Donate NowNo story on the Naxalite conflict would be complete without meeting the insurgents themselves. From Delhi to Dantewada I'd been alternately told they were: a) champions of the powerless, ready to talk b) scheming profiteers who would take me hostage for ransom if given the chance c) thugs sure to slit my throat.
But only a handful of journalists in recent years have actually met any Naxalites face-to-face. The Indian media has for the most part kept its distance, prone as ever to sensationalism. And even fewer stories have appeared overseas. It's little wonder. Getting to South Bastar is difficult enough, establishing contact far more tricky.
Chandan, the interpreter I'd engaged while touring the camps, put me in touch with another local journalist (we'll call Arvind) who had interviewed the guerillas a few times before. Sitting by a muddy stream outside town the next day, Arvind outlined the protocol.
First, he would have to talk to a representative at a village 30 miles away who would make contact -- for a small fee -- with the second-tier militia, known as sangam, deeper in the bush. They would then communicate with the guerillas themselves and secure approval for a meeting, on condition that we were already in their custody, not in advance. Only then would the location be decided.
Two days passed in Dantewada with no word back. To kill time, I explored some of the ancient Hindu temples in the area, most of which were decorated with saffron carnations and coins for the seasonal festival. I also caught a cock fight in the market; as the day wore on the frenzied action seeped out of the ring and into the crowd, villagers drunk on palm wine trading cash and blows.
Finally we got the go ahead and set out at five one morning by motorbike, taking back roads when possible to avoid any suspicion. An hour later we came to a river crossing and loaded the bike into a wooden pinasse. Once across, we had to navigate miles of dirt track and slippery embankments, through field and forest, until we reached a plain of rice paddies. This side of the river, I was told, was Naxalite territory. Not that they had seized it by force, but because the state had long ceased running patrols here.
We spent the night at a spartan rest house at the base of the foothills. There had once been a concrete police outpost next door, abandoned and subsequently reduced to rubble by the guerillas. A pair of blackboards still hung from two half-broken walls.
The following day we met with villagers living nearby. A lanky boy poured us a milky drink made from rice into palm-leaf cups the residents had their fill; it was all they would consume until nightfall. They were true subsistence farmers who neither traded nor stockpiled. One chief said his people cooperated with the rebels because they had no choice, although he assured me they were never heavy-handed.
That afternoon four sangam militia armed with bows and arrows came down to escort us to their village, situated in the mountains roughly 20 miles away on foot. They didn't smile or shake hands. It was time to move.
The seven hour trek took us through barely beaten trails, dense jungle that gained elevation at a calf-busting clip; past waterfalls and small rivers and through remote hamlets whose inhabitants had never laid eyes on a foreigner before. Some stared in wide-eyed wonder. Others simply ran.
For the first half of the hike, Arvind tried to build rapport with our guides, explaining in rapid-fire Hindi how he'd met with the Naxalites before. I could only listen and try to catch the odd word, and from the sound of things it wasn't working. The lead guide hardly said a word and Arvind soon fell silent.
We stopped only once, to share a cucumber and some groundnuts. One of the sangam complained of stomach sickness so I gave him the only medicine I had -- an antibiotic pill. Maybe it would have some mutually beneficial effect down the road.
It was dark by the time we reached the village. The atmosphere felt tense, even volatile. And there we would wait for contact with the guerillas, how long nobody knew. The sangam had told us earlier that we had come by choice; whether we succeeded in meeting the rebels, leaving was not up to us.
On Chandan's request, a rooster was killed and boiled to dull pangs of hunger. An ersthwhile village leader, no older than 25, came to meet us as we waited. He had a vacant look and the smile of a child. We three journalists presented our ID cards and equipment to match. But they were viewed with a kind of dumb suspicion. It was clear these people had no education (the last teacher left more than a year before), no exposure beyond the bush. And that potentially made them dangerous. Arvind started talking fast again.