Where Angels Prey (5 page)

Chandresh Rajan stubs his cigarette into the chipped coffee cup being used as an ashtray. He picks up the remote lying on the table and cuts the anchor short as she launches into a story on factional fighting in the ruling party. It will be another couple of hours before his escort arrives; for now, the dingy walls of his hotel room seem to be closing in on him. He remembers spotting a small tea shop down the
road. The idea of a cup of tea is appealing to him.

As he steps out of the spartan building, he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the pristine air of the hills. It feels good to be inhaling something other than diesel fumes and the stench of rotting garbage or human waste. There are hardly half a dozen people on the road, four of them on foot and two on cycles. They eye him suspiciously. Despite his inconspicuous personality, they clearly identify him as an outsider. Strangers are not greeted warmly in these parts. One can hardly blame the locals, though, for such has been their experience.

Paderu, a remote village in the hills of Vizag, a district of coastal Andhra, is Maoist heartland, after all. A part of the Dandakaranya region spreads across Andhra Pradesh, Chhattisgarh and Orissa, and Paderu has a significant tribal population. A significant raison d’être for the Maoist movement is the exploitation of tribal resources by the political class. It is to speak to one of the Maoist leaders that Chandresh is here in Paderu. After years of working for a leading publication in the country, he is now a syndicated columnist focusing on development and grassroots issues.

As Chandresh walks towards the tea shop, his mind goes back to the news report that he just caught on TV. Clearly the issue is erupting and in a big way. What is surprising is that it has taken so long for the can of worms to open. He had written an article almost a year ago indicating that the growth of the sector was more a matter of concern than celebration, since it was happening at the cost of the very clientele it had sworn to serve. In fact, infamy and the sector were no strangers to each other. Less than five years ago, a tussle between two competing MFIs had thrown up a stench so strong that a magisterial enquiry had been ordered. What was happening today was the same in many ways and yet had a whole new dimension to it, in the form of commercial and foreign capital.

Chandresh is so caught up in his thoughts that he ends up walking past the tea shop before realization strikes. He retraces his steps and slumps on a bench outside the tea shop.

“One
chai
please...and make it double strong!”

The shop owner nods as he pumps the kerosene stove hard, to get it to burn better. He does not appear inclined to chat, quite uncommon given that tea shop owners are quite often a great source of village gossip. Like before, Chandresh recognizes this as a peculiarity of the territory they are in. The tea shop owner makes a froth on top that would put a barista from Starbucks to shame, by pouring one cup of tea into another—the further apart he spreads his arms, the better the froth.

The tea arrives, piping hot and with a lovely aroma. Chandresh sighs in appreciation after the first sip. It is so different from the tea you find in tea shops in the city, so much better than the weak tea that he is forced to sip at fancy five-star hotels, while attending seminars and the like.

Chandresh’s gaze wanders around, looking for interesting sights the details of which he could incorporate in his column. He spots an old man sitting on a bench placed just a few feet away from the tea shop, quietly sipping his tea and trying to look inconspicuous. However, almost every passerby greets him respectfully, indicating that he is a man of some local repute.

The man’s face is deeply tanned and wrinkled, bearing testimony to long years of hard living. His eyes are deep-set and penetrating. He looks up for a moment and catches Chandresh looking at him. He reciprocates with a long measured look of his own. Chandresh, who has met more than his share of intimidating personalities in the course of his career, is not one to be easily disconcerted. Yet, he is the first to avert his eyes, feeling almost guilty for having invaded the man’s private space, even while the journalist in him feels compelled to reach out and speak to the man, to know the stories hidden in the depths of those sunken eyes. He pays for the tea and a handful of nuts wrapped in a paper cone, before walking toward the old man.

The bench is placed to the right of the shack that houses the tea shop. Chandresh greets the old man politely before looking ahead at the majestic view that the spot affords. The sky is painted in shades of blue and white and the sun’s warmth is a benign grace that offers protection against the nip in the air.

Chandresh rummages through his pockets for his pack of cigarettes when a thought strikes him.

“Could I bum a cigarette off you, please?”

It was a clichéd opening gambit but he couldn’t think of anything better.

The old man looks at him in amusement.

“Do I look like a man who smokes the expensive brands that you city folk patronize?”

Chandresh shakes his head hurriedly.

“A
beedi
would do just as well. I am not particular!”

The old man gives him a knowing look before pulling out a
beedi
from a roll tucked away in the upper folds of his faded dhoti.

He lights it with his own before passing it on to Chandresh.

Chandresh thanks the man before drawing on the
beedi
, relishing its unrefined flavour for a change.

“So, what are you nosing around here for?”

The old man clearly believes in getting to the point!

Chandresh decides that being honest and upfront will have the best pay-offs under the circumstances.

“My name is Chandresh Rajan. I am a journalist and I write on serious social and development issues, focusing on the marginalized communities in particular.”

The old man stares into Chandresh’s eyes as he comments bluntly.

“You probably get paid well for your efforts and maybe get some awards even. Not much comfort for the people whose miseries you bare in print!”

Chandresh realizes that he will have to earn the man’s respect if he hopes to get him to speak.

“They would have no comfort even otherwise. I am not saying that I have achieved very much but please give me credit at least for the effort.”

The man looks at him thoughtfully before giving a small nod.

“It is the way I earn a living. So yes, I do get paid decent if not great money. And yes, it does feel good when my efforts are recognized. But in the process, along with my efforts, I am hoping the issues that I write about also get noticed.”

Chandresh wonders if his justifications are meant to appease the old man or reassure himself. He does, in fact, often have moments of self-doubt, when his efforts seem futile and even selfish, but none had managed to veer him off course yet.

“So, are you here to do a story on the movement?”

Chandresh’s thoughts are broken by the old man’s question.

He nods in assent before clarifying.

“Yes, I am, in fact, waiting for Murthy, the local fertilizer agent, to escort me to meet the leadership.”

The old man’s prickly stance seems to soften just a bit. Clearly, the fact that he has earned the trust of the leadership enough to be granted an interview counts for something.

“What if I told you I was once part of a
dalam
³
too? That I was with none other than Chotanna!”

Chandresh is a bit startled. Chotanna is a local Maoist legend, a folk hero, almost, in these parts. A high profile leader of the Maoist movement in Andhra Pradesh, he used to be a follower of Kondapalli Sitaramiah, one of India’s best known Communist ideologues. Chotanna’s heroics—before he was shot dead by the police in the late 1990s—had reams of newsprint devoted to them.

“I am sure you weren’t a reporter already by then. But have you heard of the Gurtedu kidnappings?”

Chandresh nods vigorously. The old man is referring to an incident that occurred almost three decades ago. The Maoists had daringly kidnapped a contingent of government officials who were on a site visit to inspect the check dam that had been built at Bodlanka, a small village on the Rampachodavaram hills in the East Godavari district of Andhra Pradesh.

“Of course I have, sir. I even know one of the IAS officers from the contingent that was kidnapped!”

“Yes, some of them must hold senior positions in the government now.”

By mutual, unspoken consent, neither of them takes names.

“It was the winter of 1987 and I was part of Chottanna’s
dalam
in Maredumilli in Rampachodavaram. We heard that a big contingent of government officials were to visit Bodlanka. I don’t know if you have been there but Bodlanka is a beautiful village, as beautiful as its tribal inhabitants. We planned on making a strike.”

The old man pauses to take a breath. The word strike confuses Chandresh.

“So, was the plan to kill them all? Did you have to change your plans and kidnap them instead?”

“No, their deaths would not have served our purpose. They were to be held hostage, in return for the release of our comrades who were imprisoned for having murdered money-lending rogues who were exploiting the poor.”

Chandresh cannot help but think that the issue has remained the same over time, with only the exploitative elements acquiring a different form.

“Bodlanka used to be no man’s land and no officer worth his name would ever attempt to visit this deeply inaccessible place for fear of us Annas, or Maoists as we are called by the outsiders. But some foolhardy officers decided to test the waters and we kidnapped them all in Gurtedu.”

“So, were you successful in achieving your objective?”

The old man wears an expression of deep pride as he nods. His eyes twinkle as he recalls the satisfaction they derived from their success.

“We got 13 of our comrades released in exchange for the lives of seven officers—brave men who had, between them, liquidated at least 27 moneylenders who had been exploiting and harassing the tribals in the Maredumilli area. In the time that they stayed with us, we worked on sensitizing the officers on the havoc that the moneylenders had caused. I think we succeeded because a few of them carried forth our message to the people at large!”

Age might have rendered him incapable of physical participation but it is obvious that the old man’s commitment remains unshaken. But of course, that is the way it is, Chandresh thinks to himself. These men are converts for life, more often than not!

“Thank you so much for sharing all of this with me. If you trust me enough, can you tell me what brought you into the folds of the Maoist movement? Was it purely ideological or was there a stronger, personal reason?”

The old man’s face takes on a faraway expression. There is also a look of immense sadness on his face. When he speaks, however, his voice lacks any emotion.

“It was 2 November 1984. Indira Gandhi had been assassinated by her own security guards just two days earlier. My family and I were staying on the fields of a landlord and tending to it on his behalf. The landlord was originally a mahajan, or moneylender. He had slowly grabbed large tracts of tribal land through manipulative and coercive means. He would lend money to tribals for agriculture or other purposes, at very high rates of interest, take away their produce as interest, and value it at low rates. He lent them more and more money and eventually took away their land, leaving them indebted and vulnerable.”

Chandresh feels suddenly weary and powerless. How many times had he heard this story? And each time, he could not help being gripped by the same sense of helpless outrage.

The old man seems fully aware of his story’s impact on Chandresh.

“The exploitation did not stop there. He would force the female members of those indebted families, and children, to entertain him and his friends at their weekend parties, which were also attended by corrupt officers and police officials. One day, when I returned from the field, neither my wife nor my 12-year-old daughter was home. They rarely used to go out, so I was grabbed by a sudden fear. I ran to the landlord’s house at the far end of the field to seek his help to find them. To my deep shock, I saw my wife and daughter leaving his home in a distraught state. They were both bruised and their clothes were in tatters. They did not survive the ordeal. Within two days, my wife killed my daughter before committing suicide herself. I walked around the village like a mad man for the next month or so. The only thing that kept me alive was my quest for justice. I knew that I would never get justice if I went to the police or the judiciary. So I chose to go to Chotanna instead. I joined his
dalam
and became a foot soldier in the battle against exploitation and social inequity. It took me two years before I managed to secure justice for my wife and child, and I did it with my own hands! In January 1986, while the landlord and his friends were returning to Rampachodavaram from Rajahmundry, we kidnapped them all, beheaded them and placed their heads on posts in the main marketplace in Rampachodavaram. Not only was this justice for my own family but for all those who had gone through a similar ordeal. It was also a warning signal to all those who believed that they could get away with exploiting the poor. Three of my colleagues from that incident were arrested in August 1986. The Gurtedu kidnappings were to secure the release of those brave men among others.”