Read Online Where Angels Prey by Ramesh S Arunachalam - Free Book Online
Authors: Ramesh S Arunachalam
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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
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
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