I was present during Silda attack: Kishanji
Sukumar Mahato, TNN, Mar 7, 2010, 12.53am IST
SOMEWHERE ON THE BENGAL-JHARKHAND BORDER: He speaks in staccato phrases, like three-bullet bursts from the AK rifle he carries. Cold-blooded, determined, ruthless. A man used to taking split-second decisions and being obeyed. A man not to be messed with.
That's the first impression you get of the most wanted man in Bengal, and perhaps, now, the entire country.
Koteswar Rao alias Kishanji, leader of the Maoist insurgency in eastern India and responsible for a few hundred deaths, is hard to get. Police of four states have been trying to nab him for years but he has always been a step ahead. Now that many of his closest aides have been arrested or killed, the guerrilla commander has withdrawn deeper into his shell relying only on a small clique of trusted, combat-hardened veterans of the jungle war.
After three days of talking in code and meetings with Maoist couriers, I was told that "Dada" had agreed to meet me. I was told to go to Jhargram on Friday morning, given a dress code and asked to wait at a designated point at 9.30am.
The time came. Was anyone keeping a watch on me? I looked around. Impossible to say. How do you identify a Maoist in a crowd? One hour later, still no sign of anyone. Then, a phone call, "The package has got delayed...won't come before evening. Return to the same place at 5pm," someone said.
Disappointment again. I tried my luck in the evening. I stood at the same place, in the same dress. Fifteen minutes later, someone brushed me on the elbow and asked my name. "Switch off your mobile. Follow me," said the six feet tall, well-built tribal. We got on a motorbike and he drove casually, not too fast, nor too slow, and stopped near the railway station. All my efforts at small talk were stalled by a cold stare. Silence it was then. These were not the guys to chit chat.
Raj (certainly not his real name) bought two tickets for Chakulia in Jharkhand and we boarded a local train. No one gave us a second glance. For all I knew, there were a couple of guerrillas keeping an eye on us as well. We got off at Chakulia at 7.10pm. A bike and another guerrilla were waiting. No pleasantries were exchanged. "Kemon achhen (how are you)?" I asked, jovially. "Dada bolben (Dada will say)," they replied, curtly.
I was asked to sit in between the two and we drove into the jungle for about 45 minutes, by moonlight without switching on the bike's headlight. I believe we went back to Bengal. The first men we saw were unarmed. These three youngsters were evidently the lookouts. "Dada dekechhen," was all my escorts said. There was no drama, like me being blindfolded or passwords exchanged. But there was a weird sensation down my spine. I was sweating, and it was not only due to the heat the forests emanate just after sundown.
A little later, we stopped and started walking up a hill. I saw three more layers of security, 500 metres apart, the sophistication of weapons increasing as we moved closer towards Kishanji's inner circle. On top of the hill, ranged in a broken circle were a dozen-odd stones where we sat down. There were about 10-12 guerrillas there. They looked at us, said nothing. One played with the sling of his Insas rifle. They all had small knapsacks, the kind you get for Rs 20-25 on local trains. A few had big bags. On one side, a gas stove was burning.
This was it — Kishanji's shelter tonight. A few minutes later, with moonlight filtering through the trees, I saw him approach. It was 8.10pm. His face was uncovered. An AK slung across one shoulder, a pistol at his waist. Four men armed with Insas rifles walked beside him. This was the inner circle. "Aashlen (you have come). Sorry for the trouble," he said. I had talked to him innumerable times over phone, heard the slightly effeminate voice, sometimes calm, sometimes raging in anger, and here was the man before me, shaking my hand. It was a surprisingly heavy grip for someone so lean and wiry.
He turned to his men and asked for something to eat. Bowls of muri and telebhaja were laid out and we started talking. "How is your son?" Kishanji asked, mentioning him by name. Just once, he had overheard my kid talking. It was clear he had done a thorough background check on me.
"You are the son of a CPM leader," he said. "Yes, but he is a very respected, clean man," I pointed out. He smiled.
Kishanji had about four days of stubble. His eyes looked cold. He wore six-pocket cargo trousers and a T-shirt, and could have blended in anywhere. Caressing his AK from time to time, he complained that his laptop had conked out due to a virus attack. "This is ridiculous. I will go to Kolkata and get it repaired. This time, I will buy a good anti-virus system," he said. I was stunned. Does he really go to Kolkata? Kishanji gave a strange smile.
"I was in Silda as well," he said. "I was there for a month, scouting the EFR camp. I was even present during the assault."
He gave the impression of a coiled whip, who could go from inert to instant aggression in a moment.
I was present during Silda attack: Kishanji - India - The Times of India
