I can feel the fear. I can feel it in Ramiah’s hands, the twitching of his fingers, as he makes my tea, as if wishing he’d be left alone, his life to live. I can see it in his eyes, at one moment his gaze forlorn, uninterested, as if I weren’t there, the next moment pleading for me to stop asking questions. I can hear it in his voice, one moment clear and precise, the next melancholy, trailing, as if lost in a dreamland. I can see it in the eyes of the children – three of them – speaking in hushed tones, sizing me up – the outsider – full of distrust and suspicion. I can see it in the policemen, as they march on their beat, their heads dropping, their shoulders drooping – from the weight of their backpacks or the hopelessness of the exercise I can’t say. I can feel it in the heat, as the dry summer sun burns up my skin, and in the wind, as the dust kicks up all around and settles on my hair. I can feel the fear inside me.

I touch my shirt to my forehead, wiping off the trickling droplets of sweat before they fall onto my notepad and ruin my writing. Not that I have much to write. After all, there’s not much to write about. I look around, like a surveyor mapping out the terrain. Only, there’s nothing to map. Dry, barren, desolate. No farms, no rivers, no temples. No school, no clinic, no sign of Government. Not even a panchayat for the village. But then, this is not a village, this is just a settlement – a settlement in the Nallamalai Forest of Prakasam District in Andhra Pradesh. This is Kota. This is where I am.

I am at the only teashop in Kota. Correction, this is not a teashop – just the converted frontage of Ramiah’s house. And it is not even a house – just a hut with a thatched roof and a brick floor, a sign of relative affluence. Not surprising since Ramiah’s is probably the most profitable enterprise in town. He makes tea. Just as he has made for me. ‘Where do you get the tea from?’, I ask him. There’s something about this tea – it’s fresh, refreshing – or maybe it’s just that I’m tired.

‘From Cumbum’, he says. Cumbum is the nearest town of any decent size, more importantly it is the nearest town with a railway connection. ‘I go every week, I have to. I need to get other supplies as well. I can’t carry them all at once’. Makes sense – Kota is a good 60 km from Cumbum, and there’s no bus to this place either. From Cumbum you take the bus going to Pendur, get off at a village at Aikal, and walk the last 10km to Kota. It’s all uphill, so the walk gets tiring. I know, because that’s the way I came.

I came this morning, a couple of hours ago. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because I wanted to see what life was like in the Red Corridor. Maybe because I wanted to see if the flushing-out operations last year really did flush out the Naxals. Maybe because I seek adventure, a thrill to carry me through life. Or maybe because I just wanted to find something to write about – I need to pay my bills too, you see. I don’t really know, I don’t plan so much, I tend to do things on whims.

‘Do the police come every day?’, I ask, nodding towards the two policemen.

‘Every day, since the operations’. That would be about eight months ago, when the Greyhounds pushed the PWG out of the Nallamalai Forest. ‘They come right after noon, have lunch here, take a nap and then leave before the Sun goes down’.

That last bit, I can see, is not a convenience. It is a necessity. ‘What happens at night?’ It’s obvious, but I want to hear it from him.

That question seems to have flipped a switch in him. His eyes are no longer uninterested. His forehead wrinkles, his eyes narrow, filling up with an emotion I can’t exactly place – is it fear, or anger, or helplessness? ‘At night, they come’.

I nod. I’m not surprised, I would have been surprised if they didn’t. They – the People’s War Group – have run rampant here for as long as I can remember. As they have in many other parts of India. The Government says they are now present in 40% of the nation’s territory. They have their own courts, collect their own taxes, and enforce their own laws. A parallel government, in essence.

I need water. Ramiah gives me some. It’s a small clay cup, not very different from the ones you find on the trains these days. Laloo Prasad would have been proud. But it’s this heat – it’s a dry extreme heat that saps your energy. These mountains don’t help – they’re not tall enough. But what about the forest? I don’t see how it could be so hot in the middle of a forest, but to be honest this is outside the protected forest zone. I just wish there were a fan here.

But there are no fans in Kota. There is no electricity in Kota. No postal service, no telephone. As I said, no sign of governance. There is just one road – the others are all just mudpaths – but even that is disused. I guess the last time it was used was when the Greyhounds trundled in, in their APC’s last year. I wonder why the people haven’t used it as flooring for their homes – maybe they still have some niceties left in them.

Which makes me wonder why the streets are so empty. ‘Where is everyone?’, I ask.

‘Oh, they must be working in the fields’.

He’s lying. No one is working in the fields. No one is working in the fields because there are no fields to work in. There is no soil – it’s all irregular quartzite rock – and there is no water – the fissured rock lets no water percolate into the ground and the entire rain discharge runs off into the Gundlakamma river. There is no agriculture here – only porch gardens to grow the household’s vegetables, and to feed the chicken and goats. Certainly, there is no commerce here – you need to go to Cumbum to see any sign of that. No wonder then that this part of the Eastern Ghats is one of the most underpopulated regions of the country. There is no existence here, only subsistence.

But I don’t grudge him for that – he’s probably just embarrassed to admit that everyone is in their homes, not wanting to be seen with a stranger. That’s understandable – after all, no one wants to labeled a government informer and get shot. There can’t be too many people in Kota, I suppose they get by making the petty trinkets made from Terminalia trees, and selling them to the tourists at Cumbum Lake, much like others from the area. Or perhaps they find odd jobs in Cumbum that pay by the hour. Besides, there are hardly any working-age males in the area. They’ve all been taken, either by the naxals or by the police. Either that or they went willingly. What is one to do here anyway? This is one part of India everyone seems to have forgot. Everyone except the comrades.

As for Kota, the population here is probably around 500.” Probably”, because there are no government records. The last time they tried that, in 1991, the Census-taker was shot, his files burnt, and a photograph of his mutilated body sent to his family in Nandyal. No one came to take the Census in 2001.

‘What about the children, do they go to school?’

‘No’.

Of course not. You wouldn’t want your children to get shot for going to school, now would you?

I see the two policemen walk towards us. Perhaps it is time for lunch. We exchange pleasantries and they settle down to eat. They are from the Division HQ in Tirusavadi, about halfway between Cumbum and Aikal. The two constables, in this case Dhanakoti and Ahobalarao, are tasked with patrolling Kota and Pembur – about 3 km North of here. They’re just back from their beat in Pembur. Apparently, Division HQ sends out foot patrols to each settlement in this part of the Nallamalai. Somehow, their presence gives me comfort, although logic says that their bolt-action Lee-Enfields could be no match to the sophisticated automatics of the Maoists. It’s just psychological I suppose – a reminder of Government, a reminder that this is still India.

I get up to leave.

‘You going so soon?’, asks Dhanakoti. ‘Why don’t you stay for some time. You can come back with us in the evening’.

No thanks. I don’t intend to spend my day napping. I have things to do. ‘No, I want to go see Pembur’.

‘There’s nothing in Pembur’, this from Ramiah. ‘You’re just wasting your time.’

There’s nothing here either. The whole place is dead. ‘I would still like to go’.

Which is not to say I am going to go. News here travels fast, if you know what I mean. Perhaps I can expect a welcoming party in Pembur. Or perhaps I don’t intend to go to Pembur and I just want a safe walk back to civilization. I don’t really know, I tend to do things on whims.

‘Well, suit yourself. But don’t stay too late. You know why’.

I smile. I know why.