Underachieved Utopia

Deveshchandra Singh lay mortally wounded in battle. Brazenly castigated and disdainfully hurled across the highway that now was a gory boulevard of brutality, Dev was an impoverished, crumpled, almost-lifeless mass. Barely a couple of minutes ago, his valour had found tremendous resonance in his foes, taking 13 of the opposite card down. The bullets found their mark, his audacity and equanimity buoying the drowning spirits of his beleaguered men. As fate would have it, he now lay anguished with the 9 bullets that had butchered his chivalry. The brave, calm eyes had now taken a scary bulging form, and the tone of sanguinity that had for long inspired in his fellow warriors hope and inspiration, was now reduced to a low whine of despair. What was to follow was a scary thought, even for him in the state he currently found himself in. Undulant forms of grisly corpses stricken across his bandwidth of vision engendered in him tremendous emotion. The despondent pair of eyes which now were moments away from a permanent retreat roved around the scene of carnage, his blurred vision leaping from one scarred carcass to another, some the very people he shared an evening with over tea at roadside stalls, many simply unfathomable masses that would be reduced to subjects of showy poignance in the next day’s papers, he thought. His fickle eyes eventually set themselves upon him. Ah, the wounds. They would stay. Unlike the grief across the country over the deadly massacre, they would stay…

Dev sauntered home late one evening, bringing along to his little house in Charanpur, Uttar Pradesh joy that had never graced the thresholds of the little place. In jubilation that the house had never seen or dreamt of, he broke the news that he had longed to for a fairly long time. Spoke what he’d been visualizing in his mind over and over again through the years, more so for the previous few weeks. He’d played out the proclamation several times spoonily fantasizing in bed, but the feeling of saying it to his beloved ones was something else. “It is with deep pride and honour that I must state to you, that I have done what I expected of myself years ago. Yes, I’ve earned my place in the Indian Police Services. I have found myself an employer that shall govern the course of my life. It shall give me utmost privilege to serve her in doing something that shall be regarded imperative for her harmonious existence. It is this land, this wonderful land that has always been so close to my heart that I will work for. The hour of reckoning has come, let the euphoria uncoil!” he said in pristine, Uttar Pradesh Hindi with a characteristic lilt.

Unnecessarily sententious and puerile though the statement might have sounded, it brought to Dev immense pride in saying it. Needless to say, it brought to the inhabitants of that village tremendous ecstasy too, something that was only seen last time their derelict MP faced the unceremonious yet wholly appropriate sack. The closely knit community that it was, every little moment of emotion exuded by its inhabitants found adequate resonance among the entire community. Anguish and retribution were written all over the village when they were denied adequate rights over their farm lands by the banished MP who had other ambitiously narcissistic ideas, fear gripped them all collectively and glued them firmly to their little homes in the wake of a terrible Naxal attack on the inhabitants of a nearby village, but there was nothing like the festivals they’d rejoiced in. Vibrant festoons and chirpy vibes characterized festival nights at Charanpur. Young women found peace in facilitating conventional decorations, children being children in the revelry of being around in such an atmosphere, young and old men thriving in the festivities and carousing like there was no tomorrow. Charanpur was a blithe place at the 21-year-old Homeric young man’s announcement which in itself was no less than a joyous festival. Never did they have a glorious history of churning out national servants. And now they had one of their very own bandeh in the khaki. It sure was a moment of glory and pride, even for the 90 year olds who were incapable of giving their beds a well deserved break, and taking a perpetual one themselves. Deveshchandra Singh was now a jawan. From the little, vivacious town of Charanpur.

Rambha Devi was Dev’s lovely maiden. An indigenous farmer’s daughter, she was pledged to Dev a couple of years ago, at the whopping price of Rs.10000 and a full 3 acres of fertile farm land. Sans all the materialistic blackmail, Dev actually adored his spouse. Unconditional love had made them partners-for-life, despite the clandestine shenanigans that took place behind their backs. Settling into the in-laws place never very seamless for the average Indian woman, they say. Rambha learnt it the hard way for a few months. Her only solace in the hostile house was her husband himself. And they grew closer, doling into each other anecdotes and feelings of joy, sorrow, grief, anguish, pain, hope. She was the best friend he had, and the joy that the effulgent news of his success instigated in her, knew no bounds.

The only disillusioning aspect, if any, of this ascendancy was the fact Dev was hired by a CRPF company based in Saharanpur, Bihar. Charanpur would now be a long-forgotten chapter in his life. It was all to be a new dawn, a new beginning, a new lease of life striving for a cause he had always deemed paramount. So it was a week after the sumptuous night that Dev had to bid goodbye (well, temporarily atleast) to his native town, his family, his best friend for life, and sprint across for a new chapter in his ambitious life. Marked predictably by tetchy homilies and moments of emotional candor, the day passed off swiftly leaving him at the end of it, at a district headquarters in Bihar. Like the 79 of his compatriots, Dev was shown his new quarters and told to be up and about, reporting at his designated location by 4:00 AM the next morning. I suspect it would be a little too rich to call his place of lodging ‘quarters’. Shoddy, shabby and incorrigibly unkempt, the newly crowned scavengers of order were hurled carelessly into places that did not befit the commitment and effort that had propelled them to their stature. “Always read about this situation, nothing surprising at all” Dev thought as he began setting his room right and getting his act together, with the aid of his equally complaisant room-mates.  

Over the weeks, Dev grew to be a fine young jawan; responsible, gallant and possessed with tremendous leadership skill. Was always the one with the most appreciable alacrity during the drills. Over time and experience, Dev’s prowess in countering and fighting guerilla warfare accentuated to a transcendent level. He automatically became the man the team looked up to and revered. Brawn, however, was only one of many laudable facets Dev harnessed. He also collected the tag of being a very erudite craftsman, tactician. Altruistic in character coupled with his regimented ideology of holding discipline and commitment on paramount pedestals, Dev very seamlessly grew to be the ideal caricature of a jawan Bollywood often thrives in projecting on celluloid. In a stunningly short span of 8 months, Dev came to be anointed the Commandant of his Battalion.

Three years into his job, the challenges of maintaining law and order in East India were soon growing scarily cantankerous. Through the last couple of years, a simmering flame had galloped to a raging fire. Red Terror was the hullabaloo stricken across majority of the rural areas in East India. Commenced tentatively in the late-60s the movement was now in a never-before-like state. Almost periodically, disturbing news reached Dev every fortnight of innocent families getting beheaded, buses getting blown up, and the sporadically occurring incidents of major catastrophe. Only a couple of months ago, Naxals had launched a brash assault on a battalion in Dharampur, Orissa slaughtering 89 of his fellow CRPF men. The incident, for its sheer magnitude and enormity, was quick to become a national cynosure and a lot of debate was kicked off under the shimmering arc lamps of television studios as to how the country’s new-found menace must be put to rest. Much of it didn’t make great sense to Dev, who was of the firm belief and conviction that any act of violence against the state or its subjects for reasons petty or enormous, must be met adequately with force. As a man of considerable stature within the CRPF ranks, he echoed an unequivocal school of thought – ruthless acts of unjust violence call for stringent military action. However, there was a pang of miniscule sorrow somewhere at the back of his mind with regard to the plight of those taking to the guns against the state. He had himself hailed from a village that had been left lurking in the tenebrous abyss of poverty and neglect for a very long time. Yet, he mused, Charanpur was a happy community. Despite all the economic and developmental issues that had stymied the growth of his village, inhabitants had seen the wisdom of refraining from the gun and from those who’d offered them the guns. Dev identified with the morbid rebels as a pack of merciless hordes, who’d lost in them the sense and understanding of the value of a human life. The death toll of innocent civilians and army jawans over the last couple of years, stood at 349. A figure that would chuck out of the window all possible sympathy that the callous insurgents might have evoked.   

On a lovely morning last month, with the Sun blazing down and warming them all up scrumptiously after a cup of tea, Dev’s little group was in for a little rude surprise with the bush-whacking guerilla army choosing the unfortunate moment for a greeting. In a long drawn out hour-long battle that followed, Dev lost 18 of his comrades, yet managed to survive himself after much luck and valour. The incidents were getting too many and too much to handle. Far from being an indigenous problem, the sporadic menace was now a properly permeated conundrum across the Eastern belt of the country. It was during one of these disturbing phases of increasing hostility that Dev took a week off to visit his beloved hometown Charanpur for the first time since his emotional tryst with destiny.

And what a feeling it was to be back home. A hero’s welcome greeted him back home, as Charanpur welcomed back with open arms its most successful, proud son amidst their ranks with great pomp and grandeur. Happiness and joy sparkled across the little village again as there was evident honour in having Dev at their warmth. Dev was glad too. Glad to be away (atleast for a while) from the dangers of his job, and treated himself blissfully to the riches of his village, the only place he could call home. The appreciably heartening affection he received from his people, the joy of reuniting with family after long, the ravishing cuisines he was treated to at home, gave Dev immense pleasure and a sense of privileged importance as to how important he was to his native people and how wonderful his home was to him. That night, he had the opportunity of a candid chat with his wife, a delectable prospect to him after months and years of listless strife and uncertainty. Oh, the predictable rambling had to be there. It was, in full measure too. Ranging from the milkman’s insincerity to the post office’s dereliction which ensured very little communication since the last time they’d seen each other, every insignificant issue of discussion was discussed listlessly in their cascade of candour! It was during this little rendezvous with his wife that Dev realized how much of a sacrifice he was undertaking. As he rolled around in bed in the apparent mirth of having his best friend back in his company, he came to terms with the enormity of the compromises he had undertaken by means of his job. Being away from home, from the beloved ones who shaped his life felt hard. He thought of the relatively luscious lives many of the other men in his age group led. A life that would have them in constant coherence with their world, their family. A life that wouldn’t be characterized by an apprehensive spouse, uncertain of whether or not she would ever get to have her spouse beside her again. A life that wouldn’t be epitomized disturbingly by fatal brushes with death every now and then. A life that wouldn’t hang precariously on the threshold of life and death. A life that could gloriously be called a life. A life that would consist of the riches, the contentment, the happiness and the celebration of living it the way it should. The life of a soldier is no longer regarded in the pretentious manner that it should, he thought to himself as he ran his palm through the lustrous hair of the woman in his bed. There was one side of him which regretted his decision to sign up for the onerous, perilous ride. But once he’d taken off breathlessly on the sprinting tiger, what choice had he got?

8:00 AM next morning found our protagonist at his heels again, reporting diligently for another day at work. The definition and quantification of the ‘work’ changes when we talk of a Commandant for a Battalion here. Back at Saharanpur, Dev ‘s jaded self, juxtaposed with tetchy thoughts of home, clawed its way back grittily to business as usual. A day of rigorous drills was preceded by some sharp talk to his men lambasting them for lax languor over the last few weeks, that’d been responsible for an exponentiating spate of civilian atrocities. Only last week, a four-year old and mother were found as hapless corpses one evening, eyewitnesses reporting ‘uniformed gunmen’, and news came thick and fast of another family shot down in Saharanpur one night. Days passed, weeks with increasingly vigilant surveillance and a relatively lesser grim picture. Lowering the guard was of course, never in the fray of reckoning when; for all you knew, a calm period might very well be the lull before a disparaging storm.

However, there was one special day that stood out in this memoir. A day that kicked off with very painstaking drills, followed by an extended, meticulously exercised session of training in various kinds of defenses to the guiles of guerilla warfare. His battalion chose to retreat in the pleasurable company of a wonderful afternoon, picking an ideal lunch spot in the open area that overlooked their camps. And what a feeling it was to stay unquivered, relaxed on the edges of a forest feeding away succulently and sharing laughs. Some days, even in the midst of underlying fear, just prop up from nowhere and render such deep contentment. This seemed just about an ideal day for these earnest jawans to unwind and rejuvenate themselves, as they sipped through their wafting chai at half-past five, at a roadside stall, and crackled away in delirious laughter at each other’s quixotic quips. It was then, when all looked serene and sober that all hell broke loose in a jiffy.

A series of gunshots shattered the serenity that graced the air around the place, as a well-armed, enormous group of warriors sprang into sight and emptied their magazines ruthlessly on the retreating battalion. Wails of misery filled the air as bullets razed into limbs, chests and faces of the discombobulated jawans. In moments, it was two-way death traffic with a few of our hapless victims mustering the equanimity to recover their chutzpah. Dev ordered his troops to hide, to scamper away behind masses of trees and bushes for a well directed retaliation. But that was a little too optimistic, as bullets sent warriors from both sides sent flying in the air and crashing away as lifeless corpses. There wasn’t the slightest of luxury with time or with the possibility of scuttling away denser into the woods, as the road was now a horrifying orgy of scarlet semi-solid matter.

Dev fought on valiantly taking down with him 13 of the gruesome insurgents. Locking his sight and his rifle on a 14^th, he fired, but missed and sent crashing down one of his own men. Atonement? Fate ensured no opportunity for that, as a stream of bullets made deep, piercing contact with his chivalrous mass. The rifle dropped aimlessly from his palms, as the numbed cadaver of Deveshchandra Singh, swerving momentarily, rammed face-on into the solid road that now stood unrecognizable by the ubiquitous change in texture. An unstoppable cascade of blood flowed from his crushed nose, as tears of agony and intolerably excruciating pain welled up in his bulging, stupefied eyes. Fully mindful of the reality that he was seconds away from perpetual rest, he thought of the country he had laid down his life for, and strived to serve. He thought of the many wailing kids, screeching wives and bickering males in his country, of why they should have any reason to be unhappy about. They aren’t doing my job, he thought. They do not live life with the apprehensive uncertainty of spontaneous death, and a perennial responsibility of being on guard, prepared for any sort of difficulty that might show up. A minor lapse in concentration and a deadly catastrophe invariably occurs. He regretted the diminishing value for the lives of soldier in the country he was so desperately serving. He thought of the presumed role of a soldier in contemporary times: a mere machine, a robotic entity meant to guard against unprecedented harm. And he thought of the perfunctory, callous manner in which the priceless lives of such audacious men would be reduced to a mere statistical figure. How different was the life of a jawan from the life of an ordinary civilian who might as well have been the subject of a bloody attack?  For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was just in being harsh to his men a few weeks ago for their languor. He wondered what his wife had to do with Naxalism to face the irrevocable grief of the news that would very soon be delivered to her...

And then, he thought no more.

A couple of hours later, outside the incredibly lavish quarters of the Home Ministry in the national capital halted a suave vehicle. Out emerged the man an impatient congregation awaited with bated breath, cameras clicking away incessantly for the man who was looked up to by the nation for guaranteed security and harmonious existence. Gazing at the cameras through his wide rimmed spectacles with a numbed straight face, he uttered with the debonair aura of an arrogant intellectual “The Home Ministry has received news this evening of a Maoist massacre on the outskirts of Saharanpur, Bihar. We’re told, and these are purely preliminary reports, that it was a guerilla assault. Our jawans were caught unarmed, and were attacked during retreat. We condemn such violence. As of now, the death toll stands at 72. You shall be informed if there is a further rise in the number.”



Author's Note: This, purely, is a work of fiction. Even the faintest resemblance to any character (living and dead) or incident may swiftly be dismissed as remarkable coincidence.