I spot two men in black leather jackets standing at the glass door with a chary look on their faces. I guess they must be the men I am waiting for. I stand up and nod at them. They walk up to my table and I introduce myself. they settle down, but look visibly restive. Probably they would have been more comfortable in a dark bar with loud music playing in the backdrop where nobody would really notice them. Here, they stood out. And I stood out too.
The friendly waiter gives me a strange look as I start chatting with two shady-looking men, who seem unlikely companions for me. He walks up reluctantly and takes our orders. Both look slightly dazed and gaze at each other. “We will have a lemonade each,” one of them says rather sheepishly. The other simply nods.
Both peer earnestly at me – the “female” journalist sitting in front of them. I pretend to be indifferent and look away.
Before I can start, one of them asks me, “Why are you interested in our lives?”
“Well,” I tell them, “I am a journalist and I am keen to tell untold stories. In fact, any journalist will be interested in your story.”
One of them grunts, “Ah, well, we were not famous militants. Just small-time foot soldiers. Anyway, we can talk.”
I take out my pen. The notepad is crumpled and grimy as it has been lying in my bag for several weeks. I am all set to learn more about their saga as members of the enigma force or enigma group or the “demolition squad” of the United Liberation Front of Assam (Ulfa). They are trained to carry out special and violent missions. They have both surrendered now and trying to lead normal lives with the rehabilitation package offered by the government. However, their past will not allow them to do so. I can see fear written in their eyes.
They listen to me in silence and then one of them starts explaining. “Only the best among us were selected for this exclusive group. We had to be fit emotionally and physically and be loyal to the outfit. Most importantly, one had to possess the ‘killer instinct’,” he said. Both look physically fit and able; one of them looks like a sharpshooter. they must have killed many people while they were active militants.
And as the name suggests, enigma members of the Ulfa were an “enigma”. Only the top-rung leaders knew the composition of the group. Sometimes, they were made to live like normal cadres of the outfit, and sometimes in isolation. But when required, they had to take up their role as combatants in special “striking” missions.
There were several women in the group as it was easy for them to evade security checks. Their identity was an enigma. So much so that even the hardcore members of the squad were not aware of who was a member of the enigma group, unless they were on a mission together. Deputy C-in-C Raju Barua headed this secret, independent group.
The conversation is engaging. As I prod them about their skills and expertise, the more vocal of them smiles. “I was trained in Bangladesh and Myanmar and can handle everything from light machine guns to AK series rifles. We are trained more for hit-and-run type of operations. We are supposed to be on our toes all the time. We were also trained to stay awake for several nights together.”
It is obvious that both were men of few words, but the second one was also measured in speech. I listen awed as one of them talks about their operational strategies. “Sometimes, we would put on a disguise and melt into society. Once I stayed in a neighbourhood wearing a dhoti and kurta and sold fresh local fish. I used to carry two pots of live fish tied to a stick on my shoulders. City dwellers crave for riverine fish from neighbouring villages and it was easy to mingle with the local people. Sometimes, I had deadly weapons hidden in the pots. It was a clever disguise as nobody would suspect that I was part of a ‘dangerous’ mission.”
However, they refrain from talking in depth about their “secret missions”. Clearly, they do not believe in exaggerations.
But I continue to quiz them. They do not quite like my persistence. One of them waves his hand authoritatively. “Let it be an enigma. But believe me, the group was responsible for some of the major operations by the Ulfa in Assam in the past five years.” I know I cannot get more than this out of them. Probably, they were trained well not to divulge much or talk more than necessary.
They look surprised as I ask them about their own security and “professional” hazards. Probably, they never thought about them either. “We were ready to die. We did not fear death. And we were always ready to pop the pill,” says one of them without calibrating words. For a moment, the term “pill” did not ring a bell. I look at him questioningly. But he does not bother to elaborate. Suddenly, I realise that he is talking of cyanide.
He continues, “After we surrendered, our perspective towards life changed. I have a family to take care of now.” His face looks weathered with craggy lines. I can sense their awkwardness and anxiety. They often shoot furtive glances at the door as if somebody would barge in and attack them. Maybe they were trained to be alert. Or, maybe they do not trust me. They would also place their hands on their waist at times. I guess they had their weapon with them. All surrendered militants had a weapon to protect themselves. that makes me even more uneasy.
This is the point where you decide to buck up. I furiously take notes. suddenly, I get an uncanny feeling and I look up from my notebook. I can see the “friendly” waiter leaning over and trying to eavesdrop. as soon as he sees me, he turns away. I get back to business but I can feel the waiter hovering over us. Maybe he does not think that my two companions were “regular” customers. They just look too shady. Their black jackets and gruff shoes stand out. The atmosphere is heavy for me too.
I try to finish off the interview quickly and thank them for their time. They stand up and offer to pay the bill. But I insist on paying. One of them clearly has a smudge of fatigue on his face. He looks straight in my eyes, almost with an imploring look. “We are now trying to lead a decent life. But our lives have no value,” he says.
I understand their predicament. They are now on a quest for the elusive “better life” and that intangible “social status”.
It is difficult to come back to the mainstream after having spent years in solitude in the jungles, engaging in violent combat with the state. It is even more difficult for their children to cope with the fact that their parent is a “former militant”. I ask them, “What are you both doing these days?”
Both look impassive. “Business, we do business,” says one of them.
It is a little strange that these two hardcore militants are sitting with a total stranger, talking about their past lives. Did they feel relieved, I wonder? I realise that a close interaction with conflict makes one feel very vulnerable. I can see one of them wiping his brow with his handkerchief. they look at each other abruptly, stand up, hastily bid goodbye and scurry out. I can see them fade away at the glass door frame. I heave a sigh of relief! Both their arrival and departure were dizzying.
Excerpted with permission from Bulletproof: A Journalist’s Notebook On Reporting Conflict, Teresa Rehman, Penguin Books.
