For the first time in her life, Shalini felt conscious about how she looked. Her long wavy hair, her bronze skin and her far-from-petite frame were so different from the people here. She wished she had listened to her father, and not ventured out alone.
The polo field was fine. On the field, she was just another player. In the library, she was fine. She was another reader. But here, amongst the public, she was from the Indian mainland – worse, from an army family.
Everywhere else in India, it was with pride she had said she was from the army. Here, she felt apologetic about it.
April put an arm around Shalini’s shoulder and said, “This, Aunty, is my friend. Shalini.”
The woman smiled at the two of them and went on to prepare the tea.
The silence was awkward as they waited for the tea.
Shalini kept staring out of the glass window and April seemed to be memorising the menu card. Thankfully, it wasn’t too long a wait before the tea arrived. The bright red colour and the citrus smell was unlike any beverage Shalini had had before. The closest would perhaps be Roohafza, the sweet syrupy drink she used to have on hot summer afternoons. But this was not the same.
Shalini took a sip of the sweet and citrusy drink and felt totally refreshed. It was infused with all sorts of fruity flavours.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Local fruits and herbs. Protima Aunty won’t tell us. My secret recipe, she says,” mimicked April.
“Yes! My secret recipe,” Protima Aunty smiled and went inside into an adjacent work shed that doubled as a kitchen. They could hear women chatting inside in the local language.
“He didn’t join the insurgency,” April said vehemently, finally giving voice to the turmoil inside her.
“Henthoiba?” asked Shalini.
“Well, he wasn’t my friend. More like a senior. But I have spoken to him on some occasions,” said April.
Shalini wondered why she was lying. She wondered if she should tell her about the conversation she had with DSP Sharma and then decided against it.
She was eager to make a friend too and April was quite enigmatic. Talking about DSP Sharma would perhaps only drive a wedge between them.
April leaned forward in her chair and said, “See, most of the people who join the insurgency are from poor families. School dropouts. Anyway, how can fifteen-year-olds, sometimes even younger children, join the insurgency? At best it is recruitment, at worst it is kidnapping. Aren’t both a criminal offence? And yet, children keep disappearing.”
Keep disappearing? How many were there? Shalini wondered.
April took out a book from her bag and pushed it in front of her. It was a small paperback, fairly new, about two-hundred-pages long. The cover was plain with a painting of a dragon. Wrapped in the dragon’s tail were many children who couldn’t come out of its stranglehold. It looked as if it was locally printed. The title read – Children of the Forgotten Land – by Robert Kamei.
Shalini opened a page at random and read:
Ranjit takes me outside the town to some remote area. The trees are now starting to get denser and I imagine we are just about to enter the jungle. There is a small, very old temple on the side of the pathway. We go inside. There is some deity I have not seen in my life before.
Ranjit sits on his knees and bows before the deity. He indicates to me to do the same. I sit down. The ground is cold. Everything around me seems to have a very chilly vibe. I quickly do as told.
By the time we come out, it is starting to get darker. I no longer want the adventure I was yearning just moments ago. Our path is filled with thickets and trees. I don’t mind any animals but have always dreaded the snake. But, in that moment, I was sure that I would have gladly walked with the snake, rather than be with Ranjit.
I think of turning back. I think of running away. But it’s as if I am in a trance.
It is only the next day that we reach what looks like a camp and he takes me inside a hut. There are other children like me there. No one there shares their real names. Just a nickname.
The first day, I don’t train like the others. I am asked to clean the huts and wash the clothes. Someone is always standing guard. But, in the night, we are locked up in the hut, left to fend for ourselves. Perhaps they were in search of more children like me.
Next morning, I am given an AK 47 in my hands. It stays in my hands for exactly two seconds. After that, it lies on the ground in front of me. I am scared and I cry. At twelve, I get my first nickname. I am Rondu.
“These are real accounts of children. Sometimes they are as young as twelve years old,” said April.
“Who is Robert Kamei?” asked Shalini.
“He managed to escape. He took it upon himself to document the stories of different children – some who’d escaped, and some who he’d spoken to when captive,” said April.
Excerpted with permission from Children of the Hidden Land, Mandira Shah, Speaking Tiger YA.
