Sourjya Bhowmick - Gangster State: The Rise and Fall of the CPI(M) in West Bengal

To my parents

CALCUTTA SUFFERS FROM AN UNBEARABLE SUMMER HUMIDITY that only its denizens can tolerate. But the summer of 2009 was harsher. A dreadful heatwave suffocated the city. This ominous weather nauseated, distracted and prevented Rajat from identifying the political tragedy about to hit Bengal.

Rajat and Bablu discussed the impending Lok Sabha election while sitting at their favourite thyek Sudips Tea Stall. A murmur across the state suggested that people had decided to displace the Communist Party of India (Marxist) from power. The first major blow would be struck during the Lok Sabha election. The two men agreed there would be a loss in seats, but it was incredible to imagine that people would actually dislodge the Party from power.

Sudip reminded them to settle the bill. It was 9:30 at night. The hour had arrived for Sudip to shut shop, run to the nearest liquor store to spend a part of his daily earnings. Rajat and Bablu took off from the tea stall after telling Sudip they would pay the following day, as usual.

Once Rajat reached home, he wanted to take a shower and sleep after having spent a hectic evening campaigning at a slum for the CPI(M) in the run-up to the election.

He had delivered a stirring speech on the adverse effects of the Indo-US nuclear deal to rows of have-nots who sat on the ground. He debunked the evil designs of American imperialists as scores of blank faces stared at him. They were ever-ready to clap at intervals when other leaders on the red-coloured platform applauded. Slogans of Inquilab Zindabad and The blood of martyrs will never go in vain rang through the air.

This slum had voted en masse for the Party and formed muscle power for Rajat and his comrades. They were squatters from various suburbs and the Party helped them occupy the 200-square-feet huts in the colony without any valid documents. These people helped fulfil the quota given to the local arm of the Party during the annual Brigade Rally.

Rajat saw that Babu, the rickety local panwallah with tobacco-stained teeth, was in attendance while delivering his address. Rajat had a special bond with Babu, which helped him borrow cigarettes without paying. Babu attended every meeting and rally organized by the Party. Your leaders wont allow me to open my shop the next day if I dont attend meetings. Babu would say to Rajat whenever he had the opportunity.

Wasting the whole day at the rally meant a loss of business for Babu. He had to pay off Mama, the local moneylender, every month. Mama had lent Babu a hefty sum at a high rate of interest to open his shop. Mama took more interest in Babus mother than his money. A double fear wrecked Babus mind on the days he showed up for party programmes because he would have to leave his mother at the shop, without protection from Mamas prying eyes.

Babu had found a clever way out of this predicament during the annual Brigade Rally. He marched with party workers from Jadavpur to Rashbehari Crossing (where many other processions congregated, formed a long line and paraded onwards to Brigade Ground) and disappeared into the crowd. His actions benefited everyone. The Party counted him as attending and he disappeared after showing his face for the first hour of the rally.

Rajats mother interrupted his thoughts and called him to dinner. But he lacked the energy to listen to her as he wondered if people like Babu would vote for the CPI(M). He was rushing towards the washroom longing for healing drops of water to touch his jaded soul when his phone rang.

Hey, come to H block. Fast, Bablu said and disconnected. He sounded furious.

Bablu, a short, dark-skinned youth in his mid-twenties, was an ardent football fan and an active participant at most tea stall addas in Rajats neighbourhood. He was the quintessential angry young man with fire in his eyes that looked threatening.

Growing up, he had had frequent run-ins with his neighbours, never controlled his emotions and often meant trouble. Reports against Bablu caused serious displeasure to Party leaders frequently. But this trait, along with his dedication, made him the perfect choice for the action squad of the Party.

Rajat and Bablu often disagreed and had heated arguments when the discussion involved the legendary football clubs of East Bengal and Mohun Bagan. Bablu was an aggressive East Bengal supporter. Despite their differences, their discussions ended with a mutual ritual they ended up drinking together.

Rajat left for H block in a hurry. It was a five-minute walk from his house.

You are going out again! Did you ask your father? Where are you off to? Rajats mother shouted at him.

I will be back in thirty minutes. It is urgent. Not wanting to waste any time, he rushed out.

As usual, the neighbourhood had retired for the day, barring a few alcoholics who were walking back towards their homes and were engaged in unintelligible banter with one another.

Is there any trouble in H block? Did you see Bablu out there? Rajat asked one of them.

No. Lets have a drink. Lets call Ram-da. He will deliver. We have to pay him 20 extra, Pocha-da, a neighbourhood alcoholic, said as he held Rajats hand.

We shall drink after the election. Not now. Im in a hurry, Rajat said as he walked ahead.

Pocha-da worked as a daily-wage driver in the mornings. On the days he earned some money, he spent it on drinking in the evening. On the days he went without work he devoted his evenings to ugly fights with his wife. Pochas wife had complained to the local club and visited the Party office hoping they would take up the matter. Rajat was thinking of escalating this domestic issue in the Party meetings after the election.

Rajats mistimed sensitivity received a rude jolt when he crossed the deserted main road and entered H block. A few men were rushing into Briji, a notorious slum that backed the Party rival, the Trinamool Congress (TMC). Rajat stood a hundred metres behind them. Bablu gave them chase and, after running for about 200 metres he stopped. He didnt have the grit to venture alone inside Briji. It was a criminal-infested slum which one was advised to avoid.

Madarchod! Wait till I see you again. Ill teach you who I am. Listen, you motherfuckers, if you step into our neighbourhood we will break your legs, Bablu continued screaming till Rajat held his collar and pulled him back.

What the hell is happening? Where are the others? Who were they? Trinamool Congress? Rajat asked.

Yes. Come with me. Everyone is near Mohan Babus house. Bablus eyes were red. They ran back to the epicentre of the action.

Leaders of the Democratic Youth Federation of India (DYFI), the youth organization of the Party modelled on the Komsomol, were gathered in the lane. They had surrounded and cornered sixty-year-old Gautam Babu, the latest addition from the neighbourhood to the TMC.

Gautam Babu pleaded for mercy in this dark, desolate alley of Jadavpur. His merciless thrashing intensified when Bablu ran and landed a punch directly on his face. Gautam Babu started bleeding profusely.

They held him against the boundary wall of a one-storeyed house. His flogging took place right in front of the closed windows, one of those typical middle-class one-storeyed houses of south Calcutta colonies that dotted the lane. The concrete bore witness to the assault and the people inside their homes pretended not to notice and remained silent.

Unable to react, Rajat stood as a mute spectator. A bent-over Gautam Babu pleaded and cried as his right hand clutched the iron grille of the window, seeking support. His glasses lay shattered near his feet.