I do not know whether it is legal to be a Naxal sympathizer any more. I vaguely remember reading somewhere that mere writing about them or speaking on their behalf could land one in trouble. Not that I care even if it was illegal. There are many illegal things that we may do inadvertently, yet we end up doing them. For instance, some people continue to smoke in public places even when it is prohibited and some, like me, end up jumping stop signals at crossings because of the confusing and elaborate traffic signal lights that are many a times out of order though they were put up as part of a grand show in the run-up to the Commonwealth Games by the third successive Congress government in the state of Delhi just about three years back.
But I do not dislike the Naxals as much as I dislike rapists, for they are a product of a system that has been unfair to them. Let me begin with some disclaimers. First, I do not hate industrial investment in resource-rich belts that are home to the Naxals. Also, much to the dismay of many friends, who dislike non-violence of Gandhi variety, I do not justify killings of innocent or for that matter even a guilty, who has wronged the locals and has made arms an easy recourse for seeking justice in a system that has failed citizens. I am not a sympathizer but a seeker of many answers like any other journalist.
It may sound complicated but recently, I had a series of interesting conversations with one tribal lady who simplified for me the stark contrast between the Naxals, and the urban rich and even the not-so-rich aspirational middle class. It was March 8, International Women’ Day. I was trying to tell her that I, along with a group of fellow women journalists, was going to the Rashtrapati Bhawan to meet President Pranab Mukherjee.
I was reminded of my earlier interactions with younger people from tribal belts of Jharkhand, Orissa and Assam that had taught me that many are not even clear about the concept of nationhood though they were literates. Why blame the Naxals for sedition then? But the disheartening part for me was that my excitement was shattered early morning despite a nice hand woven Fabindia sari. By evening after an uneventful evening with Mr Mukherjee, who was uninteresting and is probably too old for fresh ideas and is only nostalgic, the excitement came back when I saw the change of guard ceremony at the courtyard. Smartly dressed soldiers and horses brought back the long-lost feeling of nationalism in me. The evening was pleasant at the top of the Delhi’s high point of Raisina Hill that speaks power to me with its imposing presence.
The tribal lady just this week simplified for me the Naxal and the urban divide again. Her late husband had lent to her ailing aunt some money in return for which the aunt gave him a piece of land. That land is in one of the rural areas of Jharkhand. Her economic necessity of feeding seven children keeps her in the state capital of Ranchi now and sometimes even in the National Capital of Delhi without her children. Her relatives advise she should just build a one-room tenement on that land to keep her hold over it, but she is reluctant. She and her sons instead prefer to earn a living out of it by taking a share of the harvest, not from the aunt who is probably no more, but from the Naxal brethren who rule it now. “They tell me to give one of my children to them (to join the cadre). My sons say they are not interested in that life and it is better to let go the land than be a Naxal,” she told me. Strangely, she shows no grudge against either the Nazals or her sons, as she tells me that the ultra left brigade have a hold over that entire area. It may not be a secret, in any case for the state police or for that matter even the Union home ministry. The Naxal strongholds are well known. It’s just that the security forces are not secure venturing out there and industry buys peace with them.
Few years back, a young girl, a Christian convert, from further interior into Jharkhand or probably Orissa had narrated me a story of how boys from her village are “kidnapped” often by the Naxals. She did not know the fine distinction between kidnapping, inducement and then forced confinement, or playing on the sentiment of those who have been wronged by the mainstream political and economic systems, but she certainly simplified for me the reason for boys not staying in the village. I wonder, whether the Rashtrapati, and his successors in the adjoining building called the North Block that houses both the ministries of finance and home, know how simple is the divide? Maybe they understood it much earlier, but do not know how to deal with it since their well-established system fails the Naxals and my simplifiers year after year.
But I do not dislike the Naxals as much as I dislike rapists, for they are a product of a system that has been unfair to them. Let me begin with some disclaimers. First, I do not hate industrial investment in resource-rich belts that are home to the Naxals. Also, much to the dismay of many friends, who dislike non-violence of Gandhi variety, I do not justify killings of innocent or for that matter even a guilty, who has wronged the locals and has made arms an easy recourse for seeking justice in a system that has failed citizens. I am not a sympathizer but a seeker of many answers like any other journalist.
It may sound complicated but recently, I had a series of interesting conversations with one tribal lady who simplified for me the stark contrast between the Naxals, and the urban rich and even the not-so-rich aspirational middle class. It was March 8, International Women’ Day. I was trying to tell her that I, along with a group of fellow women journalists, was going to the Rashtrapati Bhawan to meet President Pranab Mukherjee.
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The excitement for me was not so much about meeting Mr Mukherjee, someone I had interviewed twice as Finance Minister, but out of the moving around in the grand precincts of the Bhawan. After all, there is lot of history attached to it. In my wisdom, I thought she would reciprocate my excitement more for meeting the Rashtrapati. But strangely, she did not. Probably, she did not know what Rashtrapati (President in English) meant. She is illiterate, who cannot even count her salary. Mr Mukherjee does not mean anything to her.
I was reminded of my earlier interactions with younger people from tribal belts of Jharkhand, Orissa and Assam that had taught me that many are not even clear about the concept of nationhood though they were literates. Why blame the Naxals for sedition then? But the disheartening part for me was that my excitement was shattered early morning despite a nice hand woven Fabindia sari. By evening after an uneventful evening with Mr Mukherjee, who was uninteresting and is probably too old for fresh ideas and is only nostalgic, the excitement came back when I saw the change of guard ceremony at the courtyard. Smartly dressed soldiers and horses brought back the long-lost feeling of nationalism in me. The evening was pleasant at the top of the Delhi’s high point of Raisina Hill that speaks power to me with its imposing presence.
The tribal lady just this week simplified for me the Naxal and the urban divide again. Her late husband had lent to her ailing aunt some money in return for which the aunt gave him a piece of land. That land is in one of the rural areas of Jharkhand. Her economic necessity of feeding seven children keeps her in the state capital of Ranchi now and sometimes even in the National Capital of Delhi without her children. Her relatives advise she should just build a one-room tenement on that land to keep her hold over it, but she is reluctant. She and her sons instead prefer to earn a living out of it by taking a share of the harvest, not from the aunt who is probably no more, but from the Naxal brethren who rule it now. “They tell me to give one of my children to them (to join the cadre). My sons say they are not interested in that life and it is better to let go the land than be a Naxal,” she told me. Strangely, she shows no grudge against either the Nazals or her sons, as she tells me that the ultra left brigade have a hold over that entire area. It may not be a secret, in any case for the state police or for that matter even the Union home ministry. The Naxal strongholds are well known. It’s just that the security forces are not secure venturing out there and industry buys peace with them.
Few years back, a young girl, a Christian convert, from further interior into Jharkhand or probably Orissa had narrated me a story of how boys from her village are “kidnapped” often by the Naxals. She did not know the fine distinction between kidnapping, inducement and then forced confinement, or playing on the sentiment of those who have been wronged by the mainstream political and economic systems, but she certainly simplified for me the reason for boys not staying in the village. I wonder, whether the Rashtrapati, and his successors in the adjoining building called the North Block that houses both the ministries of finance and home, know how simple is the divide? Maybe they understood it much earlier, but do not know how to deal with it since their well-established system fails the Naxals and my simplifiers year after year.