, the northern states and the southern region through Orissa.
Though the Maoist rebels are concentrating their combat operations in Andhra Pradesh, Orissa, Jharkhand and Chhattisgarh, they are also making inroads into the states like Kerala, West Bengal, Karnataka and Tamil Nadu.
The declaration of "self-rule" in Muthanga forest by Adivasi Gothramaha Sabha, a tribal outfit in Kerala, is a case in point. The outfit entered the Muthanga forest on 19 February 2003 and declared 'self-rule' in the area. According to the tribal leaders, they were forced to the stand owing to the “step motherly” attitude of the Kerala government. The rebellion was crushed by the state administration and the area was reclaimed. However, Jacob Punnoose, additional director general of police, (Intelligence) told the TSI that "there are no Naxalite activities in Kerala for the last five years. No organisation has any direct nexus with the national naxalite outfits.”
The Tamil Nadu police recently arrested three persons alleged to be Maoists. They were reportedly planning to set up a training camp in the state. The state’s 'Q' Branch also arrested one Sundaramoorthy, believed to be the state secretary of a Maoist committee. The additional director general of police, Tamil Nadu, Nanchil Kumaran, however maintained that the Maoists “are not getting public support in the state.” On July 10, five Maoists were gunned down by the Karnataka police in the forest area of the Western Ghats.
The controversial policy of Special Economic Zone (SEZ) has become the latest rallying point for the Maoists. The policy has helped the ultras infiltrate into West Bengal, (reeling under Nandigram and Singur violence) the birthplace of the movement.
Though the Prime Minister, Manmohan Singh has declared the Maoist threat as the “single biggest challenge to internal security,” there is however, no visible result of the Central or the state governments being able to curb the spread of the terror.
There has been no dearth of fund to tackle the growing menace. During 2006-07, a total amount of Rs.1065.25 crore was released to various state governments under the Modernization of State Police Forces (MPF) Scheme. This includes release of an additional amount of Rs.100 crore for purchase of equipment for fighting naxalism against the proposals received from the State Governments of Andhra Pradesh (Rs.15 crore), Bihar (Rs.15 crore), Chhatisgarh (Rs.24.75 crore), Jharkhand (Rs.15 crore), Maharashtra (Rs.6.75 crore), Orissa (Rs.15 crore) and West Bengal (Rs.8.50 crore). The Chhattisgarh government sponsored “Salwa Judum (peace march)” campaign have run into controversies. Allegations are rife that the government was rounding up tribals to turn them into armed vigilantes, against their wishes.
The success of the Maoists is the “lack of political will and a national strategy”, a senior intelligence official said. He pointed out that “there is neither a counter-Maoist operational grid nor a central intelligence network in the Maoist affected areas.” The capability of the Maoists to organize the daring Jehnabad jail break in Bihar and elimination of Rani Bodli post in Chhattisgarh are the “reflection of its military strength and motivation,” the official said. In addition, allegations and counter allegations among the Opposition parties continue to wreck havoc. The Minister of state for Home, Sri Prakash Jaisawal accused the Chhattisgarh government of “ not utilising the amount paid by the central government.” For him, the state BJP government “should learn” from Congress led Andhra Pradesh government . He went on to claim that the Chhattisgarh government has “also failed to accelerate the social upliftment programes.”
The experts claim that by 2010-15, nearly 30 to 35 per cent of India will be under the control of the red-ultras। There perhaps is still time for the governments to wake up from the slumber.

(this report first appeared in The Sunday Indian)