Nothing "Official" in Chhattisgarh

Sambo misses her four children; and has long stopped smiling. The petite woman’s eyes are vacant; she has already seen enough. She has already had enough. © Javed Iqbal

October 1, 2009, 7 am, Gompad:

Security forces and SPOs (special police officers) of the Salwa Judum enter the village of Gompad, which is on the Chhattisgarh-Andhra Pradesh border. Sodi Sambo is shot on her leg. Witnesses the murder of six other villagers by the security forces and SPOs.

Circa October 20, 2009:

Sodi Sambo is brought to Vanvasi Chetna Ashram (VCA) in Dantewada. She is taken to Delhi for a surgery some days later. She continues to live in VCA.

November 24, 2009:

Himanshu Kumar and the victims of the massacre in Gompad, Gachanpalli, Nulkatong and Belpocha file a write petition in the Supreme Court. The hearing is posted for January 4, 2010.

December 30, 2009, Dantewada:

Sambo develops a mild fever. Blood test confirmed malaria, and the doctor suggests hospitalisation. She wouldn’t be safe in the hospital. So it is decided to keep her at the civil hospital of Dantewada only for the three-hour drip, and then bring her home. Himanshuji is on the fifth day of his fast.

December 31, 2009, and January 1, 2010, Dantewada:

It is learnt that that four cops were enquiring about "the lady who has a bullet wound on her leg and uses a walker". Thankfully no single nurse works 24x7 and neither are they too attentive. The nurses on this shift, at the civil hospital of Dantewada, know nothing of this patient. We learn that the cops had come twice, asking about Sambo. Everyone was looking for the victim-cum-eyewitness of the massacre in Gompad village.

January 2, 2010, 9 pm, Dantewada:

Sambo is being sent to Raipur by bus, along with a volunteer of VCA and a volunteer of Aid India. They would reach Raipur on December 3, and then take a train to Delhi, where her leg would be operated. Himanshu Kumar’s nephew Abhay drives them to the bus stand.

January 2, 2010, 9.10 pm, Dantewada:

Abhay notices several bikers armed with automatic rifles following them. He instantly calls up Himanshuji, who advises Abhay to bring the car back to VCA.

January 2, 2010, 9.20 pm, Dantewada:

Himanshuji, Satyen and another friend Gangesh then get onto the car and go towards the bus stand. The cops outside VCA, stationed for Himanshuji’s protection, are caught unawares when the car rushes out. They eventually catch up with the car.

January 2, 2010, 9.25 pm, Dantewada:

A jeep of SPOs has arrived near the bus stand. Himanshuji tells the travel agent that the three passengers would be boarding from Geedam, 10 kms north of Dantewada. The car then takes a detour 2 kms south of Dantewada and sees the bus headed to Raipur passing by. The bus is stopped, and Himanshuji requests the driver to let the three passengers board the bus there itself.

January 2, 2010, 9.30 pm, Dantewada:

The bus reaches the bus stand at Dantewada, and Himanshuji’s car follows it. They then see one SPO approaching the bus conductor, who asks him to accompany them to the police station. Himanshuji intervenes; asks the SPO why was he intending to take the conductor to the police station. The SPO politely replies that some enquiries had to be made. Himanshuji then asked him, “Does this have to do anything with the injured lady on the bus?” The SPO denies any such issue. Himanshuji realizes that Sambo could be arrested midway during the journey, and so he asks the trio to alight from the bus. They then drive towards VCA, and Abhay speeds the car into discreet lanes, such that they emerge on the main road towards Geedam.

January 2, 2010, 9.35 pm, Dantewada:

The car catches up with the bus and the trio boards it again. The car follows.

January 2, 2010, 9.45 pm, Dantewada:

Near the bus stand at Geedam, the bus halts. While Himanshuji gets his car refueled, Gangesh walks out to assess the situation. He returns to say that another jeep full of cops had arrived near the bus, along with one of the SPOs whom he had seen near the bus stand in Dantewada. The car rushes to the bus stand, and Himanshuji asks the trio to alight again, knowing well what could happen if they continued the travel.

January 2, 2010, 9.55 pm, Dantewada:

The car reaches VCA; a long discussion ensues about what could be done next. We all spoke in hushed whispers, lest the cops would be eavesdropping. The irony – all phone conversations are tapped; we are all being heard. Yet, no one is ‘listening’! Finally it is decided that Himanshuji, along with his protectors who report his every move to their seniors, would go to Raipur the next day.

January 3, 2010, 7.30 am, Dantewada:

Himanshuji, Abhay, Sambo and the two volunteers leave for Raipur in a car. His security tags along. Plan is to catch the train to Delhi from Raipur at 5pm.

January 3, 2010, 1 pm, Dantewada:

Abhay calls up from Kanker, about 200 kms from Dantewada. He informs that Himanshuji and Sambo have been arrested. Himanshuji tells Abhay to proceed to Raipur, along with the two volunteers, to drop the car there.

January 3, 2010, 2 pm, Dantewada:

We are informed that Himanshuji has not been arrested. The cops had approached them at Kanker at around 12.30pm, when they had halted for lunch (Himanshuji is on the ninth day of his fast). Cops say that Sambo needs to be taken to the police station for enquiry. Himanshuji tells them that he wouldn’t allow them to take Sambo alone. So he had he decided to along with them to the police station.

January 3, 2010, 2 pm to 6.30 pm, Dantewada/Kanker:

Himanshuji and Sambo are at Kanker police station. Abhay drives till Raipur to drop the car. Attempts are made to be in constant touch with Himanshuji, who cannot speak freely. Word about all that is happening is spread around through the Internet, SMS and phone.

January 3, 2010, 6.30 pm, Dantewada/Kanker:

Abhay and the two volunteers, along with Tusha Mittal (reporter with Tehelka), reach Kanker. The cops in Kanker tell Himanshuji that he should arrange for a cab to take him to Dantewada, while the police, in a separate car, would bring Sambo to Dantewada. Himanshuji tells them that he would die but wouldn’t leave Sambo alone with them.

January 3, 2010, 7.30 pm, Dantewada/Kanker:

Himanshuji is with Abhay and the others in the same car. They head back to Dantewada. Himashuji’s security is with him. Sambo is being brought back to Dantewada in another vehicle, for her statements to be taken. When Himanshuji asks them if Sambo would be put behind bars, he is told, “No, we are not arresting her. The SP of Dantewada has made special arrangements for her. She will have to be at the police station all through the night.” Himanshuji is convinced that she will surely be arrested by the next morning and many false charges slapped on her -- this is what had happened to Kopa too.

We speak to a lawyer; he says that if Sambo is an eyewitness, any statement to be taken has to be done so only where she is comfortable, i.e., her home.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

The countdown has begun for the ultimate decay of Vanvasi Chetna Ashram. The last straws are now crackling up, and it is only a matter of time when Himanshu Kumar will leave his seat under the huge tree, where he has been fasting since December 26, 2009. A new year has begun and has brought with it the steady flow of stealth from the Chhattisgarh government.

But the country watches this ghoulish war silently, like a three-hour film. Some of them have the audacity to write meagre words about this civil war, as though they are writing a review of this free film screening. They write how all men and women carrying bows-and-arrows are Naxalites, how one man espousing Gandhian ideologies is propelling the tribals against the modern idea of ‘development’, how our GDP will not show the upward trend if we do protest about mining and large dams. Those who cannot play with their words will throw in some money to Himanshu Kumar, partly to salvage themselves from the guilt of ignorance about the tribals and partly because it sounds cool to be associated with some ‘NGO-type’ work. After they have heard what Himanshu Kumar has been screaming all these years, they stretch their facial muscles into a wry smile and walk away. The film is over, so forget it now.

But Himanshuji cannot forget what the lakhs of tribals have been subjected to by the state forces. Nor can the state government forget how Himahshuji is on a mission to expose their demonic ways. An eerie feeling now envelopes the Ashram premises, as we know that the state government’s New Year resolution is to render Himanshuji homeless in this part of the state. The landlord of the house has already asked Himashuji to leave the house by January 15, since he had been receiving several threats from the SDM, the CEO of Dantewada Zilla Panchayat and the Collector. Kopa Kunjam, one of the significant pillars of VCA, is being beaten up mercilessly in jail by the cops, who openly admit to him that he has been framed in the murder case. Quite a significant number of those working with VCA have decided to take up safer jobs.

With most of his wings clipped, Himanshuji tried to camouflage the building tension in his mind, on the eighth day of his fast. Joining him in solidarity are now Zulaikha Jabi, an activist based in Raipur; Sadanand Patwardhan, a writer and entrepreneur based in Pune; filmmakers Nishtha Jain and Satya Rai Nagpaul from Mumbai; and Bhan Sahu of Jurmil Morcha, from Rajnandgaon district in Chhattisgarh.

Sometime in the morning, when all of us were basking in the winter sun and talking to Himanshuji, we were visited by a gentleman from Vanvasi Kalyan Ashram, which is the social service wing of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS). He asked Himanshuji how could he embark on a Satyagrah when he was disallowed to do the same by the state. Himanshuji replied that he was only fasting for personal reasons and that the state could not impose any restrictions on the same. The gentleman argued, “If you are observing a personal fast, then why are you making it public by sitting like this under a tree with a charkha to keep you busy? Why have you brought in journalists here?”

Himanshuji replied stating that the journalists were only his friends who were visiting on their own will. But the man was tempestuous and wouldn’t be satisfied with such calm replies. He went on to explain how a group of Koya tribals had gone to meet Chhattisgarh Chief Minister Raman Singh, but was denied the meeting, as, according to Singh, all Koya tribals were Naxalites.

For a change, I could identify the CM’s words. He was in tandem with the modern fascist notion, ‘Either you are with us, or against us’. That’s how all Muslims are understood to be terrorists.

The countdown drama hadn’t come to an end for the day. A team of officers from the Chhattisgarh State Electricity Board (CSEB) arrived, stating that they needed to check the electricity load within the house. Himanshuji said that the house would be soon vacated and that he couldn’t help it if the owner of the house had earlier written a lower figure of electricity consumption. But the officers would listen to no explanation. They went in room by room, checked the number of electrical appliances, and drew an estimate of electricity consumption. While their assessment was on, they were getting nervous as their words and actions were being recorded on camera by filmmakers Nishtha and Satya.

The officers were saccharine sweet in their language, and went on to state that they were writing only the lower limits, i.e., even though there are about eight CFL bulbs in the house, they said that they would mention that there are only six. Did they think that we would love them for being so kind to us and dishonest to the CSEB?

Finally, it was found that while the limit for electricity consumption was only 1,600 watts, the consumption here at gone up to 3,400 watts. They said that while 400 watts of consumption would be ‘excused, a fine would have to be paid for the excess of 1,400 watts. They said that a bill would be sent on Monday, mentioning the fine amount that would have to be paid within a fortnight, along with a form so that we could change the limit from 1,600 watts.

Himanshuji later told us that VCA workers had raised the issue of non-availability of electricity in some villages, in April 2009. The CSEB officers arrived at VCA’s erstwhile location the very next day and accused Himanshuji of stealthily operating computer course classes, upon seeing the many computers in the VCA office. They slapped a fine of Rs 28,000, which was duly paid. A week later, VCA was demolished.

Such instances have truly shown me how creative our governments are! IAS officers and their juniors should be made to write film scripts. They would infuse drama in creative ways into the film at the precise junctures. What is happening in Dantewada is truly a film, whose tagline could be, ‘One man’s mission to save the tribe from the forces of annihilation and terror’. The film can be rightly called ‘The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly’. But will the Clint Eastwood in Dantewada have the last word?

Homeless, But No White Flag

It is often said that “home is where the heart is”. German poet Christian Morgenstern, inspired by English literature nonsense, further went on to state, “Home is not where you live but where they understand you.” But in Dantewada, which presents a classic example to English literature students about the definition of ‘irony’, the notion of ‘home’ is quite blemished. Two significant ‘non-developments’ on the last day of the year made us realise the frugality of the reality of belongingness and the need to be understood.

Delhi University professors Nandini Sundar and Ujjwal Singh were on their way to meet the four rape victims from Samsetti village on Wednesday, December 30. Around 7.30 pm, their was accosted by cops. They checked the papers of the car and then asked the duo to step out. The cops then told them that they could not proceed any further. When asked why, Sundar was told, “We have received such orders from our seniors. You will have to comply with us. You cannot proceed further, but you will have to leave Dantewada.”

Sundar later told us over phone – even though we are all aware that our all our telephonic conversations are now tapped – that when she and Singh tried to go around that village and its adjoining town looking for a lodge to spend the night. But none of the lodges would accommodate them. Of course, the lodge must have been well-fed or well-threatened to forgo the business that they could have gained from the duo’s night stay. It is more likely that they were threatened. After all, this is the land where power flows from the barrel of the gun.

The cops continued to stick by Sundar and Singh, even following them when they stopped by to eat some dinner. Finally, they found refuge in the boy’s hostel of a college. “However, at midnight, some SPOs came knocking at our door and then asked us inane questions rather inane questions rudely. Some time later, they left us alone but stood guarding the door outside all night long. In the morning, on December 31, they said that they will escort us out of Dantewada, northwards to Jagdalpur,” she said.

Here was one woman who wanted to meet four others whose dignity and liberty had been gravely assaulted. And this woman, whom we may assume to be empowered because of her education, was also relegated to be yet another victim of this state’s dirty games. All she wanted to do was understand what prevented the four women from taking the collateral route to get justice for themselves. But in Chhattisgarh, every person is made to stoop.

In the morning of December 31, Himanshu Kumar wasn’t expecting a certain person as his visitor. It was the landlord of the house where Himanshuji had ben living and working from, since May 2009, when the Vnasvasi Chetna Ashram near Fasrspal village was razed down by cops. The landlord was already being pressurised by the state administration to get Himanshuji to vacate the house. But on Thursday morning, the landlord came to tell Himanshuji that he hadn’t been sleeping too well at nights because of the constant fear of being pressurised by the Sub-Divisional Magistrate (SDM), the Collector and the CEO of the Zilla Panchayat. When Himanshuji asked the landlord if he was contemplating on selling the house, the landlord denied any such intention. Although a lease agreement of a year had been signed for the occupancy of the house, it was clearly heard in the landlord’s nervous voice that the administration did not want the presence of Himanshuji within the state. This resilient man, on the sixth day of his fast with body adipose depleting, is seen as a threat to its macabre ways with which it is playing with many human lives.

Himanshuji now has to vacate the house in about a week’s time. He has also learnt that even if there was land available in Dantewada, the administration had issued a stringent warning stating that nobody could sell him any pience of land – be it for his residence or VCA. In the evening, Himanshuji decided that all the shelves containing various books and journals on Vinoba Bhave, Gandhi, revolution, education, religion, etc., be thrown open for the few of us here. We ransacked the shelves and found a copy of the Holy Bible. Himanshuji insisted that he would keep that for himself. He wiped the thin layer of dust and just opened the book midway. And he laughed aloud. We looked at each other, and then at him. He said aloud, “I open this book, and the lines that stare at me are, “Love your enemy as you love yourself…Reconcile with your enemy.” And we laugh too at the practical joke played on Himanshuji by god himself. But who is the enemy? What is the enemy?

Why is a citizen of this ‘independent country denied residency? Why does he want to continue his fast despite the fact that he may have to go hungry on the street? Why are you still reading this and only sighing? Why are you silent still? Do you, dear reader, have any suggestions to this man who is struggling to smile as he sees his countrymen killing its own people? Do you, dear reader, have any answers to your own impotency?

This impotency of the civil society (no, I don’t indicate the ‘civil society’ here to be the Fab India-clad, Che Guevara-obsessed, Scotch-drinking ‘liberals’) and the fiery potency of the administration is the New Year’s gift to this man. Think for a moment how he must have slept on the last night of 2009. Think for a moment where were you on the last night of 2009.

January 1, 2010 – Himanshuji decided to meet Kopa Kunjam in the jail. He went to Dantewada jail, met Kopa, who broke down upon seeing Himanshuji. It was a moment of strengthening each other and letting the other know that the cop were ehre to only break the morale. “Kopa told me that he had been told that he was deliberately framed in a murder case which he hadn’t committed. He also said that he had been ebaten up many times; he was even hung up from his feet upside down and beaten,” said Himanshuji, trying hard to camouflage the thought of the horrid way in which his friend was being treated, as a punishment for their friendship.

“Among the meagre equipments that they possess, the tribals don’t have a white flag.” That’s the hope for 2010.

Bloody COCK fight

In Spain, which has had a history of genocide and civil war, bull fights are common means of entertainment for the masses. Villagers pay hefty sums from their tattering wallets to view this voyeuristic form of entertainment. They bet aloud for the bull to win; in their drunken stupor they know not when they have been ripped of their few coins. They get to the tavern, swaying and signing aloud, either for the cash prize they have won or for all that they have been drained of. Winners and losers alike sway together, singing songs of yore, of love and betrayal and wars and martyrs. They sing of the dead – the people buried under meager shrouds, and the bulls that bleed gallons of liquid rust and finally cease to huff. They sing with hope to win the bet for the next bull fight, and then falter onto a wooden bench, and wake up in the morning shivering.

In our own country, we have our own share of voyeuristic forms of entertainment. No, I am not referring to a television show where people harbouring dreams to make it big in the filmdom live together with similar aspirants, and then made to connive against each other by the show producers. No, I am not even talking about the way tabloids and news channels describe every detail about how an American student gets gang-raped in her drunken stupor by her Indian friends. I’m talking about the voyeuristic games similar to bullfighting, but the entertainers in question are not four-legged – aren’t, after all, cows and its family members worshipped, and then sacrificed too, as part of that veneration? In fact, the entire central region of the country is called the ‘cow belt’ – an apt pseudonym for the reliance on this animal for purposes of subsistence through various ways.

The stage is set and the cock is armoured with sharp blades

So instead of four-legged beasts of entertainment, we have a bird which dutifully wakes us up every morning. The hen and the cock, besides their morning duties as unofficial alarm clocks, give us eggs that provide protein, and of course, keep a farmer’s home cheerful. And the cock satiates the huge ego of the farmer, by being the collateral martyr in cock fights. No wonder the slang for the phallus justifies the name of the ego-boosting game – the ‘cock fight’.

If Fridays and Saturdays give the urban male the delicious chance to go a la mode and win some femme attention at a mall’s posh night club, Wednesdays are those ego-boosting days in Dantewada, a southern district of Chhattisgarh. It was a Wednesday on December 30 when people from nearby villages around Dantewada flocked to the town centre, dressed in their fineries and with wide smiles on their faces. It is a day of the local market where each family gets to display its stock of vegetables and wares. And then there are those lanky old men who don’t give a damn about dressing well for their Wednesdays. They come to the market with a resolution to win some money and thus go home a little more drunk with some extra gulps of the local ambrosia, mahua. No, they don’t carry a golden goose that could make them rich and happy. We are talking about a war zone where the state’s defence forces steal even the last cock and hen from an emaciated farmer, to cook some spicy chicken curry in the forest. So, shift the bulls; shift the golden goose; enter, the red-headed cock which is pitted to fight against another. The farmer knows that Wednesdays are dangerous too – his warrior may become an unsung martyr and his ego will remain prostrate and flaccid for quite some time, yet the farmer is hungry for something more. He is as hungry as the Armani-clad head honchos of MNCs. It is all about the cock – the phallus or the ego-nurturer.

So the farmer gets his cock into the battle field. It is behind the main market area, where everything, perhaps human flesh too, is traded. Adjoining the maidan is a line of mahua sellers’ makeshift stalls. And no, women are not coy here when it comes to getting their share of mahua, unlike the urban femme who will contemplate several times before stepping into a wine shop to get herself some Smirnoff. The womenfolk in rural India don’t give a damn about the most insecurity-inducing characteristic – the image. They don’t care about who is watching and how they look when they laugh out aloud or grumble; they need the mahua, they just ask for it as blatantly as the men. Perhaps that’s the reason why the aura around the mahua stalls near the cock fight maidan is equally interesting to absorb.

Thrust into the battle, the cocks are made to anger each other

But we enter the battlefield, where the warriors have no gear to save themselves. Sharp blades are tied to their yellow feet by their owners, who are hysterically excited to enter their cocks into the ring. A huge crowd, meanwhile, surrounds the maidan on all sides. An audience of not less than 1,000 has to therefore be well fenced, lest they enter the battle ring. One man guards the wooden gate into ring; the gate and its beams have thick red patches. And inside the ring are the masters seated in a circle with their cocks firmly in hand. Suddenly, you realise there is no compassion or love in the eyes of the master, who had been lovingly feeding and fattening his cock all this while. The farmer’s eyes burn with hunger.


The betting has begun; currency notes of denominations of Rs 10 and Rs 20 are only visible. Some men climb on trees to watch the match; others climb onto a row of toilets whose tin roof is on the verge of a loud smash. Yet, this seems like an Indo-Pak cricket match played in Dhaka, where you don’t know whom the audience is cheering for. But it is time for action, and two men will rise up to pit their warriors against each other – the men face each other, hold their cocks high up in the air, and then thrust them towards each other. Some birds look angry; others seem to be plain cowards. However, the moment two heads knock each other hard, they are dropped onto the red Earth. And the fight begins. So does the loud betting, with the enthusiasts yelling out their favour for the “red one”, “white one”, “black one”. About two-three matches take place at one time and everyone’s eyes are glued to the fighting pairs.

The show goes on; the cocks bleed on

The cocks, meanwhile, have to fight it out well. If it appears that they aren’t aggressive enough, the banter from the crowd dies down and moments later, the masters swoop down to pick their warriors. They don’t waste time in contemplating if the pair can be compatible enough for a good bloody fight. Time is money, and it surely cannot be wasted.

And more such cocks are pitted to fight until a winning match is visible. A winning match is also a bloody one, and the loser lies on the ground like an obscure patch of ruffled feathers and dripping blood. A match is won and the master swoops down again to pick his injured cock. The cock is breathing heavily, bleeding heavily. It is instantly forgotten by the audience that was cheering for it. Of course, nobody wants to think of the bet money lost on an injured cock. So the audience shifts attention to another cock, hoping for a new win.

Cock chops

Meanwhile, the injured cock’s blades are hurriedly undone, while his master tries hard not to lay his fingers on the fresh oozing blood from his martyr. Since the birds jump short heights as their legs are tied but are driven by an angry pursuit for reasons they themselves cannot fathom, they end up injuring the other cock in any part of the body. But the master is no more concerned about his cock’s deteriorating state – it unties it, carries it towards the periphery of the ring near the gate, and often leaves it to bleed to death. It is instantly forgotten.

Dead, abandoned and left to perish

Tribals across the world, and I can vouch for the ones trying to stay alive in Chhattisgarh, are like those abandoned and forgotten cocks. Birds that can live and sustain on their own are first domesticated – much like the tribals who are told that they need a government, under the pretext that their lands need to be protected, while in reality a system of government is established to maintain power play here. The birds are then well-fed, giving them an illusion that their master truly cares for them – the government announces various schemes for the benefit of the already-content tribals, which confuses them but they choose to be indifferent. The birds are then pitted to fight against each other, just so that the master can make some fast cash – the tribals are pitted against each other, with the formation of groups like Salwa Judum, which rape, mutilate, behead their own brethren. The bird’s master lusts over the cash that he will take home if his cock puts up a bloody good fight – the government lusts over the fat commissions it will get under the table from MNCs that eye the tribals’ lands, and thus their survival. After the match is over when the blades have slashed enough, the dead loser is abandoned – the tribals resist forcefully, yet their bows and arrows are no match to the guns in the hands of the Salwa Judum, a vigilante militia meant to crush the Maoist rebellion, which was born four decades ago as a resistant movement. The bird’s master goes home with the stash of cash and enjoys his night with some more mahua – a government fat with people’s taxes and millions earned in bribes forgets its people and erects statues of those who have thrown the gardens open for New Year parties.

Absolute apathy

Does time really heal wounds?

It is not easy to see a pale Himanshu Kumar, for whom, even smiling on the fourth day of fast – December 29 – seems to be an effort. I avoid making new conversations with him – because I know we would not cease to talk; perhaps also because I shudder when I preempt the result of his silent ways. Are we really aiming for a definite result here? Are we here to win and lose? Are we here only to separate the black from the white? How long will this game of snakes and ladders go on? For how long will our side of the snakes continue to be pythons, and the ladders stunted ones? It is only a matter of time.

It is also only a matter of time that will heal the wounds and dissipate the anxiety of Rita Kunjam, Ramo Kunjam and Saroj Kunjam. They are, in that particular order, the wives of Kopa Kunjam, who was one of the pillars of Vanvasi Chetna Ashram (VCA). He was picked up the cops on December 10 this year, on false charges of murder. Javed Iqbal, a reporter with New Indian Express, who arrived in Dantewada in the morning, had been working in Bastar region through 2009, and had known Kopa quite well. Along with Iqbal, we went to meet Kopa’s family in their residence in Alnar village near Farspal village, which is also where Mahendra Karma, whose brainchild was Salwa Judum, lives. No wonder that as we approached the village, the road on each side was decorated with brick fences for small saplings. Now, the saplings may have grown to about a foot, and most likely, they too were dead in this district of death. But the fences were elaborate – about four feet tall and three feet in circumference, they had been painted white. Luxury for the saplings, axe for the trees.

Further beyond were houses which were green or blue in colour, typical of the rural landscape of Chhattisgarh and Madhya Pradesh. And each of them had that enviable dusty dish of a cable connection by Dish TV. Like SRK, Mahendra Karma wished for it, and got his people the dishes.

Finally we reached the road leading to Kopa’s house. It was a five-minute walk amid the fields from the main road, and the location of his large blue house seemed a perfect site for a mad writer, who would want to escape from an even madder society. Only, within the walls of that house reigns anxiousness and a feeling of helplessness. Kopa’s three wives, who live happily as a huge family, have met their husband only twice since he has been arrested. But they are unsure when he would be released.

Kopa Kunjam's idyllic house in Alnar village in Dantewada

“Our husband never told us what he had been doing. We knew that he was quite a popular figure among villagers, but he was not one to bring his worries home. On August 3rd this year, about 100 policemen came to our house, took Kopa to the Shankani river, and beat him up there. They asked him to cross the river. Had he done so, we realized, they would have shot him dead and called him a naxal. He survived that day only to be arrested later. When will he get released? What is the point of such work which will tear you from your family?” questions a visibly nervous Rita, while she treats us to some tasty red-ant chutney.

Each of the wives has borne Kopa a school-going child, and the youngest wife, Saroj, is carrying her second child. She is visibly malnutritioned – in the fourth month of her pregnancy, such Kafkaesque separation from her husband is not doing the coy and petite woman any good.

“When we reached the Dantewada jail last time – all three of us and our three children, along with Kopa’s brother – we could not speak anything. Firstly, we had to bribe one of the female police officers with Rs 100 to let us meet him. We met him only for 10 minutes; none of us could speak. We were all crying. Kopa did not make any eye contact with us either. He hung his head down. Kopa has stopped smiling,” said a vocal Ramo, while trying hard to hold back the tears welling up in her big brown eyes.

(Left to right): Saroj Kunjam, Ramo Kunjam and Rita Kunjam

We bade the family of that brave man our goodbyes and told them that appeals to the government was pouring in from across the world for Kopa’s release. They would be meeting Kopa in jail in a few days, and while we want to meet Kopa too, we know it would be best not to tag along. There is someone else who needs to get back the smile on Kopa’s face – Himanshuji, a man who is not taking any food since the last four days to convey a message that enough blood had been shed and families bludgeoned in this Fascist state.

Fascism escalated to new heights in the current location of VCA too. The seven police personnel, who had been assigned with the duty to protect Himanshuji, wore new garbs of being eavesdroppers. Until the time when the security cover was lifted for a brief 30 minutes and restored again, on December 28, the men were sitting together near some tents put up by VCA, about 30 feet away from the tree where Himanshuji is seated. But now, they are right behind him, facing the land surrounding Himanshuji’s house. Of course, with all of us quite vociferous, it was obvious that our words were music to their ears, as they sat the entire day in their plastic chairs, a gun in their hands. Himanshuji fears that the direction of the wind will soon change for the worse. I shudder at the thought of yet another cyclone in this arid state, where the air is already permeated with the stale odour of blood.

Later in the evening, we took Gompa village resident Sodi Sambo to the Dantewada Civil hospital. One suggestion to the city folk who do not have a fat medical insurance to be able to undergo any treatment in large hospitals like the Apollo or Jaslok – go to any civil hospital in a sleepy town like Dantewada. The floor is spic and span, the walls are not decorated with red spittoon, there is no nauseating odour of Chitranela phenyl in the corridors, and the ward boys are not languidly chewing paan and ogling at each patient’s relative walking in. The hospital gave me yet another reason why I should not enter the whirlpool of insurance policies. As I learnt in Dantewada, through its beauty and horror stories, a 20th century invention like insurance is not a need.

Sodi Sambo waits patiently for her leg to be tended to

Sodi was shot on her right leg on October 1 this year by some Salwa Judum SPOs. She has since been living in VCA, under the love and care of the other tribal women who keep VCA inmates happy with their culinary skills. Sodi had to be taken to the hospital to get her wound cleaned and bandage changed. A young man, with no doctor’s robe or green mask, attended to her slim leg. He removed the earlier bandage and cleaned the wound with sterilizer with great confidence, but without any gloves on his hands. When I asked him if he would be wearing a pair, he replied nothing and continued to work at the same pace. Eventually, when the bandage dipped in Betadine solution and fastened around the steel rods fitted into Sodi’s leg had to be replaced, he wore gloves and finished the job carefully. All this while, as the dressing procedure was on, Sodi did not utter a word. Since I had not yet picked up any significant words in Koya Mata language, I asked one of the VCA volunteers with us to ask Sodi if the procedure was hurting her. Sodi nodded her head to affirm pain. But she did not twitch even once. Does time really heal wounds or merely plays with them?

Sans gloves, Sodi Sambo gets her wound sterilised

We brought Sodi back and the sun was almost down the horizon. Before retiring early for the day, Himanshuji was joined by professors Nandini Sundar and Ujjwal Singh of Delhi University. Sundar has been working on issues in Chhattisgarh for close to two decades but her fresh youthful look defies the cornucopia of knowledge and experience that she carries along nonchalantly. She told us that they had arrived from Jagdalpur and had lodged themselves in Madhuban Hotel, very close to VCA. “But we were told by the hotel manager that the next day was the death anniversary of some relative of the hotel owner and the rooms required cleaning. They asked us to check out the same night. Of course, such warm housekeeping was meant only for us,” Sundar said with a wry smile.

However, by around 10 pm, Sundar got a call from the hotel, stating that she could spend the night there. Weird is the business sense in Chhattisgarh. Weird is each day here. “Events”, as journalists would like to call them, can make you cry and laugh at the same time here. You will cry because it tugs your heart and will leave you sleepless; you will laugh because even Charlie Chaplin didn’t fathom such inanity and insanity of The Great Dictator, such as is in Bastar.