As I type this, I worry about a load-shedding power cut. My laptop battery, weary from the day and night atrocities of this fanatic typist, has finally succumbed to the inevitable: a power cut means sudden death for these words. At one point in time though, I survived without power for almost six months at a stretch. Don't be surprised. I still remember the look of disbelief on the faces of those around me when, after a prolonged hiatus and without warning, we would receive electricity during our days in the sleepy border hamlets of Sibsagar district, Assam. Electricity was more a luxury than a necessity in those days.
My father's seemingly mundane job as a government doctor had brought us to that remote corner of the district in 1990. Just after my parents and I (a toddler at the time) arrived in that sleepy hamlet, President's rule was decreed in Assam. The Assam Gana Parishad (AGP) government – which had close and intimate connections with ULFA – had almost lost its grip over the state. My father recounts that young boys flashing oversized weapons would roam freely in the region, even coming openly armed to the hospital for health checkups. There was almost an unspoken truce between the government and the yet to be banned outfit. Popular support for ULFA was immense – most families of the village had a relative in the outfit. Our village was more or less a free territory for ULFA cadres who exercised power over local issues, often punishing petty thieves and drug dealers. While we wanted to believe, at that time, that guns were used exclusively by the police, quite the opposite was true. We came across very few police personnel during those days.
Things deteriorated when ULFA started massive fundraising operations, making kidnapping and killing the order of the day. Tea garden officials bore most of the brunt of ULFA cadres who had become remorselessly trigger happy. The honeymooning of the AGP-led government and ULFA came to an abrupt halt as President's rule was imposed on the state in November that year, followed by the launching of Operation Bajrang by the Indian Army.
My father, often summoned after-hours to treat patients in remote areas, had an eventful working life for a government doctor. Many a time he was forced hands-up at gunpoint by ambush parties of the Indian Army. His pride, a Yamaha RX100 motorcycle, only added to his woes: ULFA operatives were known to have a liking for that particular model owing to its capacity to tackle difficult terrain. In broken Hindi he used to shout "Mein daktar hun. Patient dekhna hai". To this day, he has no idea if his Hindi passed muster, or if their guns were jammed. He survived nonetheless. There were instances when army personnel – suspicious of Father's movements – followed him on his way back from a patient's house, eventually finding their way to our hospital quarter and the terrified tears of my mother and I. Most of the time the local weekly bazaar, about 300 metres from the hospital, functioned as a battlefield for ULFA and the Army. On Thursdays – market day – however, the numerous villages that relied upon the bazaar for everything from groceries to children's books reclaimed the space.