by Farahad Zama
“Sir,” came a shout. “Look at this.”
The inspector hurried over. Fragments of a mobile phone lay on the ground. He looked at them and sighed. “Pick up all the pieces carefully. We may get a fingerprint or two when we take them back to town.”
He called to some of his men and said to them, “Check the area methodically and see if you can find out which way the Naxalites have gone.” Clambering on to a large rock in the shade, he found the remnants of a meal. There was no doubt that they had been here and not that long ago. He whacked an overhanging branch with his service baton in frustration.
Inspector Verma was still young and wanted to get ahead in the service, unlike many of his colleagues who wanted only a safe posting in the commercial part of the city where they could get the maximum amount of bribes. People flung accusations at the police for beating prisoners to extract confessions, and for killing Naxalites and organised criminals by faking armed encounters. But, really, what choice did the service have? They were inadequately trained and woefully ill-equipped. And the number of policemen was nowhere sufficient for the task. There were less than one and a half policemen for every thousand people when the country probably needed double that. Moreover, policing was a state responsibility under the Indian constitution and the different states rarely coordinated their anti-Naxalite operations, allowing the insurgents to move from state to state when threatened.
Verma had volunteered for this mission even though it was dangerous. The rebels had better weapons than their own old service rifles. They also knew the jungles and the villagers much more intimately than the force.
The Naxalites cannot be far away, he thought. It had been only a few hours since the text message was sent and there were only dirt tracks to be seen. No vehicles could have taken their route; they must have been on foot. He watched his men poking under the rocks cautiously with the bamboo sticks, the lathis, they all carried, because Naxalites had been known to leave booby traps behind.
Everybody blamed the police, Verma thought, but nobody increased their salaries, reduced the hours they worked, or gave them better barracks and proper equipment. And anyway, what could the police do on their own? The whole system was a shambles; the courts were jammed, the politicians corrupt; the divide between the rich and poor was increasing day by day. The wonder was not that the country had problems, but that it ran at all.
A group of constables came towards him, dragging a young man with them. As they drew closer, he realised that their prisoner had a cleft palate. Great, he thought. We now have to interrogate somebody who can’t speak.
A constable propped the young man in front of the inspector, who could see that his men had already roughed him up. His right cheek bore the imprint of a lathi blow and his dusty old clothes appeared freshly torn. The inspector put on a stern face. “Did you see a group of people walking away from here?”
“Un ock we sea…sh. My owsh we be angsh.”
The inspector turned to his men. “Didn’t you find anybody else? How will this fool answer any questions?”
The young man started to weep, desperate to get away. He repeated what he had just said, “The flock will scatter. My owner will be angry.” The words were clear as they left his brain, but he could see that the police didn’t understand him. He pulled free from the man holding him and tried to flee. Before he had taken two steps, he was pulled to the ground. A couple of men held his arms and legs while another two beat his back with their lathis.
“Amma, amma,” shouted the poor boy, trying to roll away from his tormentors, but only his mother would have understood his cries.
The officer raised his hand and the thrashing stopped. He walked over to the young man and squatted in front of him.
The witness dropped his face to the ground but a constable pulled his head up by the hair. The inspector spoke slowly.
“Did you see the Naxalites leaving this place?”
The man nodded, against the pull on his hair.
“Good,” said the inspector. “Which way did they go?”
The man remained silent. The constable tugged on his hair, making his victim grimace in pain. Blinking, he tried to twist his head away.
The inspector nodded and stepped back. He signalled to his men, who set him free.
The goatherd scrambled up and pointed into the setting sun. “Axasite shas ay.”
The inspector, a clever man, was expert at interrogating prisoners who could not talk properly, usually after they had been processed by his men.
“Naxalites that way?” he said, looking in the direction of the man’s finger, towards the setting sun.
The man nodded.
Before the inspector could say anything further, the man waved his hands and made a bleating noise. “Meh…Meh…”
The inspector considered him for a moment.
“All right,” he said. “Let him go to his goats, men. We don’t want to deprive him of his livelihood. We are policemen, after all.”
The man hurried away, despite his limp from the blows to his hips that had made them sore.
People assume that herding is a simple job. Take a closer look, however, and it is clear that an ocean of knowledge is required to do it. Normally, the herdsman becomes one with his flock, never far away from his animals, while leading them to the freshest green growth and keeping them safe from foxes and wild dogs. He had only ever lost one animal in his charge – a silly goat kid that had tried to jump a ravine that was too broad and deep. He prayed he wouldn’t lose any today. The goatherd knew each animal individually – he had even named them. He had to find the Bearded One and the Spinach Lover first, he thought. They were the ones most likely to wander off.
The poor goatherd’s heart now burned like a blacksmith’s furnace with the wish that the Naxalites would kill the rich people they had kidnapped and he did not feel guilty that he had misdirected the police. Once he gathered his animals, he would go in the opposite direction, in the footsteps of the Naxalites, wiping out traces of their passage with a hundred hoof prints.
Eighteen
When she woke up the next morning, Aruna felt completely shattered. Her back was tender from sunburn, her legs were aching from the hours of marching and her heart was sick with hopelessness after her phone had been discovered. And she was now scared of Adi, the squadron leader, and his hot eyes.
She lifted her head cautiously and looked around. They were all piled into a hut, with the Naxalites nowhere to be seen. The door framed a low rectangle of light. The carefree sounds of the birds as they chattered and quarrelled about their daily lives indicated that they were still in the middle of the forest. Her bladder and her tongue both felt heavy – she simultaneously needed to relieve herself and drink some water, but she didn’t want to venture out on her own. She would wait for her husband to wake up.
Some time later, the prisoners were sitting on a log. Aruna had been right: they were in the middle of a forest, though it gave her little satisfaction to be correct. A row of huts stood near by, under the trees. Adi and Leninkumar came towards them with a few of their men and a young couple who were obviously captives too.
Adi said, “We will start contacting your people for ransom. Your hope is that your families love you enough to pay it quickly. If the police or your people try to be funny and the matter is not settled quickly, I will start killing you one by one. Pray for your lives or draw lots about the order in which you want to die.”
The prisoners were all too shocked to say anything.
“One more thing…” Adi said.
He flicked his head towards his men. Rehman, Dilawar, Ramanujam and Mr Reddy, the landlord, were each pulled up forcibly by a guerrilla and frisked, roughly but thoroughly, from head to toe. Once the search had finished, the four men sat mutely down again.
“Now you,” Adi said to Aruna.
“What?” said Aruna, her voice pitched high with fear, wrapping her arms around herself.
Leninkumar pointed to the young wom
an prisoner and said to Aruna, “This girl will search you.”
The girl appeared to be no more than eighteen or nineteen and was a couple of inches over five feet. She wore a sari and a mangalasutram, two gold discs on a yellow thread, which marked her as a married woman. From the way she was standing close to the young man, Aruna guessed that he was her husband. The woman was neither fair nor dark and had what, in the marriage bureau, would be described as a wheatish complexion.
Aruna felt a pang when she thought of sir and the verandah shaded by the guava tree, with madam sitting in the chair opposite, reading a newspaper. Was that haven only a few hours’ drive away? She wondered whether she would ever be back in that office again, dealing with the post and typing up lists of brides and grooms.
“Come, akka,” the girl said in a soft voice, taking on the role of younger sister to Aruna. “These rakshasas won’t give up until it is done.”
Aruna got up slowly. Rakshasas were demons of Hindu mythology who were particularly strong and active at night. Aruna thought the girl’s use of the word was particularly apposite, given what had happened to them. The girl was also quite brave to talk about them so derogatorily in front of them. Or stupid.
“My name is Gita. What is yours?” the young woman said, leading Aruna behind the log.
She must have already been given instructions because she was methodical in her search. Leninkumar looked away but Adi and some of the men stared as Gita patted Aruna from her shoulders, over her chest, down her stomach and across her thighs. Aruna closed her eyes, willing the humiliation to end.
“Sorry, akka,” said Gita, when the Naxalites had left the prisoners alone once more. “They told me to do it, and I am too scared of them to disobey.”
Aruna smiled at the girl and said, “It is all right. How did you get here anyway?”
Gita started sobbing. “These demons came to our village and abducted us from our marriage altar. Adi told us that until both our families pay a big ransom, they will not let us go. I am so frightened. Sometimes I think that we’ll die in this forest.”
Aruna patted her on the shoulder. “You mustn’t think like that,” she said. “Of course we’ll all return to our families again.”
Gita shook her head. “My parents took out loans for the wedding. Until the harvest comes in, they won’t be able to repay those loans and borrow still more to pay the ransom.”
Srinu moved next to his wife and put his arm around her. It was clear that captivity had drawn the young couple closer together. Aruna suddenly remembered that she had read about Gita and Srinu’s abduction in the papers. That had been weeks and weeks ago! A heavy weight, like a grindstone, settled on her heart when she thought that they too could be held in captivity for as long.
Gita looked up at Aruna and smiled. “I am really glad you are here,” she said. Then, she clapped her hands to her mouth and blushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that it was good for you to be captured, but…”
Everybody smiled at the girl’s confusion, their circumstances temporarily forgotten.
Aruna said, “I know what you mean. Don’t worry about it…”
Dilawar said, “You don’t seem very closely guarded. I am sure you could slip away easily if you wanted.”
“Don’t be fooled,” said Srinu. “There are lookouts posted around. We did try to escape in the beginning but we were caught and brought back. Adi said that if we try to run away again, it won’t be very good for Gita. He also warned us that if we do get away, they will come to our village and massacre our entire families.”
“Remember what Adi told us. If one of us leaves, they will shoot all the others.”
“What should we do?” asked Aruna.
“Adi has told us that a ransom demand has already been sent out. I think we should all sit tight, until we see what’s happening. It would be too dangerous to try anything rash at this stage.”
It was Dilawar who spoke those words, but there was unanimous agreement.
The day passed with the same mix of boredom and anxiety. The insurgents occasionally walked past. Leninkumar was nowhere to be seen but Adi made his rounds three times.
Dilawar turned to Rehman and said, “How long have you known Pari?”
“You know something – I’ve actually known her since she was a child. Pari is not only my cousin’s wife, she is also a second cousin on my father’s side. Her father and my father were cousins. I didn’t see that much of her when we were growing up because they lived in a different village. I only really started meeting her regularly when she got married.”
Rehman’s eyes took on a faraway look.
“She was quite naive and demure in those days. Too young, really, to be running her own household. It could have gone badly, but Niaz and Pari loved each other. He was good for her as well – he drew her out socially and encouraged her to study further. They were a couple who were really made for each other.”
Rehman snapped back to reality and smiled at Dilawar.
“Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear me talk about how good your fiancée and her ex-husband were together.”
“I want to know more about Pari. Her marriage was part of her and will always be important to her. I know that and I am not going to be jealous of somebody who is no more.”
Rehman clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You are a good man. I am glad for Pari. She is a lovely woman: smiling, funny, open-hearted and generous to a fault. She deserves the best.”
Dilawar looked at Rehman oddly. “You are right,” he said. “She deserves the best.”
They fell silent as Adi walked past, carrying an AK-47. He didn’t say a word, but under his gaze Aruna felt as if she was being stripped bare. She clung to her husband for comfort.
As the sun rose in the sky, the heat enveloped them like a suffocating blanket. The trees became still and no breeze disturbed the leaves. Big, black ants scurried about their duties in the red dust of the forest floor. Dilawar spent a long time drawing patterns on the ground with a twig, trying to distract the ants.
Finally, just as his eyes were drooping with torpor, two insurgents brought them a pot of steaming rice and a watery dhal. A third man followed them with a pitcher of water and some steel tumblers. They all stirred themselves, even though the menu at every meal was unvarying. Aruna wondered whether she should offer to cook, but she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than she absolutely needed to. And what would happen if they decided that her cooking boosted the comrades’ morale and made her crucial to the struggle?
“Where is Leninkumar?” asked Rehman.
“The comrade had to leave the camp on business.”
Mr Reddy winced as he tried to reach for the food, prompting Aruna to ask, “Are you all right, sir?”
He nodded without speaking. She served the food on one of the disposable plates made from stitched leaves and handed it to him. He grunted, barely meeting her eyes. He did not apologise for betraying her mobile phone to Adi.
Mr Reddy looked at Rehman and said, “I joined your father’s marriage bureau. I spoke to somebody called Aruna and she sent me a list of Reddy-caste bridegrooms.”
Aruna’s ears perked up when she heard her name. “That’s me, sir,” she said.
Mr Reddy eyed her in surprise for a moment and then turned his gaze pointedly towards Rehman. “I even liked the details of a couple of names on the list. But what’s the point? It’s all lost now.”
“Lost?” said Aruna.
Mr Reddy refused to look at her or answer her.
Puzzled, Rehman met Aruna’s eye and shrugged slightly.
Aruna couldn’t figure out for a moment why Mr Reddy’s manner towards her had suddenly changed and then it dawned on her. She had gone from being a rich man’s wife to paid help.
A few seconds later, Mr Reddy said loudly, “The bastards burned my house down. May their mouths fill with gravel and thirst for water. As soon as I am free again, I am going to make sure that the police chase down these
sons of jackals, shoot them all and drag their bodies through the villages as an example to everybody.”
Aruna glanced around nervously. It didn’t seem to be a good plan to broadcast to their captors – not if they wanted to stay healthy. She was inclined to ignore the rude landlord, but then decided that, just because he was discourteous, it wasn’t a good enough reason to forget her own manners. After all, he was older than her and her parents had brought her up to be respectful of her elders.
“Was your family all right when the house was burned?” she asked.
“We were all outside. But I lost all my loan notes and my land registry documents. And they stole all the cash and gold I had in the house. Thieves, that’s what these people are. The government has to take a strong line against them. Only then will the country prosper.”
“Why did the Naxalites target you, sir?” asked Rehman.
“It’s that servant, Sivudu, in my house. He was acting all innocent, but I am not a fool. I can see that he is behind the raid. He must have tipped them off.”
Rehman remembered the barefooted labourer who had led him to Mr Reddy’s house on his last visit to the village.
“Tipped them off?” said Dilawar. “What secrets did he tell them?”
“Secrets…” Mr Reddy laughed. “He must have told them about the money and gold I keep in my strongbox.”
“I see,” said Dilawar, looking sceptical. “But whom would he have talked to? I mean, if I wanted to send a message to Naxalites, where would I go? I mean, not now. I can just shout from here, obviously. But before I got caught up in all this, I wouldn’t know a Naxalite if he was under my bed with a machine-gun in his hands and the word Maoist tattooed on his forehead.”
“These poor people have their own network that respectable people like you and I don’t know about. That’s how they spread these false rumours.”
Aruna, born into a poor family, said, “That’s ridiculous, sir. If anything, it’s the wealthy who have connections that the poor lack.”
