My name is Ungi, and I am eighteen years old. My family lived in a village near Geedam Town in Dantewada district, Chhattisgarh. We lived a life where we had to work hard just to survive. If we didn’t find work on some days, we would go hungry. Despite his old age, my grandfather too would go out for daily labour. Since my mother didn’t have enough milk, I used to cry a lot. Even in such difficult times, my mother would leave me at the Anganwadi and go to work. She was already suffering from anaemia due to lack of proper nutrition and constant labour. Seeing me always crying, my family members feared that I might not survive.
If we had land, we could have cultivated it. But we didn’t have any.How long could we continue to survive by working as labourers? So, my parents decided to move to another village and our family moved to Surakada in Bijapur district (Bairamgadh area). My father met with the village elders there, but it was of no use. They demanded goats, chickens, or liquor to allot us some land. Since we didn’t have any of those things, the village elders did not give us any land. We ended up working as labourers for about a year there. Life became difficult again, so we moved to Keshur, which is in the same area. At that time, I was three years old and don’t remember much. But my parents’ problems remained unresolved.
By that time, Keshur was already under the influence of the party (Maoists). Since we were new to the village, the local leaders got to know about us and gave us shelter in the village. Days went by, and three years passed since we came to that village. Understanding our financial situation, the party members discussed our situation and gave us five acres of land for our livelihood. Since we didn’t have oxen or ploughs necessary for farming, my father continued working as a labourer. The money he earned was barely enough to feed us and nothing else. In the process, he couldn’t save enough money to gettreatment for my mother’s health problems. My younger sister was two years younger than me, and my younger brother was six months old. My mother’s milk was insufficient, and he would cry constantly. I think I was around six years old at that time, just old enough to start understanding things. I came to know about all these situations later through my father and grandmother.
We used to worship deities for my mother’s recovery. My father would take her to the village priest, praying that if my mother’s health improved and my brother stopped crying, he would offer the priest more liquor and chickens. The priest assured us that my mother would survive and that her illness would go away. I would cry seeing my mother suffer continuously from illness. I was at an age where I only knew how to cry. By that time, my father had started working in the people’s organizations run under the party’s guidance.
My father would cook early in the morning and then go to work. The responsibility to finish the rest of the household chores fell on me. While doing the housework, I also had to take care of my younger brother. As the days went by, my mother’s health deteriorated severely. She struggled to breathe properly for a week. Father took her to the priest again, but nothing improved. She passed away one day, still suffering.
Fifteen days after my mother’s death, after the rituals were completed, my grandmother took my younger brother away, saying I couldn’t take proper care of him. She stayed with my uncle. At that time, my brother was already sick and crying from hunger. While living with my grandmother, he contracted malaria, and before a year had passed since my mother’s death, we received the news that my brother had died. My father, sister, and I went to our native village. After my brother’s funeral, relatives and villagers urged my grandmother to come with us, but she refused.
At that time, in Keshur, where we lived, the police were conducting combing operations to disrupt the party and the organizations it supported. Many people told my grandmother, “Go, you’ll be there to support the motherless children.” But she refused to come with us saying, “If I come and stay with you, I’ll die. I can’t bear the constant sound of police boots, the daily killings. Why don’t you stay here?” But my father didn’t agree,so we returned to Keshur.
After my mother’s death, the burden of work on me increased even more. I had to pound the rice and cook it, but I didn’t know how. When my mother was alive, she would ask my father to take the rice to the mill because I couldn’t pound it. He would go on foot and bring it back once a month. Somehow, I managed to cook the rice that had been taken to the mill, but how could I pound it myself? How could I tell my father about this? Finally, I asked the neighbours for help. For a week, with their help, we got by. After that, my sister and I had no choice but to pound the rice ourselves every day. We would hold the pestle together—she on the top and I on the bottom— but no matter how much we pounded, the husk wouldn’t come off. All the women around my mother’s age in the neighbouring houses were pounding rice. Seeing them reminded me of my mother. If she were here, we wouldn’t have to do this work. She used to do everything for us. We sat down and cried, wondering why she had to die. By then, it was already dark.
When my father came home after finishing his work of the organisation, he comforted us as we cried, saying, “Who asked you to do this work? I’ll do it when I come home. Don’t do such heavy tasks again; they’re beyond your strength.” He encouraged us, pounded the rice, cooked the meal, woke us up, and fed us. At that moment, I wished my father could always stay at home.
The villagers all used to look at us with pity. Whenever someone visited our home, they would advise my father to remarry. But my father never paid attention to their suggestions. One day, about seven or eight people came together and insisted, “You’re never home, right? If this continues, these two children will also die. Listen to us; we’ll find a good woman for you to marry. She will stay with you, be a mother to your children, and take care of the house.” They pressured my father into agreeing to the marriage.
According to our tribal tradition, the girl’s family brought toddy. The elders on my father’s side accepted it. Since then, my father had been deep in thought. No one knew what the party members told him or what he was thinking. But after a few days, he told the elders, “I will not marry.” The elders were surprised and asked, “Are you out of your mind? We’ve given our word and even had the toddy. Why are you saying this now? We arranged this marriage for the well-being of your family.” My father firmly replied, “What guarantee is there that the woman who comes will take good care of my children? I don’t have that trust. I’ll take care of my children myself. I don’t need another marriage.” The elders, frustrated, said, “It’s up to you, son. We can’t say anything more,” and left angrily.
At that time, we had six cows and fifteen goats. I used to take them out to graze. My father grew rice on the farm. Farming was only a rainy season job, so when there was work, I used to help my father in the fields. Since our village was influenced by the party, all the organizations were very active. During this time, my father became more involved in the militia, eventually rising to the rank of commander. Many militia comrades used to follow my father. When I was working, they would push me aside and do the work themselves. When they visited our home, it felt like a festival atmosphere. They took good care of my sister and me. Whenever they came, they not only did the household chores but also bathed us and washed our clothes. Their presence gave me courage and indescribable happiness. Since my father became a commander, his involvement in household tasks greatly decreased. But the comrades who worked with him would come to our house almost every day to check on us. Their regular visits and help made me forget the feeling of being alone.
In our village, a squad meeting was held every month. My father took care of all the arrangements for these meetings. On those days, my father would come home late at night. During the meeting, I would run excitedly to listen to the songs sung by the CNM (Chetana Natya Manch). The squad comrades would see me and say, “You could work in the children’s association, right?” I used to say, “My father is fully engaged in militia work, so if I also work in the children’s association, who will take care of the house, the fields, the cows, and the goats?” They would laugh and pat my head, saying, “Oh, how responsible you are about the household chores!” Later, I would think about it at home. All my friends of the same age were working in the children’s association. I also wanted to work in the children’s association like the squad comrades suggested. But then I would worry about the fifteen goats and the cows—what would happen to them? I was the one who took them out to graze every day! I would convince myself that it was enough that my father was fully involved. But whenever they came to hold meetings, and I heard the CNM songs, I couldn’t help but go and watch, enjoying their songs with great joy. Listening to their songs made me want to wear the CNM uniform and sing like them. Whenever I saw the squad comrades, the desire to wear that uniform grew within me. But after the meeting, when I returned home and saw the goats and cows, I would think, “What will happen to them if I join the squad?” All my affection would suddenly shift toward them.
2005 marked the beginning of the Salwa Judum campaign. In those days, in the districts of Bijapur, Sukma, and Dantewada, the Raman Singh government caused immense suffering to the people under the pretext of Salwa Judum. The police raided homes, stealing and destroying everything, from chickens, goats, cows, pigs, dogs, and even dried meat that people had preserved. They didn’t spare anything edible. Not just our village, but all the surrounding villages spent their days under the constant surveillance of the police. Anyone who was caught by them was tortured and killed in various brutal ways.
The atrocities were horrific: daughters were raped in front of their parents, husbands were tortured and beaten with the butts of the gun in front of their wives and children, and some were mutilated with their noses and ears cut off before being brutally murdered. Women were raped and killed regardless of their age. Whenever the police approached the village, the party and militia members would warn us. At those warnings, everyone in the village would grab whatever they could and flee to the forest. The elderly and small children, who couldn’t run, stayed behind in the village, but even they were not spared by those butchers.
One day, I returned from the market in the evening with my friends. Another group of women, who had been following us, were attacked by the police on the way. The women were raped, and the men who were with them were stripped and beaten. The moment I stepped into my house, the families of the victims came crying, telling us about the atrocities that had just occurred. We let out a sigh of relief, realizing that we had narrowly escaped. But the injustice that befell those who were attacked filled me with deep sorrow and helplessness. I cried, thinking about how many more such stories we would have to hear. From that moment, the thought of going to the market terrified me. Yet, we had no choice but to go. My father, during those times, never came home. He was busy with ambushes, tracking police movements, launching counterattacks, and holding meetings to encourage and reassure the terrified people. But the power of the police was overwhelming, far beyond what our strength could handle.
In every village, party members, leaders of the organization, and militia members were being arrested or forced to surrender. Those who refused to surrender were publicly tortured and killed in front of everyone—eyes were gouged out, limbs were cut off, and some were shot dead. The village elders, under police control, instilled fear in the people, turning many innocent villagers against us. Neighbours, who once lived together in harmony, became enemies. Witnessing all this made me deeply anxious about my father’s safety. We had already suffered so much after losing my mother; now, the thought of losing my father was unbearable. I was filled with dread at the thought of what would happen to my sister and me if something happened to him. All I could do was watch the devastation unfold, helpless.
Whenever the police came, I worried about my sister. Unlike me, she couldn’t run as fast. Many times, when we got a warning that the police were coming, I would carry her up the hill, leave her there, and then rush back to gather rice and tamarind. We would cook those in the forest, and sometimes the neighbouring women would share their food with us.
As I feared, one day, while I was cooking rice, my father came home in the morning. Before we realized it, the police had arrived. They stormed into our house and beat my father so badly that words cannot describe it. I sat quietly in a corner. There were probably more than fifty of them. Some entered the house while others surrounded it. I couldn’t understand the foul language they used, but I understood one thing: they were telling my father to stop working for the party and to surrender. My father refused. They beat him even more brutally, and I thought they would kill him. I held back my tears, covering my mouth with my hand so they wouldn’t hear me. After beating him mercilessly, they finally left. I immediately ran to my father and cried, holding him. He said, “Don’t cry. Crying is a sign of weakness. I’m fine. As long as the party exists, it will continue to work for us and the people. If needed, we’ll give our lives for it.” He then took the bow hanging on the wall and left. I didn’t fully understand what he meant, but his words and actions, even after such a severe beating, gave me courage.
All the above-mentioned problems persisted for two years. During that time, many leaders of the village mass organisations surrendered. Based on the information they provided, the police arrested my father at the end of 2006 and took him away. In the camp where he was held, he was beaten every time he was taken for food or other activities. My father’s arrest caused me and my sister great distress. During that time, a family close to my father took us in, and we stayed with them. We would visit my father with people from our village. Every time we saw him, my sister and I would cry. While comforting us and inquiring about our well-being, my father would also shed tears. The camp was surrounded by police. I always worried if the police were beating my father every day, and I would ask him how he was managing amidst so many police officers. My father would just smile faintly in response to my questions.
Five months later, my father escaped from jail, but he was arrested again immediately due to information provided by an informer. This time, he remained in jail for two years. The camp where he was held was in the same village where we used to go to the market. Every time we went to the market, we would visit him, and every time we met, we would cry. My sister cried even more than I did, as we would remember our mother. Our mother had already passed away, and now the police had taken our father away. We wondered why we were even alive. As usual, I continued to take care of the goats. I would feel sad when I looked at the fields without my father. For two years, my father was in the police camp, and we stayed at the house of people we knew. Those days passed with constant hardships.
In 2009, my father was released and returned home. Despite experiencing the oppression of captivity, my father’s love for the party and the people did not diminish. He continued to work even more actively against the enemy with renewed zeal. One day, unexpectedly, some police officers came to our house, accompanied by the village elders. I was afraid they would arrest my father again, but they started speaking to us very amicably. They conveyed through the elders saying, “We are taking your land for setting up our camp”. Upon hearing those words, my father and I collapsed in despair, crying our hearts out. When we first came to this village with nothing to eat, the party had given us those five acres of land, which saved us. Since receiving the land, we never had to buy rice; the crops we grew there became our food, supplemented by greens and tubers we found in the forest. The past flashed before my eyes, but there was nothing we could do. We did not have the courage to oppose them. My father and I both grew more resentful towards the exploitative government and the dogs who protect it.
The villagers informed us one day that some construction was taking place on our land. My father and I went to our field, where the police camp had already been completed. Nearby, they had started building a residential school on our land. Even after these constructions, some of our land remained.We had no other choice, so we began cultivating in the land that was left. My father and I resumed working together on our farm, just like before.
One day during this time, my uncle came to visit us. He was somewhat educated and taught at the village school. He said, “I’ll take the younger girl with me and educate her. She will gain worldly knowledge and will stand on her own feet when she grows up.” Both my father and I felt it was the right decision. We thought that if she became educated, she could help others like us. So, my father and I agreed. But after my sister left, it took me some time to get over it. My father would often be away for two or three days due to party work. Even when he was home, it was hard to tell when he would arrive or leave. When my sister was around, we would be together, and she would help me with the chores. Her memories haunted me. Apart from that, my father became more involved in party work than ever before. His comrades would come and go. Seeing my father working for the party made me interested in doing the same. Hearing his comrades talk about his work made me even more enthusiastic. I wanted to share my thoughts with my father.
One day, when he came home after finishing his party work, I gathered the courage to ask, “Father, I want to work for the party too.” He happily agreed.
In 2014, I became a member of the militia. That’s when I realized that my father was the President of the Revolutionary People’s Committee (RPC). While working in the militia, I continued to do household chores and work in the fields. Whenever the squad entered the village, I would assist them with their needs. I would keep watch and participate in all the programs organized by the party alongside my father.
Since I was old enough to understand, we had been struggling with land issues, migration, threats from the village elders, and deaths due to illness. My mother, who fell ill worryingincessantly about these problems, died of that illness. These were one set of problems, but Salwa Judum was aproblem on a completely different scale and dimension. The suffering caused by Salwa Judum wasn’t just for a day or a month—it lasted for two whole years. We lived every day on the brink of death. I remembered my father’s words from the past: “How much longer will we live like this, living in fear of the State?” The desire to rebel and fight back gradually grew within me. At first, I didn’t fully understand what is meant by “looti Sarkar (the government that loots/exploits)”, that guerrilla squads kept talking about. But over time, I understood. The root cause of all our problems was the exploitative government. But what could I do? Was working in the militia enough? It wasn’t; it was necessary to take up higher tasks.I have to become a full-time worker and take up arms. But how could I achieve this? Am I capable of doing it or not? I thought about this for many days.
One day, I decided that I had to talk to my father about this. By then, I had already been working in the militia for a year. Recruitment preparations were underway. What I had been contemplating for two or three months was finally brought up by my militia commander. I happily agreed without a second thought. My commander discussed it with my father, who was deeply saddened.
He lamented, “How can I forget my child who has been my pillar of support in every task, in my happiness and sorrow, ever since she was little? Even without a mother, she has managed everything. Though I neglected the home due to my involvement in organizational work, no matter how late I came home, she never questioned me. My child, even though she is younger than me, has become the main support of the house. Even when I was away for two years after being arrested, she protected our home and goats like the apple of her eye,” he said, crying.
“Brother, your child has grown up now. You’ll marry her off to someone one day, right? She will leave you then, too! You know all this very well. You are also working for the people. Many people who have come from various parts of the country are working here. In front of our eyes, many poor people like us are sacrificing their lives in our Dandakaranya forests. They all left their parents behind too, right! Your daughter wants to take up higher tasks than you. Be happy aboutit”, the committee members consoled my father. It was not just my father who was upset; I too was grief stricken about leaving my father. When I was young and didn’t have enough strength to work, my father wouldn’t let me work, saying, “I’m here, right?” After my mother passed away, he not only did my mother’s work but also gaveher love and raised us. Seeing us so young, when the villagers suggested to my father to remarry, he thought about us and rejected the idea, worried that the new person might not take care of us properly. My sister is far away. If I leave too, my father will be left alone. These thoughts swirled inme as well.
One day, we received word from our commander that there would be military training for fifteen days. I didn’t think twice. When I told my father about it, I could sensethe conflict he was going through. But I had already decided to go. After successfully completing the training, we were on our way back. The commander called our batch, selected a few of us, and said, “In the first week of next month, you will have to go to AOB (Andhra Odisha Border) and work there. This is the party’s decision,” and explained the situation there before bidding us farewell. I was one of the selected ones. We were all very happy. In that happiness, we performed our traditional dance, Daka. I returned home with that joy.
Days passed by like seconds. In just three days, I had to leave. As the hours passed, I couldn’t find peace in my heart. Finally, the day of my departure arrived. I don’t know what my father was thinking, but he came to me with a smile. It was dusk, and we both sat outside. Baby goats were bleating and leaping around, running between us. The chickens were heading to their coops, and the chicks were chirping as they followed them. My father began to speak.
“The party is working for many poor people like us. You have to work in such a party with courage and enthusiasm. You must excel in the military aspect. You should always be ready to face the enemy at any time. The most important thing is to never waver. When problems arise, face them with even more courage and move forward. Never let the thought of going home enter your mind under any circumstances. As long as you live, work for the people who trust you. Don’t worry about me being alone. I am never alone as long as I am with the people,” my father said, patting my head.
His words brought tears to my eyes. I stood up straight. When I looked up at him, he seemed so noble. I shook his hands. I slung my bag over my shoulder, took four steps forward, and then turned around. My home, my father, the chickens, the goats, and the sheep all appeared blurred through my tears. But as my dream of establishing revolutionary politics in thousands of villages like ours showed the way forward clearly, I walked ahead swiftlywith determination.
(The author is an Adivasi (Gondi) and hence Written in Telugu by Vasudha as told to her in Gondi)
Initially published in ‘Bolshevik’ October 2016 – June 2017, and also in the collection of stories
“Why I Became a Guerrilla”.
(Translated by N.Ravi)
