Former armyman Badri Narayan Pandey was the archetypal military-man-returns-to-take-on-the-goons in his village, I learnt. Coming back to civilian life had been traumatic and Pandey had set up, quite literally, a sacrificial army or shahidi jatha of like-minded young men. I wanted to meet Pandey. He was not interested in publicity, as that would attract attention. I checked around. People had heard the legend, but no one knew for sure. Any address? No. A contact place, perhaps? No again. I checked with the local cops. They were looking for him themselves, I was told. Time was running out. I got a call at the hotel: can you meet Pandeyji at 8.00 pm and no photographers please. I had none. With a fair bit of chill in my bones, I went to the appointed place and waited for two hours. Waiting there is not easy. You may not meet Pandey, but one of his antagonists. Commit a crime and just cross the international border: a different law zone.
Still no Pandey. I gave up. Next morning friend and guide Abhay Mohan Jha brought good tidings. The self-styled protector would meet me in the afternoon, three km from the main road—if that could be called a road—in the heart of one of his camps. And I could bring a photographer. I persuaded a reluctant studio owner to close shop for a few hours, crossed two streams, walked five km through sugarcane fields and met Pandey in his green fatigues. We don’t have AK-47s, but a .202 is effective, Pandey said, if you have the heart to fight. A quirky fighter in a land where everybody else seems to have given up. Almost six years later, I learn, Pandey and his men still haven’t given up.
