Tell me, why am I still suffering?

The writer reveals the complex, often harsh, life experiences of the foot soldiers of the Maoist struggle

The names of her village and post office are as fascinating as her name. She comes from a village called Mahadebsinan—meaning a bathing place of the Hindu god, Lord Shiva, or possibly where devotees pour water on the Shivalinga. The post office is called Meetha-aam or succulent, sweet mangoes.

Since the young woman didn’t want me to disclose her name, I had to name her Mallika. But life hasn’t been as sweet, nor her circumstances as pristine as the imagery these names suggest. In a queer turn of fate, she is a home guard with the West Bengal police and teaches toddlers in a government-run school.

Mallika was wearing a batik-printed red and brown salwar kameez with a white dupatta wrapped around her neck. She was sweating in the humid rainy season of south Bengal. Her hair was tied in a plait but some strands hovered around her forehead making her blink from time to time.

A few minutes of talking to her and I realized she was extremely intelligent, observant and cautious. Now in her thirties, Mallika regretted the way her life had turned out. ‘I had a lot of dreams.

I wanted to complete my graduation, take up a job and wished to get married. Now, those dreams will never come true,’ she said. ‘That’s because I have been stamped as a Maoist. I don’t think anyone will want to marry me.

I asked my mother to look for a groom for my younger sister instead.’ She hoped her own social ostracism would not make her sister an unsuitable match.

Her maternal uncles are highly qualified—they are ‘mostly doctors and engineers’, Mallika informed me proudly. She too, would have followed their path and done something outstanding.

She was doing a course in fashion designing from a private institute at Salt Lake—a satellite township adjoining Kolkata. In 2009, after appearing for her BA final year exams, she came back to stay at home, in Mahadebsinan, after a long absence. So far, she had mostly stayed away from home at different hostels in order to complete her studies.

‘Our neighbours were extremely hostile towards us. They were jealous because we were more educated than most of them and also because of our political inclinations. It was a CPM area and we were supporters of the Trinamool Congress. We were also relatively better off financially than our neighbours.

‘With the Lalgarh movement on in full swing, women leaders from Kolkata’s Jadavpur University came down to our village and asked us to join them.

At that time, everyone was involved in the movement—they were speaking against police atrocities on Chhitamoni Murmu (in 2008), who had lost an eye when police raided the village and tortured helpless women like her.

We were told by the women leaders who had come down from Kolkata that educated ones like me must join the movement in order to bring about a new political order.’

She did feel inspired, but also a little pressured, to join the movement, Mallika told me. ‘It is one thing to support a cause and another to actually walk in a protest march, shout slogans and put pressure on the government for certain demands.’

Mallika said she was always a bit shy and not one who would feel comfortable being part of a protest meet. ‘In my heart I was one with the movement, but I was unsure about the slogan shouting and protest marches. Yet, there was a pressure on me.

I was told by the didis from Kolkata that it would be silly to remain so passive. There were so many women and girls like me who had joined the protests. I didn’t think it was such a wrong thing to do. Therefore, I too went out in groups, along with other women, visiting different villages.’

Some villagers had become cautious. Sensing trouble, many parents had sent off their boys to other states—some went to different parts of Maharashtra, or to Gujarat or neighbouring Odisha and even to other parts of south Bengal to work in factories—because they did not want them to become part of this armed movement.

‘But where could the women go? The leaders of the movement were persistent that educated women like me should influence other women. We were told not to allow the police to enter the area because they were coming only to torture and molest women.’

She did not know how, despite not handling arms, nor having any case pending against her, she became ‘Wanted’ in police records. ‘I could not figure out how this happened. There were so many women in our groups. But when I became a ‘Wanted’ person, I did not know what to do. I was compelled to go underground. I stayed at different relatives’ places for several months.’

Then the police came and took her sister away. It was probably a ploy to draw her out and bring her into the police net. It worked. She realized it would be impossible to be on the run for the rest of her life. …

Yet, this surrender turned out to be hardly what she had expected it to be. ‘I had thought that surrender would mean the police would listen to the circumstances under which I had worked with them (the Maoists) and I would be allowed to go home because the charges against me would be waived.

But I am surprised by the way I have now been almost imprisoned here,’ Mallika said. She got the job of a home guard, and teaches at a government run school, but is unable to go home. Security personnel guard her because it is a rule to provide security to surrendered Maoists due to the threat to their lives from their former colleagues, or perhaps so she cannot run away.

She is surprised that she is treated like the other Maoists who had surrendered to the police. ‘It is a little difficult to believe that I can be a Maoist simply because I participated in some meetings and demonstrations with some frontal organizations.

I had hoped I would be set free if I told them everything.’ This might appear a bit too naïve, but that’s the way she is. …

(Excerpt from Out of War: Voices of Surrendered Maoist by Swati Sengupta; Publisher Speaking Tiger; Rs 350.)