Third Floor
“Hey. What Now?”
“What ‘what’? Face the music and run for your life.”
“What?”
“What ‘What’ man? Am I not clear?”
“What’s going on tell me? Did you people do some thing today?”
“Just stoop and walk. If they hear your sound – one shot and you are down.”
“Damn, What if I am dead. I have a lot of thing to do in life. A - Bachelor. Anyways I heard now days they are using something better than INSAF and SLR in anti-Naxal operations. One burst fire and we all will be late Mr’s and Miss.”
“Even if they had a rifle made before First World War they can easily bang us, because today our platoon has a press parrot – who cannot help to keep his mouth shut.”
“I - a parrot, Mind you I am journalist.”
Oh! Sorry. I forgot to introduce myself and the prologue. 2007 - I was then the proud crime reporter of India Times - Sharad Kumar - covering my Naxal Co-ordination beat on my weekly off. June hot in Jharkhand and my location - deep forests in Tamar- the Maoist Capital of this State’s capital.
That day I visited the Naxal den, unknowingly. Right unknowingly.
How come? Have patience.
“Hello Friends, this is Sharad reporting live for XYZ TV and right now I am moving with a platoon of the CPI (Maoist). Sorry again, I am running for life with a platoon of CPI (Maoist) as there is a ‘BIG combing force of State Police’ moving towards us.”
“Will you stop your mockery?”
“And Yes, I am also cursing myself to have rejected the date with my girlfriend today who had all booked a restaurant to celebrate our first date…. no no…. the first time we met …no it’s the anniversary of our first kiss….or it is….forget it.”
“Damn you print media reporter’s dream of going into electronic media like we wish the govern….
“Did you hear that?”
“Yes it’s a helicopter.”
“Wow a helicopter….. WHAT? A POLICE helicopter,”
“Don’t panic it cannot find us the forest is lush green, besides, we are just 25 steps away from our bunker.”
“What? Let’s run then. I would hate to die of areal firing. God! They won’t even recognize me from that height. At least to the ground force I could say for survival that I was kidnapped by the Red commander. But, areal firing. Bullets after bullets and more bullets would pierce my head, my neck, my hand and (not to mention all the parts). They would even count me in the dead Naxalites. My body would be thrown in the state morgue and I would smell for months and end up eaten away by insects and rats. No, no God please help.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey we have walked 25 steps where is the bunker. I cannot see any here. You fooled me bastard”
“Who made you a reporter? Just a degree I guess. The bunker is just below your feet.”
“What?”
“Hey stop saying “What” or else I would help them to locate you.”
The intelligent person (at least he thinks so of himself) who threatened me here and with whom I was in conversation with is Zonal Commander of CPI (Maoist) Jaidev Pahan, the mastermind of all Naxal incidents in the area. He heads the Military commission -Platoon 38 – CPI (Maoist) a big thing in Red Zone. I knew Pahan from past two hours, but yes knew him by name for past one year. Though a monster by act he seems to be a nice company. Yes, sometimes he acts over smarts as he did some moments ago.
Two minutes and the door to the bunker were opened and I was three floors below the ground. With me here sat Pahan, Neetu Mahato (his illegal girl friend, I guess) and Jitan Marandi.
Yes, Marandi – his looks don’t need a loud speaker to announce what kind of man he is. His name is decorated in the Most Wanted list of police headquarters. This man is the proud owner of 23 murder cases of policemen in the state.
Two hours since I had met them - Marandi kept putting words into the ears of his master simultaneously maintaining distance from me. Rather giving me a hatred look every now and then.
“So what have you people done? Why such a severe combing operation in forest today? Tell me”
“Nothing it’s just that Mishra jee is here. And some bloody informer has informed the police. They are hunting for him.”
Either the heaven broke loose or there happened an earth quake. Mishra, the polit bureau member of CPI (Maoist) whom I accidently met a couple of months back. No not again.
I had met Mishra or Munna Mishra earlier. Some how he came to know that I had left a left-wing student union and moved into ABVP – the flagship of saffron brigade. He almost had scuffle with me if I had not left on time sensing the trouble. What even if you are a press reporter? God Save!!
“Arre Waah, Mishra jee is here. I would love to meet him.”
I only know how did I press by vocal chord, stopped my breath, united all energy to speak the last few six words. He would kill me this time I knew. I had even left ABVP and was now with some liberal organization, Civil Society. Oh! That means the corporate. Bang! Bang! Two bullets in and I shall become –Late Sharad Kumar, ex-crime reporter, India Times, a scary thought.
“No he is in the other bunker. You can’t meet him,” Marandi this time. The words were the same, however, it meant do not dare ask about him.
“Thank you, thank you thank you so much Marandi, Oh! It’s sad I wished I could meet him” Some words are spoken by heart and some by mouth. By heart are cancelled.
For next six hours I had to keep sitting in the third floor, with Marandi watching me closely. (Well, I think either he suspected that I am the spy or he was a Gay.)
Meanwhile, Pahan and Neetu had moved to the fourth floor in the bunker. “How mean! A bachelor away from his girlfriend is sitting in the mid of the jungle. That too at your place. Ok! Ok! In your bunker and you people are making love with such sounds leaving me with a ‘may-be’ gay, not fair.” One has the freedom to think anything unless someone can hear ones thoughts.
What next? I needed some time pass. So, I took out my cell phone. To play some games off course – where do you find a signal in mid of the woods? But hey…
“How dare you snatch my cell phone Marandi.”
“Just shut up you idiot. I knew there was something wrong.”
The alarm was too loud to bring down the armed guards of the second floor and to bring up Pahan from his bed to the third floor.
“What happened comrade?”
“He was calling someone. May be, informing police about his whereabouts.”
‘No I was not. I was going to play game.”
“GROW UP. And remember never dare switch on your cell phone while in Naxal den. Someone throw him out of here.”
Unlike last time, this time I was blindfolded and thrown in front of a dhaba on the Ranchi-Jamshedpur Road from a running bike.
Has someone seen me falling? Bad-luck a lot of them sitting at the dhaba. Shamelessly, yes you got it right shamelessly I went to the dhaba asked for a cuppa of tea.
I then sat waiting for some bus to arrive that would take me to safe Ranchi. However, I was not sitting ideal. I was making plans. Plans about how I would thrash the person who gave me the link to visit the deadly den.
“Hey. What Now?”
“What ‘what’? Face the music and run for your life.”
“What?”
“What ‘What’ man? Am I not clear?”
“What’s going on tell me? Did you people do some thing today?”
“Just stoop and walk. If they hear your sound – one shot and you are down.”
“Damn, What if I am dead. I have a lot of thing to do in life. A - Bachelor. Anyways I heard now days they are using something better than INSAF and SLR in anti-Naxal operations. One burst fire and we all will be late Mr’s and Miss.”
“Even if they had a rifle made before First World War they can easily bang us, because today our platoon has a press parrot – who cannot help to keep his mouth shut.”
“I - a parrot, Mind you I am journalist.”
Oh! Sorry. I forgot to introduce myself and the prologue. 2007 - I was then the proud crime reporter of India Times - Sharad Kumar - covering my Naxal Co-ordination beat on my weekly off. June hot in Jharkhand and my location - deep forests in Tamar- the Maoist Capital of this State’s capital.
That day I visited the Naxal den, unknowingly. Right unknowingly.
How come? Have patience.
“Hello Friends, this is Sharad reporting live for XYZ TV and right now I am moving with a platoon of the CPI (Maoist). Sorry again, I am running for life with a platoon of CPI (Maoist) as there is a ‘BIG combing force of State Police’ moving towards us.”
“Will you stop your mockery?”
“And Yes, I am also cursing myself to have rejected the date with my girlfriend today who had all booked a restaurant to celebrate our first date…. no no…. the first time we met …no it’s the anniversary of our first kiss….or it is….forget it.”
“Damn you print media reporter’s dream of going into electronic media like we wish the govern….
“Did you hear that?”
“Yes it’s a helicopter.”
“Wow a helicopter….. WHAT? A POLICE helicopter,”
“Don’t panic it cannot find us the forest is lush green, besides, we are just 25 steps away from our bunker.”
“What? Let’s run then. I would hate to die of areal firing. God! They won’t even recognize me from that height. At least to the ground force I could say for survival that I was kidnapped by the Red commander. But, areal firing. Bullets after bullets and more bullets would pierce my head, my neck, my hand and (not to mention all the parts). They would even count me in the dead Naxalites. My body would be thrown in the state morgue and I would smell for months and end up eaten away by insects and rats. No, no God please help.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey we have walked 25 steps where is the bunker. I cannot see any here. You fooled me bastard”
“Who made you a reporter? Just a degree I guess. The bunker is just below your feet.”
“What?”
“Hey stop saying “What” or else I would help them to locate you.”
The intelligent person (at least he thinks so of himself) who threatened me here and with whom I was in conversation with is Zonal Commander of CPI (Maoist) Jaidev Pahan, the mastermind of all Naxal incidents in the area. He heads the Military commission -Platoon 38 – CPI (Maoist) a big thing in Red Zone. I knew Pahan from past two hours, but yes knew him by name for past one year. Though a monster by act he seems to be a nice company. Yes, sometimes he acts over smarts as he did some moments ago.
Two minutes and the door to the bunker were opened and I was three floors below the ground. With me here sat Pahan, Neetu Mahato (his illegal girl friend, I guess) and Jitan Marandi.
Yes, Marandi – his looks don’t need a loud speaker to announce what kind of man he is. His name is decorated in the Most Wanted list of police headquarters. This man is the proud owner of 23 murder cases of policemen in the state.
Two hours since I had met them - Marandi kept putting words into the ears of his master simultaneously maintaining distance from me. Rather giving me a hatred look every now and then.
“So what have you people done? Why such a severe combing operation in forest today? Tell me”
“Nothing it’s just that Mishra jee is here. And some bloody informer has informed the police. They are hunting for him.”
Either the heaven broke loose or there happened an earth quake. Mishra, the polit bureau member of CPI (Maoist) whom I accidently met a couple of months back. No not again.
I had met Mishra or Munna Mishra earlier. Some how he came to know that I had left a left-wing student union and moved into ABVP – the flagship of saffron brigade. He almost had scuffle with me if I had not left on time sensing the trouble. What even if you are a press reporter? God Save!!
“Arre Waah, Mishra jee is here. I would love to meet him.”
I only know how did I press by vocal chord, stopped my breath, united all energy to speak the last few six words. He would kill me this time I knew. I had even left ABVP and was now with some liberal organization, Civil Society. Oh! That means the corporate. Bang! Bang! Two bullets in and I shall become –Late Sharad Kumar, ex-crime reporter, India Times, a scary thought.
“No he is in the other bunker. You can’t meet him,” Marandi this time. The words were the same, however, it meant do not dare ask about him.
“Thank you, thank you thank you so much Marandi, Oh! It’s sad I wished I could meet him” Some words are spoken by heart and some by mouth. By heart are cancelled.
For next six hours I had to keep sitting in the third floor, with Marandi watching me closely. (Well, I think either he suspected that I am the spy or he was a Gay.)
Meanwhile, Pahan and Neetu had moved to the fourth floor in the bunker. “How mean! A bachelor away from his girlfriend is sitting in the mid of the jungle. That too at your place. Ok! Ok! In your bunker and you people are making love with such sounds leaving me with a ‘may-be’ gay, not fair.” One has the freedom to think anything unless someone can hear ones thoughts.
What next? I needed some time pass. So, I took out my cell phone. To play some games off course – where do you find a signal in mid of the woods? But hey…
“How dare you snatch my cell phone Marandi.”
“Just shut up you idiot. I knew there was something wrong.”
The alarm was too loud to bring down the armed guards of the second floor and to bring up Pahan from his bed to the third floor.
“What happened comrade?”
“He was calling someone. May be, informing police about his whereabouts.”
‘No I was not. I was going to play game.”
“GROW UP. And remember never dare switch on your cell phone while in Naxal den. Someone throw him out of here.”
Unlike last time, this time I was blindfolded and thrown in front of a dhaba on the Ranchi-Jamshedpur Road from a running bike.
Has someone seen me falling? Bad-luck a lot of them sitting at the dhaba. Shamelessly, yes you got it right shamelessly I went to the dhaba asked for a cuppa of tea.
I then sat waiting for some bus to arrive that would take me to safe Ranchi. However, I was not sitting ideal. I was making plans. Plans about how I would thrash the person who gave me the link to visit the deadly den.
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