Last week, relishing a cup of black tea alongwith the smell of burnt nicotine of Wills Flake, Mahato, just a few yards away from the Banstala railway station, looked relaxed with his Ray Ban sunglasses covering his piercing eyes from the sun. It is not yet winter here in this part of the country. "You have reached here, right here in your career after a lot of struggle and very soon, you will be doing something different, not any more journalism," Mahato whispered in my ears. I was shocked. Is he keeping a tab on my movement, activities? "You will reach a new peak few years from now, a dream you will realise, which you have been bearing in your heart since your childhood. You are going to own a business of your own," he added, sipping the hot tea. My fingers were shivering, I could not light the matchstick at one go to light my smoke. Mahato seems unstoppable this morning. "You have never had good relations with your immediate bosses, but you are the blue-eyed son of your top bosses and that keeps you going," he takes off his sunglasses now. I sweat, I am scared. Does he even know about my infatuation towards the lady journalist standing next to me right here and overhearing? Before Mahato, the Maoist could go on, I stopped him.

He paused for a few seconds, may be a few minutes. "You guys make a nice pair," he adds. I can't stop a Maoist leader in his den. I can see the snipers hidden in the jungles, almost every five feet, one of them. The guns, the rifles. She blushes, I do not. I order for another round of tea from Asari's tea-stall, the only in the area. Love in the days of Maoism, I heard myself saying.

October 27, 2009 - News channels were going on and on about the hijacked Rajdhani Express and its 600-odd tormented passengers who were forced to halt at Banstala. I tried to reach them, as it is my duty, something that I am paid for. Next morning, the Rajdhani Express was on its way to New Delhi and my colleague from Lucknow had taken over the story. I was assigned the task to track down the attackers in the midst of these dense jungles, a hostile terrain. I had been living out of West Bengal for the last decade. But I still had to do, as my senior says from the assignment desk. I just managed to assure her that it would be done. But, I did not know till then, how and when? As an assailant, somehow I convinced two local guys to take me to Banstala on a motorcycle braving all the landmines. We somehow made it till there. Banstala, a deserted village where we could not even find the pets of the villagers. They had all fled away fearing backlash from security forces. A colleague from a vernacular television news channel asked me, why we were there? I smiled, focussing on my smoke and saw some movement through the jungles. I saw a light of hope.

"Barkha has asked you to get the attackers," voice of Gauri Dutta Gupta, my input editor still alive on my ears. We follow the movement inside the jungles, thinking we are heavily insured. Atleast that much, which is sufficient to take care of family members, in case, we never come back. The long walk takes me to Mahato, for the first time. He looks like an intellectual, a meritorious research scholar. We made him talk, on camera. Evening bulletins were splashed with Mahato's interview. NDTV tracks down Rajdhani attackers even as security forces cant track him. A text from the highest office of my organisation, 'Good Story.'

My job was done and I should have forgotten Mahato as I am more into Modism than Maoism, these days. But it clicked. Him and me. And then gradually I start knowing more about Mahato, and other Mahatos in that region. They are banned, they are dangerous, they are the killers, they even tried to kill the Chief of West Bengal, just  a few months ago along with two central ministers. They are wanted, they are hounded. But they are humans too.

"You know what..," Mahato continues..."if you fall sick here, you don't get any medical treatment." 62 years of independence, Banstala does not have the bare minimum medical infrastructure, does not have a school, does not have electricity, does not have drinking water. Maoists are dangerous, but the exploitations and deprivation these villagers are facing from their basic rights for the last 62 years, is no less a criminal offence. Mao Zedong or Marx or Mamta or Biman Bose - these villagers hardly know any of them. They just know that they are the citizens of a country called India. They had never killled a chicken, but these days they kill people mercilessly. Their children do not go to schools. The schools are now camps for security forces. Mahatos come into the picture here, conveniently. Handling a set of deprived people, motivating them to 'wage war against the nation,' making them a part of a larger conspiracy, is an easy task. Easier than asking for contraceptives from the neighbourhood medical store. Mahato says, "we will not win this war." I believe him. "We will just leave an impression. If anyone else tries to deprive us from our fundamental rights and basic amenities, we will stop Rajdhani Express yet again," his face muscles show his level of confidence.

We hear firing nearby. The sound of heavy metal. We could see men in uniform surrounding the area. Mahato looks non-challenged. A bicycle comes in, ridden by Mrs Dhanpati Mahato. The couple disappears in the jungle. Firing continues, children cry, the tea-stall shuts down. We swtich on the air-conditioner of our Toyota Qualis, sip mineral water from Aquafina bottles, speak in English, pick up cell phones, text, make calls, check Facebook, we leave Banstala. Mahato did predict before his sudden departure that he would die soon, and that, his wife would take pride in it. Mahato does know the basic of economics - the demand and supply theory. Buddha Babu does not know perhaps, not even flagbearers of Trinamool Congress or Chidambaram.

I fall in love, once again in life. This time with a male. Dhanpati Mahato, is my new love in life who changes his look every two days to fool security forces hounding for him. I saw dedication and devotion in his eyes. A rare commodity these days. My infatuation disappears in the jungles and so does her Revlon lipsticks and fragrance of black long hair. She does not know, I am in love with a Mahato and not with her. Someday when I will grow old, Mahato's son will play cricket with my kids. I want a Banstala, where a cardiac care unit will cater to the needs of the villagers and me. A school, which will produce the best brains. Uninterrupted power supply. Sounds of fire-crackers, not bullets shot from SLRs. Deepavali will be celebrated someday here at Banstala. I will sit in an arm-chair at Asari's tea-stall and Mahato will once again ask for a Gold Flake Kings ciggarette. Love the love in these days of Maoism.