At the time situation was very dangerous. All police, Cobras, Greyhounds, Andhra Police would be everywhere. Hundreds of Party workers were killed like anything. Maximum hatred police had for women workers. Comrade Nirmalakka when she was killed they ripped her stomach and took out everything. Comrade Laxmi also they not simply killed, but cut, and removed eyes. For her there was big protest. One another Comrade Padmakka they captured and broken both her knees so she could not walk and beat her so she has kidney damage, liver damage, so much damage. She came out from jail now she works in Amarula Bandhu Mithrula Sangathan. Wherever Party people are killed and family is poor and cannot afford to travel to get their person’s body back, she goes. In tractor, Tempo, anything, and brings the body to family for funeral and all those things. In 2008 the situation much worst inside the forest. Operation Green Hunt is announced by Government. War against People. Thousands of police and paramilitary are in the forest. Killing adivasis, burning villages. No adivasi can stay in her house or their village. They sleep in the forest outside at night because at night police come, hundred, two hundred, sometimes five hundred police. They take everything, burn everything, steal everything. Chickens, goats, money. They want adivasi people to vacate forest so they can make a steel township and mining. Thousands are in jail. All this politics you can read outside. Or in our magazine People’s March. So I will only tell you about Udaya. At the time of Green Hunt, Party gave a call for recruitment to PLGA—People’s Liberation Guerrilla Army. At the time I and two others went into Bastar forest for arms training. I worked there for more than six years. Inside sometimes I am called Comrade Maase. It means Black Girl. I like this name. But we keep different names also, each other’s names. Although I am in PLGA, since I am an educated woman, Party also keeps me for outside work. Sometimes I have to go to Warangal, Bhadrachalam or Khammam. Sometimes Narayanpur. This is most dangerous, because now in villages and in towns there are many informers working against us. That is how, one time when I was returning from outside, I was captured in Kudur village. At the time I was dressed in a sari and bangles and handbag and two string pearls. I could not fight. My arrest was not shown. I was tied up and given chloroform and taken to some place I don’t know. When I waked up it was dark. I was in a room with two doors and two windows. It was a classroom. There was a blackboard but no furniture. It was a government school. All schools inside the forests are police camps. No teachers and no students come. I was naked. There was six police around me. One was cutting my skin with a knife-blade. “So you think you are a great heroine?” he asked me. If I closed my eyes they slap me. Two are holding my hands and two are holding legs. “We want to give you a gift for your Party.” They are smoking and putting their cigarettes on me. “You people shout a lot! Shout now and see what happens!” I thought they would kill me like Padmakka and Laxmi but they said “Don’t worry Blackie we will let you go. You must go and tell them what we did to you. You are a great heroine. You supply them with bullets, malaria medicines, food, toothbrushes. All that we know. How many innocent girls have you sent to join your Party? You are spoiling everyone. Now you go and marry someone. Settle down quietly. But first we will give you some marriage experience.” They kept on burning me and cutting me. But I am not crying at all. “Why don’t you scream? Your great leaders will come and save you. You people don’t scream?” Then one man forced open my mouth and one man put his penis in my mouth. I could not breathe. I thought I would die. They kept putting water on my face. Then all raped me many times. One is Udaya’s father. Which, how can I say? I was unconscious. When I waked again I was bleeding everywhere. The door was open. They were outside smoking. I could see my sari. I slowly took it. The back door was open slightly and outside was a paddy field. They saw me running, first they ran after me and I fell but then they said, “Leave it, let her go.” This is the experience of so many women in the forest. From that I took courage. I ran through the fields. It was only moonlight. I reached a tar road. I came onto it. I had only sari. No blouse, no petticoat. I wrapped it somehow. A bus came. I got in. I was barefeet. Bleeding. My face is like a pumpkin. Mouth is huge because they bit it many times. The bus was empty. Conductor did not say anything. He did not ask me for a ticket. I sat near the window and slept because of the chloroform. In Khammam he woke me and said, “This is the last stop.” I got down from the bus. When I came to know it was Khammam I was happy because I know very well one Dr. Gowrinath who has a clinic. I went there. I was walking like a drunk man. I knocked on the door and his wife opened it and screamed. I sat on her bed. I was looking like a mad person. All the cigarette burns were bubbles, on my face, breast, nipples, stomach. Her whole bed was blood. Dr. Gowrinath came and gave me some first aid. I am sleeping always because of chloroform. When I am awake I am only weeping. I only want to go to my comrades inside the forest, Renu, Damayanti, Narmada akka. Dr. Gowrinath kept me for ten days. After that we got a contact from inside and I went back to the forest. I walked for twelve kilometers then a PLGA squad came and we walked five hours more to a camp where District Committee members were. The main leader, Comrade P.K., asked me what happened. He is no more now. He also killed in encounter. At the time I told them, but I was crying and he could not understand anything. First he thought I am complaining about a Party comrade. Comrade P.K. said, “I don’t understand this feelings nonsense. We are soldiers. Tell me like a report without emotions.” So I told him the report. But without my knowledge my eyes are weeping. I showed my injuries for inspection to female comrades. After that they sat for two days to think what to do. Then the committee called me again and said I must go outside and form a “Revathy Atyachar Vedirekh Committee”—Committee Against Revathy’s Rape. In addition I was given responsibility for another program to take over a slum colony with 2000 people and only two handpumps. I am so sick and I have to organize people’s rally for more handpumps. I could not believe it. But they said I must help myself. But I could not go outside because by then I could not walk. Bleeding was not stopped. I was having fits. My wounds were got septic. I could not go out. I could not march with the squads. Again I was left in a forest village. After three months I could walk. By then I was pregnant. But I did not bother. I rejoined PLGA. But when Party came to know they again told me to go outside because PLGA women are banned to have children. I stayed in a forest village till Udaya was born. When I saw her first I felt very much hatred. I felt that six police fellows cutting me with blades and burning me with cigarettes. I thought to kill her. I put my gun on her head but could not fire because she was a small and cute baby. That time there was a big campaign going on outside the forest against War on People. Big Delhi groups organized a public tribunal. Adivasi people who had become victims were called to Delhi to speak to National Media. Party told me to accompany them along with other local lawyers and activists. As I had a small child it was a good cover. I was a very good speaker in Telugu and knew all the facts. They had good translators in Delhi. After the Tribunal I sat with tribal victims for three days public protest in Jantar Mantar. I saw many good people there. But I cannot live outside like them.
My Party is my Mother and Father. Many times it does many wrong things. Kills wrong people. Women join because they are revolutionaries but also because they cannot bear their sufferings at home. Party says men and women are equal, but still they never understand. I know Comrade Stalin and Chairman Mao have done many good things and many bad things also. But still I cannot leave my Party. I cannot live outside. I saw many good people in Jantar Mantar so I had the idea to leave Udaya there. I cannot be like you and them. I cannot go on hunger-strike and make requests. In the forest every day police is burning killing raping poor people. Outside there is you people to fight and take up issues. But inside there is us only. So I am returned to Dandakaranya to live and die by my gun.
Thankyou Comrade for reading this.
Red Salute! Lal Salaam!
Revathy
“LAL SALAAM ALEIKUM,” was Anjum’s inadvertent, instinctive response to the end of the letter. That could have been the beginning of a whole political movement, but she had only meant it in the way of an “Ameen” after listening to a moving sermon.
Each of the listeners recognized, in their own separate ways, something of themselves and their own stories, their own Indo-Pak, in the story of this unknown, faraway woman who was no longer alive. It made them close ranks around Miss Jebeen the Second like a formation of trees, or adult elephants—an impenetrable fortress in which she, unlike her biological mother, would grow up protected and loved.
What came up for immediate discussion in the graveyard Politburo, however, was whether or not Miss Jebeen the Second should ever know about the letter. Anjum, the General Secretary, was absolutely unambiguous about that. While Miss Jebeen the Second stood on her lap and almost twisted the nose off her face, Anjum said, “She should know about her mother of course. Never about her father.”
It was decided that Revathy should be buried with full honors in the graveyard. In the absence of her body, her letter would be interred in the grave. (Tilo would keep a photocopy for the record.) Anjum wanted to know what the correct rituals were for the funeral of a communist. (She used the phrase Lal Salaami.) When Dr. Azad Bhartiya said that as far as he knew there were none as such, she was a little disparaging. “What kind of thing is it, then? What kind of people leave their dead without prayers?”
The next day Dr. Azad Bhartiya procured a red flag. Revathy’s letter was put into an airtight container and then it was wrapped in the flag. While it was buried he sang the Hindi version of “The Internationale” and gave her a clenched-fist Red Salute. Thus ended the second funeral of Miss Jebeen the Second’s first, second or third mother, depending on your perspective.
The Politburo decided that Miss Jebeen the Second’s full name would, from that day onwards, be Miss Udaya Jebeen. The epitaph on her mother’s tombstone simply read:
COMRADE MAASE REVATHY
Beloved mother of Miss Udaya Jebeen
Lal Salaam
Dr. Azad Bhartiya tried to teach Miss Udaya Jebeen—she of the six fathers and three mothers (who were stitched together by threads of light)—to clench her fist and say a final “Lal Salaam” to her mother.
“…’al Salaam,” she gurgled.
* * *
* O God, thou art the giver of life Remover of pain and sorrow Bestower of happiness O Creator of the Universe May we receive thy supreme sin-destroying light / May thou guide our intellect in the right direction
11
THE LANDLORD
I’m still here. As you must, no doubt, have guessed. I never did check in to that rehabilitation center. It lasted on and off for almost six months, the binge that started when I first arrived. However, I’m sober now—sober for now, is probably how I’m meant to put it. It’s been well over a year since I touched a drink. But it’s too late. I’ve lost my job. Chitra has left me and Rabia and Ania won’t speak to me. Oddly, none of it has made me as unhappy as I imagined it would. I have come to enjoy my solitude.
Over the last few months, I’ve lived the life of a recluse. Instead of binge drinking, I’ve been binge reading. I have made it my business to pry into every last piece of paper—every document, every report, every letter, every video, every yellow Post-it and every photograph in every file in this apartment. I suppose you could say that I brought the attributes of an addictive personality to this project too—by which I mean single-mindedness coupled with acute guilt and useless remorse. Once I had been through the whole, weird archive, I tried to make amends for my prurience by putting some logic and order into its chaos. Then again, maybe that just counts as further transgression. Either way, I’ve refiled the papers and photographs and packed them into sealed cartons so that, if and when she comes, she can take them away easily. I’ve taken down the noticeboards and made sure the photographs and Post-its are packed in a way that she can put them up again in the same order with little difficulty. All this to say that I have moved in. I live here now, in this apartment. I have nowhere else to go. The rent from the flat downstairs constitutes the better part of my income. Tilo does continue to pay rent into my account, but I plan to return it to her whenever, if ever, I see her again.
The upshot of my prying, I should admit, is that I have changed my mind about Kashmir. It might sound a little cheap and convenient for me to be saying this now, I know—I must sound like those army generals who wage war all their lives and then suddenly become pious, anti-nuke peaceniks when they retire. The only difference between them and me is that I’m going to keep my newly formed opinion to myself. It’s not easy though. If I wanted to, and if I played my cards right, I could probably parlay it into some serious capital. I could create a political storm if I “came out,” so to speak, because I see from the news that Kashmir, after a few years of deceptive calm, has exploded once again.
From what I can tell, it’s no longer the case that security forces are attacking people. It seems to be the other way around now. People—ordinary people, not militants—are attacking the forces. Kids on the streets with stones in their hands are facing down soldiers with guns; villagers armed with sticks and shovels are sweeping down mountainsides and overwhelming army camps. If the soldiers fire at them and kill a few, the protests just swell some more. The paramilitary are using pellet guns that end up blinding people—which is better than killing them, I suppose. Although in PR terms it’s worse. The world is inured to the sight of piled-up corpses. But not to the sight of hundreds of living people who have been blinded. Pardon my crudeness, but you can imagine the visual appeal of that. But even that doesn’t seem to be working. Boys who’ve lost one eye are back on the street, prepared to risk the other. What do you do with that kind of fury?
I have no doubt that we can—and will—beat them down once more. But where will it all end? War. Or Nuclear War. Those seem to be the most realistic answers to that question. Every evening as I watch the news I marvel at the ignorance and idiocy on display. And to think that all my life I have been a part of it. It’s all I can do to stop myself writing something for the papers. I won’t, because I’d lay myself open to ridicule—the sacked, drunk, conscientious objector. That sort of thing.