𝖆𝖓𝖆𝖓𝖉.𝖇

1

Maisamma prepares lunch and waits for her brother who has gone into the forest to fetch firewood and her grandfather who owns and runs a barber shop in the dusty and often crowded market of Manuguru.

She bathes and decorates herself with trinkets and flowers in her long plaited tresses, and then waits, looking out at the brown and black hills beyond which the forest stretches. Her house is a thatched hut on the slope of a hill, one of the many adjoining hers in a hamlet from which one descends to the foothills where the market bustles with vegetable and meat fairs, cattle sellers and wooden shacks selling goods and services.

She looks at the blue sky and the heat shimmering on the plains where weeds and sand embankments skirted the farmlands. The Sun burns overhead and the market place is thinning out and soon neither man nor beast will appear until four in the evening.

She waits impatiently; she cooked a special dish today and eagerly awaited the return of the only people in her life with whom she shares her thoughts and dreams. It was a dish she had learnt from her mother. God rest her soul in peace. She sent a silent prayer up to the heavens as she remembered how she had lost her parents in the great flood, when the Godavari broke all its bounds and inundated large tracts of land surrounding the hills and even threatened to submerge the ancient temple of Rama in Bhadrachalam. They were returning from a visit from her uncle's village across the river when they got caught in the flood after torrential rains let loose a deluge, the likes of which was not there even in the memory of her grandfather.

Her brother, a young lad of fifteen, has been gone a good three hours now, which was rather unusual. Maybe, she thought, he was going to get enough to last them through the rains and the winter too. He wanted to visit their uncle to spend the summer there and learn a new trade. Here he worked in the barber shop with his grandfather, but felt he ought to do something different like carpentry which his uncle knew very well. The uncle made miniature temples in wood and sold at a good price in the markets. It fetched him good money, which is one of the reasons why Ramu wanted to go there. Because he was the only one who could bring the firewood from the forest, he probably decided to fetch enough so that it could last until he returns.

She sighed, but felt somewhat relieved as she saw her grandpa trudge up the hill, supporting his bulky weight on his walking stick. He looked tired and shielded his eyes from the burning Sun above. When he reached home, she took his walking stick and put it away in a corner.

Go and wash up, tatiah, I will set the lunch plate for you.

What about you? Are we not eating together today? Where is Ramu?

He looked at the place where they stored firewood: the stock did not appear to have been replenished.

Has he not returned from the forest yet?

No, tatiah. I think he is going to fetch a lot today. Remember, he planned to stay with uncle for some time. Never mind. You finish your lunch, I shall wait for him.

I hope this boy has not gone too far in the jungle. There is a talk in the village that the police have laid a trap to capture some naxalites.

Maisamma looked alarmed. She had heard of the brutal encounters in the forest where the police and the maoists often clashed to gain control over the forest land. She wrung her hands in despair and looked out through the bars in the window at the hill rising like a totem pole into the azure sky. Edukondalavada, she prayed to the Lord of the Seven Hills, protect my brother. Let no harm come to him. She sent up a fervent prayer to Lord Rama and vowed to make a generous donation to the temple up at Bhadrachalam if her brother returned home safe.

The grandpa finished his lunch and urged her to eat.

He will come, my dear, he is sharp, that boy, he might have heard about the police ambush and hid himself somewhere until it is over.

He has never been gone this long before. It is unusual, tatiah, I am scared.

Unusual times, my dear, be patient. We will have to wait until this encounter is over. Eat now, go. I shall rest for a while and then go to the market to find out if anyone has heard from him.

He usually goes with Shankarayya, you remember that tall man who was father's friend?

Shankarayya, the tailor? She nodded. Oh, yes, I do. Then I shall go and ask Shankarayya. Let me rest for a while, Maisamma, an old man needs to rest after a meal. You go on now, finish your lunch. Shankarayya will take care of him.

Consternation robbed her of her appetite; Maisamma sat through the hot afternoon knitting a wicker basket for her brother. He would need it on his journey. She thought of packing lots of delicacies which she has made especially for him. Her brow twitched occasionally and all the while she knitted she murmured a prayer under her breath.

At last grandpa woke up and washed his face outside the hut. She made a brew out of some leaves and prepared a concoction. She poured some milk into it and added a little sugar. She stirred it well and went out to hand it over to her grandpa.

Grandpa towelled his face from the cloth he had slung over his shoulder. He stared down at the market place as he took the tumbler of concoction from Maisamma. She followed his gaze and found that something was up, for there seems to have been some commotion that stirred a lot of people.

It is Shankarayya, she cried hoarsely and pointed at the man bounding up towards them. She felt her legs go weak and held the old man's arm for support.

Shankarayya plodded up the hilly pathway that led to their hut through clumps of bushes. In his rush up the steep incline, his lungi caught in the bushes several times. He seemed to be in some kind of difficulty, for he slipped often and clutched at the weeds for support.

When he reached their hut, he was panting and his eyes betrayed a look of fear and horror. “They shot him!” he blurted out. The police killed Ramu.

Maisamma let out a wail of sorrow and shrank from Shankarayya as if he were yamadoota, the messenger of the God of death. She covered her mouth in horror and hid herself behind her grandfather.

They took his body to the police station, Shankarayya stammered as he spoke in haste. They are waiting for the kin to identify the body.

Grandfather turned round and hugged Maisamma to console her. She sobbed uncontrollably and looked into her grandfather's eyes, which turned red like burning coals. Sorrow bled in his eyes for the terrible loss, while anger bristled to avenge his grandson's murder.

Mouthing expletives, the old man berated at the hapless messenger. Shankarayya told her grandfather that he had not gone to the woods with Ramu. He too had heard the news from a fellow villager.

At the police station a pot-bellied policeman led Maisamma and her grandfather into an open courtyard at the back. Maisamma gave him one quick look and dropped her head: the man's big black moustache streaked across his brown fat face, giving him the appearance of a villain in the movies. She cursed him and his ilk to everlasting hell, even as she mumbled a running prayer to the village deities.

It is not my brother, oh goddess, oh, protector of the village folk, oh peddammma talli, mother of all living creatures. Let it be somebody else, but not my precious brother, not my sibling without whom my life will have been lived in vain. He knows nothing; he is innocent like a lamb; would you send your loved ones to be mercilessly butchered by these monsters in khaki clothes? Dear god, I will double the money I had offered before. You have already taken away my parents. Are you not satisfied with that? Do you have to take away my dear loving adorable brother too? Where is your justice, dear God in heaven? Why do the poor villagers have to suffer so much while these blubbery bastards from the town get away with murder?

She saw the hole in the blood-spattered forehead where the bullet had apparently shot through. Maisamma battered her head against her brother's chest and wailed loudly; tears poured out of her eyes like a flood and her chest heaved with sobs.

As the old man dragged her away the village's womenfolk took her out and tried to console her. Why? Why did they kill my brother? She found her voice; it was still high-pitched. Her words rang through the low-roofed single brick-walled building; the women forced her out of it and took her back to her hut, where she collapsed from hunger, anguish and sorrow.

She awoke to the sound of her grandfather's voice. He held a hurricane lamp to her face and shook her gently from side to side. She sat up suddenly and dragged herself to the wall of the hut, away from the heat and light of the lamp. The old man brought her a plate of rice pudding and some curry, leftover from the lunch. She pushed it away gently. Feeling the emotion rise powerfully, shooting through her heart and heaving her chest once again, she rose on her knees and wrapped her arms round her grandfather's neck and sobbed on his shoulder, racked by wails and moans.

The old man kneaded her back until her distress subsided. Again she pushed herself against the wall, drew her legs up and buried her face on her knees. Why, tatiah? Why Ramu? What did the poor fellow do? Did he trespass? Did he steal something?

He happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.

So it was an accident?

The grandfather shook his bullet head.

They mistook him for one of the Maoists, then?

Again the shake of his barrel-like head. They claim that he was working for the Maoists.

That's a lie! Maisamma screamed and hurled curses at the khaki-clad enemy. Who in their right mind would say my brother was a Maoist?

The old man broke down and cried pitifully. Maisamma led him out of the hut and made him sit on the granite rock abutting their hovel. She saw her brother's corpse laid out on the grass, covered over from head to toe in a white cloth.

They killed him, Maisamma, the murderers! The old man shook from side to side as he screamed in pain and agony. Maisamma laid a matronly hand on his shoulder even as she glared into the darkness below.

She saw a small procession of men coming towards them in a single file. Lanterns swayed as they climbed up the incline. They had come up that way one night when the washed up bodies of her parents lay outside their hut waiting to be cremated.

2

The dumper rumbled over the pot holes on the gravel-strewn sandy road. The windows rattled and billows of sand roiled in the dumper's wake. The engine growled and complained, but Kishan ignored it and turned up the knob on the cassette player. A folk song composed by a ribald lyricist played in a screeching tone against ear-shattering drum beats. The lewd inflexion in the voice of the female singer matched the lascivious lyrics. Kishan’s bony frame shook to the rhythm and followed its beat; one hand thumped on the door while the other handled the wheel.

The road wound round a vast hole in the ground and connected with Bhadrachalam Road, which snaked across the strip of land between the mighty Godavari and its gentle and reddish tributary Kinnerasani. The land beyond the mining pit extended to the dark and densely wooded hills on one side and factories and human settlements on the other. Kishan rarely looked at the surroundings: he drove instinctively, barely conscious of the lush countryside or the towering hills beyond. His thoughts flitted across his mindscape on his amorous encounters like butterflies in a garden full of flowers of different kinds, each more enticing than the last. There was nevertheless one thing on the mind that remained steadfast behind the flux of ruminant thoughts: he was on the lookout for a man standing at the intersection of one of the numerous bypasses on the road that led into the forest. The man would be seen with a red belt if he wore trousers or don a red bandanna if he wore the traditional garb of a villager. It was a signal that Kishan must meet the Commander of the red army on his return to run an errand for the dalam.

The dumper bounced on a particularly bad patch and the cassette choked on each bump and finally brought the cassette of lurid songs to a squeaky halt. As he navigated the loaded automobile over the rough terrain and sharp turns, Kishan spied a blur of red that caught his attention. He slowed and watched a man untie his red bandanna. The man removed the cloth round his neck, dusted it and tied it back again. Soon he withdrew into the tall bushes and disappeared from view. Kishan noted the bend in the road where he had seen the man in red. It was one side of a cassette away from the mines. He turned the cassette over and depressed the play button. About a half hour later he reached his destination when the cassette was half way through.

He unloaded the soil from the mining pit on the shore of Kinnerasani where a contractor was making preparations to build a bridge across it. He had made about a hundred trips in the last couple of years and nearly four score of errands for the dalam. The risk of running secret missions paled in comparison to the thrill he experienced in undertaking them, much akin to the ecstasy he felt in his virile escapades with the local colour. The bridge was almost ready and his trips to this part of the land might soon come to an end. But, he hoped, his work as a transporter would continue as long as the mines were in operation. Before leaving the site he made sure the supervisor incremented his count in the register and headed back. He rewound the cassette and played the number again, alert to the half way mark when he should take the turn into the forest.

Darkness enveloped the land swiftly and silently. The road became bereft of humans and the animals found it convenient to roam safely, even cross it in their nocturnal travels. The shrill and sometimes hissing and crashing sounds of the night varied as different animals moved or made sounds appropriate to their nature, unlike the monotonous drone from speeding vehicles during the day. Kishan switched on the headlamps, lowered the volume of the cassette player and drove more carefully, eyes alert to the bends and ears tuned to the sounds outside.

He slowed as the song near the halfway mark played and looked closely at the tall bushes for a passageway. Every time he met the leader of the dalam the location changed and he had to be alert to find it. Now the headlight revealed a hardly discernible path through the woods and Kishan made a sharp turn of the wheel, drove a furlong into the bushes and halted. He stepped out of the vehicle and stood in the light, wondering if he came to the right location. Presently, a hooded figure emerged from the bushes and commanded him to get into the vehicle. As he did so, the door opened on the other side and a man slipped into the seat beside him. He motioned with his hand to drive on. Kishan rolled the dumper forward, maintaining a steady pace. They went deep into the forest and soon the lights from the factories and the villages became indistinct and went quite out of sight.

They reached a circle of huts in a small clearing. The leader was a commander of the dalam in charge of the operations in the Bhadrachalam area which extended from Manuguru collieries to the forest preserve adjoining the meandering Kinnerasani. Very little of his person could be seen as his face was wrapped around in a cloth, save for the eyes which glinted like emeralds in the pale light of a kerosene lamp set in a corner of the hut. Another hooded person, much shorter and stouter, stood by his side. He headed a training camp not far from here, informed the leader. They were recruiting and Kishan could contribute by bringing in volunteers.

I can't just go and ask people to join up, can I? Kishan spoke in a high-pitched voice and looked troubled. It was one thing to be a transporter and an entirely different thing to be a recruiter. The leader glared at Kishan who trembled in his tiny frame. At times like this one now, he wished he had stuck to the mining job and not entered into the dalam at all.

You will be thrown out of job when the bridge is completed. You know that, don't you?

Kishan's family was one of the many displaced families from the land which is being mined now. One able member from each family got a job at the mining site and Kishan was one of them. The dalam leader had approached him then and offered a way to reclaim the land now owned and operated by the mining Mafia, apparently in collusion with the pot-bellied cop in the police station. He knew all this and every time the leader glared at him, all this came tumbling out of his vacuous mind which stored and replayed only pleasurable memories of his amorous adventures.

The leader went on. In Manuguru the old barber's granddaughter Maisamma is a potential candidate. Her brother got killed the other day in a police encounter and we know that she and her old man want to avenge his death.

Is the lass married? Kishan’s mouth salivated when the leader shook his head in the negative.

Parents?

Dead.

Only the granddad and this pretty princess? Kishan couldn't believe his luck. He agreed to bring her along and the plan was meticulously discussed before he left.

3

Maisamma watched her father as he climbed up the steep incline. It was mid-morning and unusual for him to return home at this hour. He was accompanied by a bony youth who seemed to fawn over him, removing stones from the path and brushing aside the bushes. The young fellow wore a loose shirt over faded jeans. The shirt was purplish on one half and and chequered on the other with black and white colours alternating. The purple half carried a drawing of a damsel demure in the arms of a valiant knight in faded armour. Maisamma burst into uproarious laughter at the sight of the short and scrawny youth sporting an outfit that seemed to be completely at odds with his diminutive stature and shifty looks.

She brought a glass of cool drinking water from the pot and gave it to her grandfather who rested on the rock outside the hut. The young man stood beside him and gawked at her.

I am fine, he said in a voice that sounded to her like a squeaking rodent's. I don't want to drink water.

I was not going to give you any; she shot back and waited for her grandfather to talk.

Maisamma, this is Kishan. He has an offer for you, which he says may help you vindicate your brother's murder.

Maisamma's face clouded in sadness and resentment at the mention of her brother. She looked at the ogling face of Kishan and suppressed a smile that threatened to demean the gravity of the situation. What? Is this a farce? This weasel here can help her get back at that pot-bellied cop?

What can he do? She asked of her old man incredulously.

He says the red brigade is willing to train you. But, you don't have to do this dear.

Maisamma brooded for a while. It is the payback time, she told herself. Didn't Andalu do it for her father? The village folk utter her name with respect.

I will go, she said without hesitation.

The bullet head bobbed up and down. Her grandfather nodded sadly and said, I thought so. Kishan looked triumphant at his catch; he recruited a spirited young woman for the dalam and rose in his self-esteem.

Maisamma hugged her grandfather and whispered in his ear: should he hear of an official witch-hunt in the area, he should go to her uncle’s place across the Godavari.

I shall be there, he whispered back. He said aloud: Go my child, don't worry about me. My days are numbered anyway. I have neither the courage nor the strength to fight the world. May the goddess peddamma talli protect you; he said and placed his hand on her head in a blessing. We shall avenge our innocent Ramu; he will not have died in vain.

Riding in Kishan's jalopy, Maisamma fobbed off his advances. He felt in Maisamma a forbidding and formidable presence as he took her to the dalam chief that night. He swore under his breath as he headed back to his hamlet in Kinnerasani that one day he would bend this high-and-mighty lass to her knees.

Alone in the hut with a bunch of tough-looking men and women, Maisamma looked at the hooded figures and felt a strange power emanating from them. They looked into her eyes and she experienced an austerity that she felt was sorely lacking in the villagers. Involuntarily she straightened her back and stood erect, gazing unflinchingly at the leader's unblinking eyes, unaware of her youthful femininity amidst the strong male members in the group.

Do you know why you are here?

I have come to avenge the death of my dear brother.

You are here because you will fight against the tyranny of this oppressive regime which has murdered, maimed or displaced hundreds and thousands of our brothers and sisters all over this unfortunate land that rightfully belongs to us.

Maisamma felt her sorrow and anger elevated to a new high and felt her resolve to fight the perpetrators strengthen as the leader continued to speak in a firm and unwavering voice.

It is a fight for justice, a struggle to free the oppressed and defenseless people from the yoke of this unjust regime.

The words penetrated her tender heart and hardened its sensitive core.

You are no more alone in your sorrow, in your battle for rightful existence, in this world of inequity where the powerful rule over the humble daughters and sons of the soil through their cultivated snobbery, through their educated and foolish middle class and above all through their powerful politicians and landowners and the clever intelligentsia.

Maisamma, awed by the rhetoric, by the power of its delivery, felt herself elevated to a status that hitherto she never thought existed for so menial a person like herself.

The forests belong to us. We have for centuries cultivated this land and yet preserved its pristine purity down the centuries. But the rich and the powerful colluded and denuded the land of its green cover, dug holes in it and mined away its hidden wealth, displacing whole settlements and uprooting their way of life.

Maisamma bristled upon hearing this and recalled the portly policeman and then her rage shown through her jet black eyes like burning embers of coal.

You will report to Ranganna here, he said pointing to his aide beside him. From now on you will respond to the name of Kali. Remember, everyone here has assumed a new name. Follow the rules strictly and respect the sensibilities of others. Give yourself over entirely to the cause. You have nothing to lose except the yoke of the so-called civilized society.

A stout woman in army fatigues and a gun slung over her broad shoulder escorted Maisamma out of the hut. She introduced herself as lieutenant Shankari, second only to Ranganna. She gave Maisamma a pair of faded army clothes and cut her hair short. Maisamma winced as her long tresses were severed unceremoniously and dropped to the earth in a black heap. She checked her emotions and steeled her heart as she watched Shankari kick the heap into a trash can. So much for the sensibilities, thought Maisamma.

4

The dumper rumbled and groaned under the load of loose soil and pieces of hard rock as it wobbled over the uneven road and headed towards the bridge. Kishan never felt the way he had felt in Maisamma's presence. He felt dwarfed by her haughty manner and holier-than-thou attitude. Who does she think she is! She will pay for this, for this high and mighty pose she had given him when he first met her.

A man in a red belt crossed the road near a culvert. He pulled the belt out, swung it in the air and disappeared behind the bushes. Hardly a month passed since his last encounter with the dalam chief. What now? The chief was right of course. If the mining company had not evicted them from the land, the authorities would have done it. His contributions to the struggle for freedom did not go beyond running errands, for he knew that his physique was not suitable for a military training. However, they consisted in running food and medical supplies to the training camps. He was capable of more, but no new errands came his way until the chief believed so. And now they thought fit perhaps to enlist his services as a recruiter. This earned him some respect among the comrades, not to mention the monetary benefit that accompanied it. The first ever recruit, he recalled with a mixture of exultation and wounded pride, turned out to be a sturdy female, ripe like a banganpalle mango, though she recoiled from him like a touch-me-not. The meeting this time was apparently at a different location and the chances of seeing the insolent Maisamma seemed remote.

The escort guided him through the dark bushy trail. They came to a clearing inside a copse after about a half hour's drive. The escort hustled Kishan into a hut where the trainer Ranganna was seated on a wooden bench. The dim light from a hurricane lantern cast long shadows. A kerosene stove, a couple of plates and cooking utensils completed the cuisine. A wooden cot, its bed made of ropes and covered over with a cotton sheet, lay in a corner. Below it a metal trunk lay half-hidden, probably containing guns, thought Kishan. Ranganna's face was hidden in a shadow; only his teeth gleamed as he spoke. Kishan's dumper is to be retrofitted to enable him to transport a vital consignment. Here comes the BIG JOB, thought Kishan. If he is caught, Ranganna was saying, which is unlikely since the make-over will be hardly noticeable after it is done, he will face the wrath of the authorities. If he succeeds, he will be handsomely rewarded, of course. No matter what happens, he shall never ever talk to another soul about it. Kishan's pulse quickened and felt the hair on his limbs bristle somewhat at the likelihood of a police capture. What could he do if the worst happened? Would they kidnap and trade a cop for him? Whatever the chief says, goes, but Kishan shall never open his mouth about anything here, no matter what happens, repeated Ranganna. Kishan nodded several times, more out of fear of the chief, than of the cops.

Contrasting the stillness of the night and the strangeness of the location, there came sounds which Kishan knew could only come from a garage where he took his dumper for repairs. After a while a man entered the hut bending at the threshold and whispered something into Ranganna's ears. Kishan looked around the hut and wondered at the harsh and simple life of the comrades. Wasn't it sparse and equipped with nothing but the basic necessities? Why deny oneself the pleasures of life? He knew that both men and women of the dalam lived a hard and celibate life of harsh discipline.

Ranganna dismissed his assisstant and rose. Kishan clicked his heels together in an involuntary gesture and waited. Your dumper is now ready with sensitive goods. Deliver them to the training camp. Kishan's heart missed a beat as he hoped to see Maisamma there.

If you are stopped on the way by the cops, which is not likely to happen, just abandon the vehicle and run for your dear life. If you are caught, then you are on your own. May the goddess peddamma talli protect you on this important mission! Considering your contribution to the dalam so far, the chief decided it was time you took on more responsibility. The payback time is nearing. Soon you will know what I mean.

In the darkness of the night the dumper showed no visible change in its appearance. The comrades have apparently done a wonderful job. The goods - whatever they were - were cleverly concealed. He drove to the camp site where the comrades were trained in handlings guns and other lethal weapons and ammunition of war. No one accosted him on the way and the trip was uneventful. Now that he reached safely, his mind was once again agog with the thoughts of Maisamma and looked around hungrily to catch a glimpse of her while the comrades took his dumper away to a hidden place to relieve it of its secret load.

5

Maisamma found the camp life unlike anything she had seen or heard before. It was not merely the spartan nature of life within the jungle, nor the lack of the hustle and bustle of the village life. It is the discipline and rigour of a monastic life with the sole and exceptional difference that here she learnt the martial arts of guerilla warfare. She could now drill for hours, shoot a moving target, leap over hurdles and climb precipitous inclines. She felt her nerves become taut like steel. She was becoming a man in a woman's body. She felt the gentleness slip from her heart which was turning cold. Passion burned in the mind which was dominated by the thoughts of decimating the faceless enemy and grinding to halt the soulless machinery of the mining lords, kept alive as it were by the fiery speeches of the chief. Tales of horror and mayhem of fellow comrades also helped to keep the objective in focus. Men and women occupied separate quarters, but worked and trained together as equals. Maisamma learnt that rarely anyone ever transgressed the man-woman divide; the offender would be banished from the dalam. It was possible to marry, but the couple never trained in the same camp. It was also possible to walk away from the dalam and never come back. There were of course exceptions when trainers sometimes misbehaved or forced new entrants to submit to their advances. Maisamma heard such tragic tales too when some women even felt that life underground was worse than outside.

She remembered her grand old man and wondered how he was, living alone in that hut in Manuguru perched midway up a hill. She has no news of him and she has not taken respite since she has joined four months ago. She saw Kishan a couple of times, but avoided meeting him: for some reason she found him revolting. If anyone could bring her news about her tatiah, it was he, unfortunately. She must befriend the chap, if only for the sake of her old man.

One night she found Kishan chatting with a comrade and thought it was the right time to ask him a favour. Kishan's eyes lighted up as he saw Maisamma walking towards him. Her lithe figure mechanically ignited his loins. He stood there open-mouthed staring stupidly in her direction. Moments later he heard her saying something about her grandfather. The domestic lass transformed into a gunslinging warrior; it accentuated her femininity beyond his widest imagination. Will you get me the news of grandfather? She asked again and waited for the words to sink in. Kishan mumbled something to the effect that he would be pleased to get the news for her. When would she be done with the training? Could he see her next week in the village? Maisamma walked away saying perhaps she would never step into the village again. As she disappeared into a hut and drew the curtain over the entrance, she saw that Kishan's jaw had dropped a good two inches below his scanty moustache.

Later that night a meeting was held by the chief. We are preparing for an ambush and an attack on an important installation in this area. We have identified some of you to do a recce of the area. Kali, he said, looking at Maisamma. You are doing very well, a lot more than I expected. You will accompany Ranganna tomorrow night to the area in question and become familiar with the terrain and what we need to do there in the coming weeks.

What are we going to do? Someone asked.

You don't need to know more than you are required to know. That way it is safe for you and for the dalam as well.

6

Kishan loaded supplies on to his dumper for the camp site. He liked to call them the milk runs, for they were carried in the open and as a transporter it was perfectly alright for him to carry domestic and warehouse supplies to different locations. Only he knew where they ended up, of course. One afternoon he hauled the supplies into the camp and hung around until the dumper was unloaded. There was also a secret shipment to be loaded into the undercarriage - how cleverly the comrades had made a concealed compartment there! No one could notice it unless it was subjected to a very thorough and careful scrutiny. It took him about a quarter hour to discover, so it would certainly escape routine inspection.

He sneaked around the female quarters. Hey, you! A stern male voice shouted a warning to desist. I am looking for Maisamma; he said and continued to snoop. Feeling a heavy hand of the sentinel on his shoulder he went limp.

There is no one here by that name, said the comrade. Go back to your dumper and wait there. I will find out.

Kishan looked up as the clouds hid the Sun and a clap of thunder promised rain. A cool breeze ruffled the bushes. Maisamma walked up to him. She wore a simple dress and her gait was casual. The lack of the warrior's aura reassured him. How is grandpa? She asked. Kishan looked furtively around and whispered to her to accompany him. Curious, she followed him into the woods. Kishan murmured something as he walked and for the better to hear him she kept pace. Soon he knew they were out of earshot and completely hidden among the bushes. Your old man is worried about you, he said. How is he? She asked again. He is worried sick about you and wants you to marry and settle down. Maisamma wondered if he got the message right. She shook her head and opened her mouth to say something. Kishan pounced on her and brought her down with one blow to her jaw. She screamed in pain and before she could react he pinned her arms behind her and ravished her by force. He left her in the bushes, bruised and writhing in pain. It had started to rain and soon there would be a downpour to erase everything that is likely to raise questions about her person.

Triumphantly he walked away without a backward glance. At last he succeeded in subduing her haughty spirit. She is now not only wounded but also at his beck and call, for he only had to threaten her that he would squeal to bring her voluntarily down on her knees. The dalam did not tolerate promiscuity; there was the ignominy that would hound her for the rest of her life if she is exposed. He had given her a blow that left her with little to choose between complete submission and excommunication. Kishan was sure Maisamma was wise enough to choose intelligently. After all, she was committed to the cause and would not let anything distract her from her purpose.

Maisamma cursed at the vicious attack on her purity and swore to avenge the treachery. She had disregarded her instincts and allowed herself to be led astray by that scrawny filthy animal! He was quite strong for his skinny appearance, the deceptive treacherous bastard!

The recce was set to take place sometime next week. It would be ideal, Ranganna had said, on a rainy day when the area would be devoid of people. Something big was planned and it required her to be highly prepared for her role, whatever that was. The chief had personally sought her undivided attention and dedication in the meticulous execution of the plan. The dumper driver must await his nemesis; there would be another time, she hoped, and another place when he would meet his deserts.

7

One evening Kishan hauled soil and gravel from the mines to the bridge on Kinnerasani. Having emptied the load he rolled down the sandy embankment and parked the dumper on the river bank. He took out a long, soiled rag and began to wash it in the cool waters of the river. The supervisor ticked the last entry in the register and quit for the day. Kishan started to clean up the dumper preparatory for a wash. The workers ran down the sandy ramp, washed up quickly and left. The evening advanced rapidly through the overcast sky and a light shower began. Making sure that every one was gone, he drove the dumper into bushes and waited, his nerves frazzled.

With clock-work precision two men emerged from the bushes and opened the secret compartment in the dumper's undercarriage. They took out the explosives and Kishan helped carry them to the site. They clamped the incendiary material under the bridge, wedging them firmly in the gaps between the massive concrete slabs, thirty feet above the waterline. Quietly and efficiently the men worked and when the job was done retreated into the bushes. Kishan took out a bottle of kallu the country liquor and soothing his nerves in the heady concoction headed back home.

Early next morning before dawn Maisamma crept through the bushes in the vicinity of the bridge exactly at the same spot where she and other comrades had done the recce earlier. The shower continued through the night and the earth was damp and the breezes were chilling to the bone. She didn't mind the chill though, not as much as she did the drizzle. The continuing rain has put the operation in jeopardy; if it continued then the operation must be abandoned. She adjusted the monkey cap and pulled her battle fatigues closer. Unstrapping the long-range gun, she slung it over her shoulder and settled down to wait. As the Sun came up over the horizon behind her, she saw to her relief that the heat and the heavy wind scattered the clouds, revealing the blue sky above them. The slanting rays of the Sun set off a thousand light bulbs as the dangling water droplets glistened on the edges of leaves and branches. She let out a high-pitched yodel and felt reassured when her comrades returned the call.

At about eight in the morning an Ambassador car rode up the ramp to the bridge, followed by a police jeep. Three men, one of them in police uniform, alighted from the car and surveyed the area around the bridge. Four uniformed officers jumped out of the jeep and spread to the four corners of the bridge. From a tip off that the dalam chief had received from an informer the bridge was to be surveyed for certification by a government official. The third man from the car was the don of the mining pits. Maisamma's interest and attention was focused on the pot-bellied portly monster in Khaki. The dalam chief had sent a couple of men exclusively with Maisamma to help her succeed in her mission, which was to settle her score with the khaki-clad policeman who had killed her dear brother in a fake encounter six months ago. She adjusted the binocular sights on the gun, took aim and then having got the cop squarely in her sights pulled the trigger. The bullet sped past the damp bushes, sailed over the concrete slabs, zoomed through the trio huddled over a geographical map and shot through the cop's head, entering as it did on one side of his temple and emerged from the other. Pandemonium broke out as the policeman's lifeless body thudded to the floor of the bridge. Before anyone could react sensibly to the bloody situation, one of the comrades triggered the bombs placed under the bridge with a remote detonator. The concrete slab fractured into multiple pieces and caved in, plunging the official, the mining czar, the hapless policemen and their vehicles into the ruddy waters of Kinnerasani below.

8

Hoards of policemen descended on the land between the two rivers. They combed the countryside for the dreaded Maoists. Maisamma fled to the other side of the Godavari and turned up at her uncle’s place. Grandfather was overjoyed to see her return victorious. The uncle considered their situation and suggested for the safety of everyone concerned that grandfather take Maisamma to Hyderabad and start over there.

This place has become too hot for you now and will continue to be so for a long time to come. After all, he reasoned with Maisamma, you have accomplished what you wanted. Why throw away the rest of your life in endless and bloody struggles? He turned to the old man. Would you allow her tender life to rot in hideous hideouts? Take her away and begone, far from this wretched life. You have had your vengeance.

The uncle bundled them into a bus that bore them away 300 KM to the city of Hyderabad.

Kishan ran his dumper into the wooded glades and hitched a ride one night out of the area and disappeared.

Maisamma lived with his grandfather, who setup a barber's shack in a shanty town adjoining the city. One day she saw a huge truck parked outside their shack and to her surprise saw Kishan enter it apparently to get rid of the shock of locks he had grown since she had last seen him. The memory of the wound he had inflicted on her surfaced and her eyes burned with hate. As she watched from the back of the shack an insect followed him, buzzing and careening.

Kishan recognized the old man and enquired of Maisamma, his eyes shifting from the old man to the back of the shack. Maisamma came into view and asked him coldly what he was doing there. Kishan felt a light pounding in his chest when he saw her. He told her with his eyes gleaming and in a surly manner of speech. For a month after the operation he haid lain low and then escaped to Hyderabad with his maternal niece whom he married subsequently and settled down as a truck driver. The insect strayed into a corner and before long got caught in a spider's web. It struggled to escape, but the knot got tighter. As Maisamma watched the spider inch menacingly closer to the hapless insect, her face lighted up with a smirk. Kishan misinterpreted the smile and drew closer to her. Unknown to him, her nerves became taught like steel, and to all appearances she was his paramour as she invited him tantalizingly to the back of the hut.