|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
For the CRPF and state police personnel posted in the heart of Maoist-infested
THE sarcasm was barely concealed. "Unless you visit the Jhumra hilltop, you will never be able to write about the Maoists," said the voice at the other end of the telephone. It was the Commandant of a CRPF battalion stationed at Bokaro, who was irked at media reports floated by "ill-informed" journalists. And he was daring journalists to visit the Maoist territory to see things for themselves. The sarcasm in his voice was so stinging that the only possible response was to accept the challenge. But the Commandant was still skeptical. "It will take you three hours to reach the hilltop. So bring your sneakers, and be ready for blisters on your feet," he said before hanging up. But luck sometimes does favour those who dare. When we reached the foothills of Jhumra, approximately 100 km from Bokaro Steel City, we were stopped by armed CRPF jawans, who had set up a camp there. Monthly ration for the jawans holding the hill, they informed, had arrived at the base camp, and a ROP had set out to sanitise the route. Unless the ROP gave a clearance, no movement would be allowed.
ROP, we learnt, was the abbreviation for "road opening party", and in this instance it comprised around 70 machine gun-wielding jawans, who had set out for the hilltop, looking for landmines, mortars, rockets and Maoists hiding in the jungle. "They improvise all the time, and you cannot take chances," explained the Deputy Commandant accompanying us. "Sometimes rockets are fired from tree-tops and sometimes these are fired from below, with the rocket launchers tucked between boulders or even below rocks," he said. The delay, however, turned out to be a blessing because the CRPF offered to accommodate us in the supply caravan comprising a few trekkers, a jeep and two tractor-trailers. Thus, we were spared the walk up the hill. But our relief was shortlived. As soon as the caravan began climbing, we realised there was no road, just a path strewn with stones and boulders. It was going to be a rough ride. There were steep inclines and occupants of the vehicles had to get down and give a push to jeeps being driven in the first gear. At places the path was far too narrow, and as the vehicles groaned their way up, branches of trees lashed against the occupants, lacerating cheeks of some before we all learnt to duck. Even more disconcerting was the sight of heavily armed CRPF jawans standing guard all the way up. Some of them had their backs turned towards the path as they watched out for suspicious movement. Others watched laconically, their menacing machine guns peering out of their raincoats. These members of the ROP, we were told, would man the posts till we returned safely to the base camp.
"They now sell their eggs and milk to us and receive a much higher price than what the Maoists used to pay them," said a CRPF officer wryly. The Maoists apparently used the hilltop as a training camp. It was ideally placed for training their cadre in shooting, hurling grenades, using explosives and landmines etc. It was remote, and though the sound of landmines and grenades reverberated in the hills and could be heard several kilometers away and in the foothills, the hilltop was virtually inaccessible. Any movement from below could be detected from the top and foiled. The Maoists could escape at a short notice into the forests, and with the hill-range extending to four different districts in Jharkhand, they could disperse quickly and re-group for a counter-offensive. If CRPF and IB sources are to be believed, the hilltop was used to train even Pushpa Kamal Dahal, alias Prachanda, the Nepali Maoist leader who, later, became the Prime Minister of Nepal. Getting control of this strategic hill was not an easy task though. It required several battalions of the CRPF and the armed police to wrest control of the hilltop about four years ago. And since then a contingent of the CRPF and another contingent of the Jharkhand Armed Police are permanently stationed there. There is a change of guard every two to three months. It wasn’t very difficult to see why. The CRPF camp was almost a replica of a border area Army camp, meant to check infiltration and enemy attacks from across the border. Trenches had been dug all around the camp, and machine guns peered menacingly out of the sand bags. There were watchtowers on all corners to maintain a thorough vigil. Some of the tents in the camp had bullet holes in them, signs of Maoists’ attempts to regain control of the hilltop. Uniform trousers of a few jawans, too, had holes. "The trousers had been put on the clothesline for drying when the bullets began to fly", the Deputy Commandant explained amidst general laughter. Next to the better laid-out CRPF camp was the camp set up by the state armed police. And the difference was stark. Compared to the resources at the disposal of the Central forces, the state policemen were clearly the poor cousins. The force, comprising mostly of Gorkha boys barely out of their teens, appeared to be low on confidence as well as experience. The tension of watching out for an invisible and unpredictable enemy 24x7 had clearly taken a toll on the Jharkhand Armed Police personnel in Jhumra camp. They looked tense and grim as they reluctantly replied to questions posed by the visiting journalists. Their commander, a veteran Gorkha DSP, made an unconvincing attempt to claim that their morale was high. With nothing to do except manning the bunkers, watchtowers and sleep, and nowhere to go, the youngsters looked sullen at best. The dark, cramped and leaking tent that served as living quarters provided them with just enough space to lie down on a wooden plank. I remember thinking how difficult it would be to live in a tent like that for three months. The CRPF Deputy Commandant’s tent was right in the middle of the camp. It was a little more spacious than other tents, and by way of luxury, had a table and a few chairs. We had barely taken our seats when tea and biscuits were served. But before any one of us could take a sip, there were three deafening explosions in quick succession. We involuntarily closed our eyes and flinched. But seconds later when we recovered and stood up, there was no sign of our hosts, all of whom had grabbed their firearms and dived into the trenches inside the tent, that led to the periphery of the camp. No further explosions followed, and sometime later, the Deputy Commandant and his men returned, trying to make light of the situation. "They just offered you a gun salute," said one of them wryly. But the edge in his voice was unmistakable. There was no time for tea, they stressed grimly. Visiting journalists had to reach the base camp safely before dusk, they said, while herding us back to the trekker. The return journey, much of it a trek downhill, was equally adventurous. But that is another story. What I remember are the questions that swirled in my mind. Living in the cities, we are scarcely aware of the war of attrition being waged in the forests and hills of the country. What is this war all about? Who is the enemy and who are being defended by the young men on this lonely hilltop? Whenever I read about
American and British troops in Afghanistan, my thoughts return to
those I met on the Jhumra hill. Their boys are fighting terror on
foreign soil while our boys are fighting a war within. In both places,
they are paying the price for the follies and failures of politicians
and the political systems. Is there an escape at all?
|
|||||
|
|
|||||
After
the treacherous climb, the scene at the top of Jhumra turned out to be
breathtaking — a flat land extending up to several hundred acres. On
the fringes were dense forests and beyond could be seen the higher
peaks of the hill-range. There were small villages inside the forest.
Villagers living there usually survive on rabbits, birds and forest
produce. They also cultivate small plots of land, rear goats, hens and
even cows, especially since the CRPF had wrested control of the
hilltop from the Maoists.
