Though living in London for nearly four decades, Asha had always made it a point to keep in touch with the daily developments back home in India. She paid special attention to news pertaining to her home state of West Bengal. After retiring from their respective professions both she and her husband had fallen into a set routine. Among other things, her schedule included carefully perusing the online editions of the leading Indian English dailies, along with some Bengali newspapers.

That particular morning, one news item caught Asha’s attention, almost to the point of obsession. She kept on following the news item on all bilingual editions of various newspapers. As if to feed her curiosity, certain vernacular papers carried a large feature, while some of the other dailies just mentioned the news item in brief. Brief or enlarged coverage, it seemed to be an omniscient feature of all papers.

The report recurrent in most national dailies carried the news of the demise of Usha Majumder, a septuagenarian Naxalite leader, who had been leading the life of a recluse in a village near Naxalbari, epicentre of the peasant revolution in the 1960s and 70s. The leftist radical had taken her own life at her residence. As Asha went through the various obituaries in multiple newspapers, she couldn’t help being transported to her college days in Kolkata (then Calcutta).

“Those were days of reckless romantic idealism”, she pondered. The news of peasants killing a cop in Naxalbari in North Bengal on 25 May 1967 had inspired a spate of youngsters from elite educational institutions in Kolkata. “We were all charged up with revolutionary zeal, being quite disillusioned with the mainstream Communist movements,” mused Asha.

At the breakfast table, she also drew her husband Sourav’s attention to the news item. Sourav was oblivious of this part of Asha’s life. Being a second generation British citizen, he had met Asha much later in a family gathering in London. It was an arranged marriage organised by both families at Toothing. Rather surprised at this sudden revelation on her wife’s part, he did not interrupt. He let Asha go on as he poured his tea.

“You know, Sourav, those days along with my friends Usha, Jayati and Madhu, we were an integral part of the friendly coalition, an informal group with similar political sympathies. Believe it or not, by April 1969, we were all fiercely motivated to liberate the countryside. For young revolutionaries, especially urban students like us, secrecy was the order of the day. Occasionally under the pretext of an educational tour or excursion, we managed to stay away from home and toiled away in the villages. Our sole motto was obliteration of exploitation. Gruesome killings and mindless violence were gradually becoming an integral part of the socio-political life of Bengal. Though I found it difficult to reconcile myself with the violence, we were brainwashed about doing it for the larger good of society and the world.”

“You never told me this in three decades of married life. How did you get involved with the movement?” was Sourav’s quiet query.

“By default” replied Asha. “It was a freak incident that indirectly drew me into the movement. I was away from it all though some of my friends were actively involved.

“One day while returning home from college, I was caught in the middle of a skirmish on College Street, which seemed to erupt from nowhere. I heard a couple of explosions and a pall of smoke soon engulfed the area. In the ensuing chaos, I was picked up by the police along with some friends. At the police station, I was asked to provide information. I had nothing to divulge but the cops were unrelenting. They beat me up and I lost consciousness. When I came back to my senses, I found myself in the hospital. Later I came to learn that my father had to exploit all the contacts at his disposal to ensure my release.

“The experience in itself was enough for me. The police beating took its toll on my nerves. Even today, I occasionally get jitters.

“’Usha di was then a political science student in our college. She had come from North Bengal and was a rather unassuming character on campus. It was only much later that I came to know her closely after being actively involved with the movement. One couldn’t imagine that there could be so much angst and fire under such a calm demeanor.

“Today when I saw her photo, after several decades, I could still perceive the fire of revolution in her eyes. She stood as a beacon of hope for all female revolutionaries involved in the Naxalite movement, especially those from Bengal.”

“How did she survive in the patriarchal set up? I mean the movement was primarily a man’s world where women only played second fiddle,” asked Sourav.

“You are right. In the one-and-a-half years I was involved in underground activities, I saw from close quarters that most male party members were not that keen on women’s participation in direct revolutionary action. Inside the organisation, I saw that most women were expected to be free domestic helps, which once again underlined the veracity of conventional feminine roles.

“Yet within those limitations Usha di was a role model for many of us. Against all odds, she fought her way to the top, even going to the extent of participating in some of the action, that called for a great deal of physical prowess and belligerent sagacity. Time and again she protested against the inequality of gender in the larger context of class struggle. In that context she was a pioneer for rookies like us.

“Usha di wanted the struggle to espouse the idea of equal earnings and land rights for both men and women. At a more personal level, I was deeply indebted to her for the love, care and support she extended to me.”

“How did your life change after your involvement with the movement?” enquired Sourav with a deep interest.

“The inevitable happened following the attack by the cops. Academics became somewhat secondary in my life. With the aid of my friends I started consuming revolutionary literature with great gusto. I started attending some of the clandestine meetings, which seemed rather informal, but key communications were conveyed over tea sessions, mostly in the form of coded language. With time, in about three or four months, I found myself drowned in revolutionary activities. There was no going back; ‘China’s Chairman is our Chairman’ was the refrain. Armed revolution and the cause of peasants was our only goal.”

“What happened after that?” asked Sourav.

“The brutality took its toll. While I, along with my friends, supported the cause, the violent turn of the movement gradually started isolating some of us. In turn, police cruelties also multiplied. Having once been an inadvertent victim of cop violence, despite the anger, frustration and fortitude, deep inside I dreaded the idea of another traumatic assault.

“What, however, drove the message home was the fate of some close friends. After being subjected to police torture, my friend Joy was paralysed for a life. My other friend Jayati, a brilliant student of physics, suffered from psychological trauma, after bearing witness to the gruesome murder of a hated landlord in a remote village of North Bengal.

“That particular murder sent ripples across our group. Being close to Jayati, I came under the web of police suspicion. Following that, I was picked up time and again by the cops for interrogations. It was following one such interrogation that I was not allowed to return home. Ironically, I was accused of being the mastermind behind the murder plot. Getting the release orders was a long wait.

“Later, father revealed that he had managed to get me released on the condition that all arrangements for my further studies in the UK had been made and I was supposed to the leave the country as early as possible. That convinced the authorities.”

‘Didn’t Baba ask any questions?” asked Sourav.

“No questions were asked. Upon release, within a couple of days’ time, I was asked to prepare and leave for London and join my uncle and his family. I didn’t ask any questions too. There was nothing to report after that. Life moved on a predictable path. Degrees, research, job, settlement…”

Sourav’s questions continued unabated, “But what’s the truth behind the murder plot in Hatighisa village for which you were picked up? Were you guilty?”

“Are you crazy? I have to admit that neither did I have the skill nor the sagacity to execute such a daring plot. It was Usha di who was instrumental in the planning and execution. My name perhaps got dragged as she wore my clothes and an eye witness reported that to the police.

“Today, after reading about Usha di’s demise in the papers, all those memories were revived. I feel sad that I failed to keep in touch with her. After all these years it seems like a dream.”

“It may seem like a dream to you. But one doesn’t know when the fire might ignite again. Yesterday it was the exploitative landlord; tomorrow it could be the multinational company in search of new land for industry. One doesn’t really know when the tide turns,” said Sourav.