‘on a green hunt’

A CRPF soldier sits on a milestone by the roadside
His shoes are a dark bottle green
He glares at our passing car
The automatic rifle thrown lazily
across his left shoulder shifts to the right
as his head turns to inspect our faces
The milestone below him reads ’65 kms’
The name of the town is hidden by
green camouflage print.

It could be the town we’re leaving behind.

It could be the one he’s headed to.

It could be where the police fired
on a crowd of unarmed adivasis who were
protesting the wrongful arrests of
their men and children, killing a few on the spot.

It could be where several villages were burnt
to the ground to teach the adivasis
a ‘lesson’ for sympathising with the Maoists.

It could be where the Maoists tied
a policeman to an eighty year old tamarind tree,
beat him to death and set fire to it.

It could be the town where dalits and adivasis
clashed over the ownership of the lands they till,
where homes were destroyed and two boys hacked.

It could be the town with the board that
announces a new mining project by the
Tata company on the adjoining adivasi land.

It could be a town that used to be an adivasi village
Where the ‘naked’ tribals were hounded out,
and the educated were housed in
brick homes.

Or it could be a town that used to be
a fragrant dense grove of mango trees
One of which was a tribal deity,
and is the only one that remains.

It could be where we would have died to live.

It could be where we were warned not to go.

It could be north of the border in Orissa.

Or it could be south of the border in Andhra Pradesh.

It could be anything.

It could be anywhere.

And it would always be 65 kms too far.

Jealously guarded by those it housed.

Coveted by those who needed it.

Forgotten by those who passed through.

Called different names by them all. At different times in history.

Born in blood.

To die in blood.

But to belong to no one. Its name obscured
by a patch of green camouflage print.