It was nearing seven in the morning. Ranitha set off towards the village along with two people from her team. It was a tiny hamlet with just four houses, known as Makadichuvva. This village was situated in the ChamorshiTaluka of Gadchiroli district. Among the four houses, two belonged to the OraonAdivasis, who had migrated from Rayagada, while the other two were owned by the local residents.
It was the rainy season, and the agricultural activities were in full swing. Farmers were preparing to head to their fields, with their ploughs placed on the shoulders of their oxen. The women had finished cooking and neatly packed the rice into containers. They placed these containers into a basket, covered with leaves, and were getting ready to head to the fields.
Perhaps they recognized Ranitha from a distance, as people started coming out of their homes to greet her with “Lal Salaam” (Red Salute). They smiled warmly and shook hands with her. She greeted everyone in return. Ranitha had a fair complexion, fine features, a smiling face, and a slender frame. She wasn’t particularly short. Her greeting was as pure and fragrant as a wildflower. Ranitha was the President of the Janathana Sarkar of the Chadgaon area. She had come to Pottegav area to establish new RPCs (Revolutionary People’s Committees) and strengthen the existing ones.
This was at the very edge of the Surjagarh hills, where work was underway to start iron ore mines. Road construction was also progressing rapidly. The village of Makadichuvva was among those affected by the mining operations.
Ranitha stopped in the middle of the bazaar. Children and women gathered around her. An old woman, struggling with her steps, came up and affectionately touched Ranitha’s cheek, saying, “How long has it been since you came, dear?” Just then, a farmer from the last house hurried over. “The police are coming into the village,” he said, just as they almost reached the spot.
Two days earlier, the squad had set fire to the vehicles of contractors involved in the road work. The police, having guessed the squad’s route, had surrounded the village early in the morning. Spotting the squad entering the village from the outskirts, a team of police advanced parallel to them.
The police were the first to open fire. Ranitha’s team turned back in the direction they had come from. The two members who were with her ran quickly towards the forest. The COBRA forces chased them to the edge of the forest.
Ranitha, who had turned back, immediately took a turn and quietly slipped into a millet field through an alley, taking cover. The woman who owned the house near the field, seeing Ranitha entering the yard, approached her and whispered, “There are no police around; leave quickly, Didi.”
Ranitha had firmly decided not to run aimlessly without knowing the exact movements of the police. She camouflaged herself within the tall millet field and adapted to the terrain. She quietly loaded her .303 rifle, which was already half-cocked. Keeping her finger on the trigger, she controlled her breathing and waited silently.
—
After driving out the PLGA members, the Cobra forces gathered in a cluster in the village. One could hear a mix of voices speaking in Hindi and Marathi. Suddenly, a Cobra soldier collapsed on the ground, foam forming around his mouth.
“What happened?
“Whose gun went off?”
“The bullet hit the heart. Spot death.”
“Was it yours? Was it yours? Whose gun misfired?” The group of soldiers was in a panic. They searched around but found no imminent danger. It was clear that one of their guns had accidentally fired. The Cobra commander sent a message to the Gadchiroli headquarters via his wireless. “A helicopter is coming to transport the body. If we move the body to the field, the pickup will be easier.”
All the scattered Cobra forces gathered to lift the body.
—-
Dham! Dham!
This time, two bullets were fired in succession. One hit a soldier’s thigh, and he collapsed on the ground, screaming in pain as a beast stung by bees would. Another soldier fell to the ground, unconscious. This time, the direction of the shots was clear.
Someone was in the millet field. The enemy had been identified. Panic spread through the group. The two bodies and the injured Cobra were evacuated by helicopter.
Transporting the bodies on the road seemed unsafe, so air travel was the safer option due to the fear of landmines.
Mobile phones and walkie-talkies buzzed with urgent orders. The Gadchiroli Police Superintendent’s office was in chaos. Crack-60 commandos were on edge, as if some major disaster was about to strike. Reinforcements were rushing to MākadiChuvva.
Mine-proof vehicles offered some safety. The Cobra forces surrounded five or six villages around MākadiChuvva, turning the entire area tense. It was the calm before the storm. Even the slightest sound made the battle-hardened Cobras jumpy.
—-
Wearing a bulletproof jacket and helmet, armed with a Kalashnikov, a Cobra soldier was advancing towards the millet field, saying, “Let’s see how the Naxalites are.” Just as he was about to reach the field, there was a loud sound, and the bulletproof Cobra was flung into the air and fell to the ground. The surroundings became tense. The faces of the Cobra and C-60 forces turned pale.
Outwardly, they displayed a facade of bravery, but inside, their hearts were pounding with fear. Who would be next? Orders from the officers had to be followed.
In the millet field, surrounded and trapped in a Padmavyuha, was Ranitha. Alone, resolute, and still. She had to fight until her last breath, making sure not to be captured alive by the enemy. She held her gun firmly, listening intently to the sound of footsteps around the field. She carefully squeezed the trigger.
She checked her watch. It had been more than four hours since the battle began.
The Cobras were hissing around her. Voices could be heard.
“Drop your gun and come out with your hands up. We won’t harm you.”
After a while, they said, “If you surrender, you’ll get money from the government. You can live well.”
They had identified who was in the field.
—
This time he’s calling her out by name, “Ranitha! If you have the guts, come out! What kind of fight is this, sneaking around?” He’s challenging her in police language.
But all of this is from a distance, away from the killing zone. No one had the courage to go closer.
They started launching grenades with K launchers. One, two, twenty, thirty—there was no count. The lush green cornfields were completely destroyed.
With the courage that she might have died after so many bombs fell, they approached from the backyard. The gunshots didn’t miss their mark. One bullet hit a fellow’s hand, another tore through a hip. After a while, everything around became silent.
Ranitha’s stomach had been empty since morning. If the police hadn’t come, she could have asked for some gruel in the village and drank it. She had left her water can in the camp. She wondered if the two comrades who came with her had escaped safely. Her squad must be safe. She felt weak, devoid of energy.
The sound of grenades and explosions had caused a block in her ears.
—
In a semi-conscious state, Ranitha mentally replayed the scene from the morning when the police had confronted them.
She realized that the police hadn’t noticed her. If she remained still and didn’t move while watching the group in front of her, the police would leave. She could escape safely.
If she fired even a single shot, escaping would be difficult. She would only fire if she was ready to sacrifice herself. She struggled with this decision for a while.
Even then, her thoughts remained sharp. Why am I thinking about saving my life at this moment? What legacy should I leave for my successors?
She shouldn’t waste the opportunity at hand. Ever since she joined the party, every summer, she had trekked in the scorching heat on party work. How could she now leave the opportunity that had entangled her foot today? She thought it was better to die than to lose this opportunity. She made her decision.
—-
She came a little to her senses and observed her surroundings. There was no sign of the police nearby. She drifted back into unconsciousness.
Ranitha understood the situation she was in. In her semiconscious state, her childhood memories began to surface, and she couldn’t push them away.
—
She remembered her journey to Kolkata. She would have died back then but somehow survived. The exact year doesn’t come to mind, but it must be the summer of 1998. It was the season when leaves are cut. She had gone to the ShaheedMinar in Kolkata for the 30th-anniversary celebrations of Naxalbari. After the events concluded, she returned home and mistakenly boarded a train heading to Gujarat from Howrah Station, thinking it was heading towards Durg.
As the train started moving, someone alerted her. In a rush, she jumped off. One foot was on the platform, and the other still on the train’s step. She held tightly to the door handle. The train dragged her along; her hands and feet got bruised. The railway police saved her. Had she slipped onto the tracks, she would have been crushed under the same train. By now, her name and everything else would have been erased.
Even after returning home, she couldn’t do any work for several days.
“It’s the season of leaves, child, the crop we wait all the year for. Now is the time to reap the reward. I told you not to go, but you didn’t listen. You let go of the crop in hand and now you’ve returned with broken legs and hands. Who will pay for the injections the doctor will give you? Do those meetings fill your stomach?” Her mother scolded her while she stood with her head bowed.
That was the first time she saw a train in her life and also the last. What if she had died then?
Her name was Ramko back then.
Ramko was the fourth of five children born to her parents. After her, another girl was born. Although it is the ancestral village for the Potavi Tribes, their Hichami families are also equal in number. Like all Adivasi villages, theirs too was governed by the elders’ rules.
When the squad first came to the village, Ramko was a ten-year-old who loved songs. The moment she heard the news of the squad’s arrival, she would rush like a dragonfly. While working in the fields, she would hum the songs she had heard. She was active in household chores, worked hard, ploughed the fields, chopped wood, and built embankments. She carried water from the borewell using a balancing pole. It was common in the village for girls and women to carry pots on their heads, but Ramko, like the men, would carry the water on her shoulders with a balancing pole. She would split bamboo with a knife and make baskets.
“Why should only men do it? Why can’t a girl?” she would say.
Axes, knives, sickles, bows and arrows, and Barmar guns were considered men’s tools, symbols of male identity. Baskets, brooms, grinding stones, bundles, and sickles were for women.
Ramko first started the fight at home. After joining the squad and becoming a guerrilla, she roamed around with a cap on her head, a gun on her right shoulder, and an axe on her left, becoming a fighter. Her image, familiar to her fellow comrades from those days, was etched in their memories.
—
As time passed, Ramko’s thoughts matured. She joined the revolutionary tribal women’s organisation. Pressure began to mount both at home and outside. The village elders started pressurising her family to get her married. “Why don’t you get the girl married? Shouldn’t a girl be married off? Who will marry her when she gets old?” they mocked. But Ramko endured it all. She stood firm with her peers, advocating that marriages should not take place until one is fully aware of everything.
At that time, the authority of the village elders was dominant. The organisations were not yet strong. The elders would insist that young children and those of marriageable age should not go to the militia and that village matters should not be reported to the militia. People were fearful of witchcraft and kept silent. However, none of this could dampen Ramko’s enthusiasm.
She exposed the secrets of the village to the militia. She won the battle at home. In the neighboring village, the women’s organisation handled everything on their own. Ramko was concerned that her village’s organisation was lagging. She would gather the young women of her village and visit the neighboring village to speak with them. By the end of the year, she had united the girls of her village.
By the end of the year, she became the leader of the Range Committee. She also established the PotaviJewelli Women’s Organisationas a leader in the region.
Her elder cousin Rishi, who worked in the organisation, joined the squad. When he came to the village, she inquired about the squad. She thought, “I can walk, I can resist if confronted by the police, I can carry weights—so why delay?” She then became a member of the EtapalliSquad.
Since childhood, she had a strong desire to learn to read and write. As a squad member, she would stand sentry, go to the village and return, make tea, and perform other duties. Whenever she found time, she would take a slate and chalk and practice her letters. She learned to read and write through sheer determination. Along with this, she joined the party-run Mobile Academic School and Mobile Political School.
She wrote songs and shared her comrades’ experiences through letters. She documented the experiences of the struggle in her region for the newspapers. She prepared agendas for Janatana Sarkar meetings and wrote reviews evaluating the work. Ramko, who used to marvel at folding a hundred-rupee note and tucking it into her sari, now wrote numbers in lakhs without a mistake. People would tease her as being stingy because of her thriftiness.
After working as a squad member in Etapalli for a year, she moved to Tipragadh, where she was given the responsibility of overseeing women’s organisations. Later, she became the in-charge of the Chadgamsquad.
Ranita slowly regained consciousness and tried to pull herself together. But the past was still coming back to her.
—
She had never once uttered the words, “I can’t do it, I won’t be able to do it.” She became like a fish in water, and a magnetic field.
While in Tipragarh, the squad was heading towards Bandur and had stopped midway for a break. Those who needed to relieve themselves went, others smoked beedis, and those who chewed tobacco crushed it in their palms.
The police had tracked them along the same path they had taken and had come upon them. At that time, the squad had little experience with exchange of fire. They scattered in all directions. Ranitha had never directly participated in anencounter before. Once, when she was at home, she had heard the sounds of gunfire when a squad clashed with the police near her village. Today, it happened unexpectedly, catching her by surprise. She stood there for a moment, unsure of which direction to go. The police had gotten very close. One of the policemen was charging toward her as if to catch her. She saw an open field ahead with a large rock. She quickly ducked behind the rock, loaded her gun, and fired at the approaching policeman. He stopped in his tracks. Taking advantage of the situation, she retreated safely. From the next year, when the PLGA forces began taking the offensive and started chasing the police, such incidents did not occur as frequently.
In November 2009, during the Chhattisgarh Assembly elections, PLGA forces engaged with the enemy near the border region. They received intelligence that the enemy was about two hours away from their location. Moving swiftly was the only way to catch them. It was about 8 kilometers away. A roll call was conducted, and a squad that could move quickly was selected. The names of the female comrades were not included in this selection. Three women comrades, physically weaker, prepared themselves to join the mission. Among them was Comrade Ranitha. They ran with determination, gathering all their strength, and reached the target. In the encounter that followed, two police officers were killed, and two others were injured, boosting their morale.
—
Ranitha regained her consciousness. She re-entered the world of sound. Voices were now audible. Her memories began to fade. They were shouting at her in frustration to surrender .
Even in that situation, Ranitha couldn’t help but smile at their foolishness. Two paths lay clearly before her. One was to surrender, the other was to fight and die. The brave die fighting.
“My party has instilled in me the self-respect that rejects surrender,” she thought to herself.
She readied her body, checked her watch. There was still an hour left until dusk in the rainy season. A little darkness would make it difficult for them to trap her. She could escape.
In the meantime, she heard the sound of grass being cut close by. She lifted her head slightly to see. A man was holding a sickle, cutting a field ofsorghum. How could this be possible at this time? Someone from outside must have instructed him to start. She realized that the enemy was making him cut the crop to locate her position.
—
She signaled to the farmer with a hand gesture. Just as she was about to tell him to place the cut sorghum on her, a stern voice called out, “Come outside.”
Ranitha counted the bullets left in her pouch. Since morning, she had spent 14 bullets. Seventeen were still left. If the battle continued at this pace, she could keep fighting through the night and into the next day. She carefully arranged the bullets back into her pouch.
She molded her body to fit into a small trench and listened intently to the sounds around her. A helicopter was circling above. The sound of mine-proof vehicles could be heard around noon. Perhaps additional forces had arrived! The noise of people in the village was quite audible, and the dogs kept barking without pause.
Ranitha didn’t notice the police officer who, too scared to shoot from below, had climbed up a nearby Mahua tree (Indian Butter cup tree) to observe the area. He ordered the farmer to cut the crop and the police man watched her location from above. Once he understood her location, he unleashed a barrage of bullets.
This time, the bullets penetrated her body. She still held onto the gun in her hand. Her open eyes appeared as though she was still watching. Even in that state, the police were too afraid to approach her body.
The villagers carried her dead body out of the yard. The farmer was also among them. The Superintendent of Police in Gadchiroli was curious. Could this frail, young girl be the same one who had caused so much trouble since morning? He was astounded by her combat abilities. It took 600 soldiers, helicopters, MPVs, thousands of bullets, hundreds of grenades, the deaths of four policemen, and injuries to three others to bring her down.
Hundreds of police personnel surrounded the area. Despite this, the villagerscarriedRanitha’s body with respect. The memories of Ranitha surrounded the farmer. He knew her very closely. He was also thinking about Ramko.
—-
Originally published in Vasanthamegham web magazine on 30th April 2022 with the pen name of Narmada. From the collection of Viyyukka.
Translated by B.Anuradha.
About the author:
Nitya is the pen name of a Maoist revolutionary leader famously known as Com. Narmada among their ranks and people of Dandakaranya. She wrote many articles, short stories and poems. She edited their magazines SangharshrathMahila, Porumahila, and worked for the magazines Prabhat and Jhankar. She knew and wrote in Telugu, English, Hindi and Gondi. She was arrested while taking treatment in Hyderabad for advanced breast cancer and sent to Byculla Jail in Mumbai. She was shifted to a hospice when her health got deteriorated and breathed her last on 9th April 2022 in judicial custody.
