It must have been around 1971, when the Naxalite movement was at its peak and Bengal—and much of eastern India—was passing through one of its most turbulent phases. At that time, I was posted at the Barauni Refinery of Indian Oil Corporation.
The atmosphere was such that every educated Bengali male with spectacles, a jhola, and a serious face was automatically suspected to be a Naxalite. Bihar Police, it was rumoured, even had a “special interest” in Bengalis. Some people joked that if you quoted Tagore correctly, suspicion increased further.
One day, our CPI union leader, Rameshwar Prasad, came to me with a mysterious expression and said in a hushed tone,
“Roy saab, police sleuths are following you.”
I burst out laughing.
“Poor fellows,” I replied. “They must be terribly disappointed.”
He looked puzzled.
I explained, “Every evening after office I go to Officers’ Club, play tennis, then badminton, eat dinner at the guest house, and sleep. If they are expecting secret revolutionary meetings, they are wasting government resources.”
Frankly, I almost felt sorry for the intelligence department. Imagine tailing a suspect whose biggest conspiracy was whether to play singles or doubles badminton.
But the situation outside was no joke.
There was a dacoity in a zamindar’s house in Begusarai, and in the usual style of those times, some of our Bengali trade apprentices were promptly picked up and branded as Naxalites. In those days, if a Bengali youth carried a book instead of a lathi, police suspicion became even stronger.
I knew those boys. They were more frightened of workshop supervisors than of the Indian state.
So I took help from my friend K. K. Verma, whose uncle was a police officer, and somehow managed to get the boys released. In those days, personal credibility and contacts often worked faster than formal systems.
Around the same period, I had to visit Calcutta for finalising the starting relay CMM-4 with English Electric for our high-voltage coke-cutting motor. I was staying at the IOC guest house on Syed Amir Ali Avenue. Being a bachelor then, life was fairly uncomplicated—except that Bengal itself had become highly complicated.
My late brother-in-law, Ranjit Mukherjee, was a hardcore CPM supporter. Those were violent political days. Congress toughs and plainclothes policemen allegedly harassed many Left supporters. Ranjit had his own house in Dhakuria, but because of constant trouble he shifted quietly to Santragachi in a rented flat, almost like a political refugee within his own state.
One evening after work, I went to visit my sister there. Since we were meeting after a long gap, my brother-in-law became enthusiastic about arranging a “special dinner.” Bengalis can postpone revolution, but not elaborate dinners.
Naturally, dinner became late.
By then everyone in the house looked worried.
“You are not going back tonight,” they declared.
“Why?” I asked.
My brother-in-law replied dramatically,
“At this hour police may shoot first and identify later. You look exactly like an intellectual Bengali.”
I protested that I at least needed to inform the IOC guest house.
So he took me to the nearest thana.
But just before entering, he stopped.
“You go inside alone,” he whispered. “I won’t accompany you.”
“Why?”
“I am staying incognito.”
That sentence itself sounded sufficiently revolutionary.
So there I was—walking alone into a police station at night during the peak of the Naxalite era.
I showed my Indian Oil ID card and explained my predicament to the officer in charge. Fortunately, he turned out to be a practical and accommodating man. The moment he realised I was a PSU officer stranded between bureaucracy and Bengali family hospitality, his entire attitude softened.
He allowed me to use the phone and even advised me to stay back safely.
Thus ended my brief “underground political career.”
Next morning, I quietly returned to the IOC guest house—alive, well-fed, and still non-revolutionary.
Why am I writing this today?
Because I feel that period marked the beginning of Bengal’s long institutional decline. Many brilliant young students got swept into the Naxalite movement. Some were idealists, some romantic rebels, and some simply angry young men searching for meaning. Tragically, many were mercilessly killed in police action. Siddhartha Shankar Ray earned the harsh title of “Butcher of Bengal” from his critics because of the severity of the crackdown.
Later, he was sent by Indira Gandhi to deal with the Khalistani situation in Punjab. The template had already been created—politics, policing, fear, and force becoming intertwined.
Somewhere during those years, police gradually began getting perceived not as neutral protectors of law, but as extensions of ruling political power. Successive governments merely changed the colour of the flag; the system largely remained the same.
Today, while speaking to an ADG-level officer, I raised this very question.
“Why didn’t IPS officers resist?” I asked.
He smiled helplessly and said,
“The system gives very little scope.”
Then after a pause he added honestly,
“Of course, maybe twenty percent are corrupt.”
I appreciated the candour.
My hope is that with political change in Bengal, policing may gradually return to its original purpose—that the common citizen should see a policeman as someone to approach for help, not someone to avoid out of fear.
A society progresses not merely through flyovers and malls, but when an ordinary citizen can enter a police station without anxiety.
Much like I did that night in Santragachi—armed only with an IOC identity card and the confidence of an innocent badminton player.
