By Ranu Tiwari

(A spine-chilling encounter: from anonymity to acquaintance)

This story is not a figment of imagination.

This is the story of that truth of the jungle which is not found on maps.

And of that young Maoist, who sat hiding answers within questions, and philosophy within answers.

There was a time when the Maoists had banned me from entering the forests.

But a journalist’s nature is perhaps even more stubborn than the jungle.

I kept going into the innermost areas of Bastar and continued reporting.

That is when senior journalist Kamal Shukla ji said one day in a serious tone, “This can be very dangerous. The lower cadre of Maoists kills without thinking. It shouldn’t happen that they kill you… and the higher cadre issues an apology letter later.”

This statement went deep into my heart.

A decision was made.

A direct meeting would be held with the top leaders of the Maoist organization.

We set out on a journey

that had no fixed destination

because Maoists do not have an office.

We reached Bijapur.

From there, we took Mukesh Chandrakar along; he was also banned.

Then it was decided we would go towards Basaguda and enter through any trail.

But as soon as we reached Basaguda, news came

that there had been an air strike on the Maoists.

Shortly after, a Maoist press note was released.

The location was inside from Basaguda, beyond Kondapalli.

We changed direction.

By dusk, we reached Kondapalli.

And just then, the lower Maoist cadre, perhaps the Jan Militia, stopped us.

The suspicion was deep. “How did you reach here within just a few hours of the air strike? Are you conspiring with the police?” Such questions came, in a very sharp manner.

A very long argument ensued. We stated clearly, “We will not go back. We must meet the top leaders only.”

Finally, it was decided.

Stay here for the night.

First Meeting with Manish

Late at night, in the house where we were staying, a very young boy arrived. With him were four other people, all in civil dress.

At first glance, it was difficult to identify them. But when that boy stepped forward, shook my hand, and said “Lal Salaam” (Red Salute), the picture became clear.

His name was Manish.

He had brought a message: “You should go back. When the call comes, the meeting will happen. Conditions are not right at the moment.”

But our stubbornness remained.

Manish said, “Okay, I will bring an answer again in the morning.”

The Boy of Questions

The next morning, Manish came again.

This time, I saw he had a small knife in his hand.

He repeated the same thing. We decided to stay.

Five days, for five whole days, we stayed in Kondapalli.

And during these five days, Manish would sit with us every day—three hours in the afternoon, and three hours in the evening.

He used to ask questions, he used to discuss.

But he had a strange habit.

He answered every question with a question. For instance,

“How old are you?” — How old do you think I should be?

“How did you get these stitches on your hand?” — How do you think I got them?

“How long have you been in the organization?” — How long do you think I could have been?

Five days passed, and then came the moment of the summons.

On the fifth day afternoon, scorching heat. Under a shed in the village, a cot.

Suddenly Manish came and said,

“The journey you set out on… its destination is now near.”

We sat on the motorcycle.

I asked,

“How far?”

Manish smiled.

“Only the path will tell.”

A round of Kondapalli, a trail towards the back, and suddenly Manish stopped the bike.

He went behind a tree, and when he came out, I got goosebumps. He was now in a black uniform, with an automatic SLR rifle on his shoulder.

I could only say this much, “So this is your real form, Manish.”

He smiled, and we moved forward from there.

There is a lot of information here that would not be right to write down.

From behind every two or four trees, guards in black uniforms, armed with automatic weapons, kept emerging.

Then came a dry river, nothing but sand.

Three people were sitting there.

An elderly Maoist holding an AK-47.

The other two were leaders.

All around, there were 50-60 armed Maoists.

Here, a four-to-five-hour debate took place on lifting the ban.

Three leaders—Vikas, Vijay, and Damodar—and Manish sitting equal to them, arguing.

Finally, a decision was reached. “Now you can report anywhere; we will broadcast this information throughout the organization.”

By the time of this decision, it was night. Manish said, “Eat food, rest, leave in the morning.”

I said,

“I will go right now.”

He said,

“It is the jungle, Sir, there could be danger.”

I said,

“Danger from whom, Manish? I am leaving after meeting all of you.”

At the time of parting

Manish hugged me.

And then,

he gave the answer to every question asked in the last five days, one by one.

Age 23 years. Party school at the age of 11. Full-time member from 12. Bear attack on the hand.

In the end, I said, “We will meet again, Manish.”

He looked with deep eyes and said, “I don’t know if I will remain or not when you come next time.”

I said, “You will remain.”

He did not smile. He just said this:

“Whether I remain or not, Sir,

but the fight will live on.”

I came out of the jungle, but that boy… he is still sitting inside me today.

A 23-year-old tribal youth.

Such rigid commitment to his fight.

I still think today—

If every youth of my country put their energy not into violence, but into nation-building, then perhaps, in some jungle, some Manish

would not need to say this sentence at all.

“Whether I remain or not, but the fight will live on.”

Written by Ranu Tiwari, Translation by Shubhankar