NIGHT WITHOUT END

9.45 pm
The state electricity board
does it bit to send people to sleep with a blackout. It8217;s the third power failure this evening but the shopkeepers and food-stall owners aren8217;t overly disturbed. No call centre or helpline. Within minutes, candles and lanterns are taken out and lit.

10 pm
A teashop
near the Nandigram police station is pulling its shutters down for the day, the last in the area to do so. Owner Harihar rinses the cups and the kettle while some hangers-on talk in hushed tones of the deprivations of the past 11 months, the horrors of the past few days and a dread of the future.
8216;8216;Hundreds of people died, bodies were thrown into the river,8217;8217; they say, 8216;8216;as armed cadres attacked villages. Now the CPIM is in charge and we have been told to join their rallies. What do we do? We have to think of our lives first,8217;8217; says one of the teashop regulars, Zulfikar Ali.
8216;8216;Armed cadres are openly doing the rounds on bikes,8217;8217; he says.
Harihar8217;s shop is the only one in the neighbourhood that remains open so late. 8216;8216;All shops are closed by now. I keep it open till now because of the thana nearby. Business has been good for the past 11 months. So many people come to the thana, so many policemen. They like my tea,8217;8217; he says.

11 pm
We are the only civilians
on the roads. We head off for the relief camp at Brajamohan Tiwari School on one edge of Nandigram town. The school is now a camp for thousands of people from neighbouring villages seeking shelter from the CPIM marauders.
The sickly smell of fear and waste clings to the school. A few halogen lights break the darkness. On the school ground, hundreds queue up for their relief 8216;8216;dinner8217;8217;. Most have plastic packets in their hands, the lucky ones have sal-leaf plates.
8216;8216;When armed CPIM cadres set fire to my house in Saudkhali, I managed to save my two children but nothing else. Now we have nothing,8217;8217; says Sabita Jana, a housewife.
Volunteers dole out a few ladles of rice, dal and vegetables. Even women with newborn children wait their turn.
The men sit inside the classrooms, desultorily having their dinner, while the women wait their turn.
There are no Hindus and Muslims here. No upper caste or lower caste. They are all refugees. The sleeping arrangements are simple: women and children sleep inside the classrooms, the men outside.
Four armed guards man the locked gates but their number seems inadequate. 8216;8216;Armed CPIM activists sometimes come and threaten us even here,8217;8217; adds Jana. 8216;8216;I could not find my husband. My elder son went missing when CPIM men fired on a peace michil rally a few days ago. I found him yesterday in Nandigram hospital; he can barely speak. Shyamal 8212; my boy 8212; is just 15 years old.8217;8217;
Most women here haven8217;t been able to trace their husbands and relatives. A non-governmental organisation has brought a medical team but their number is hopelessly outmatched by that of the injured and the ill.
Bhabani Das, a leader of the BUPC, says: 8216;8216;It is very hard to arrange food, shelter and protection for so many people. Some are returning home to face the inhuman atrocities. It is especially hard for women and children.8217;8217;
At the Block Hospital, we meet with life. And walk on.

1 Am
Nandigram police station
A couple of jeeps drive out with CRPF men and a police guide, leaving the station almost deserted. Behind the lone sentry is the sub-inspector on night duty, Pradyut Ghosh.
8216;8216;Everyone is so tired, they8217;ve all gone to sleep. For the past 11 months, we have been on strict duty. All leaves were cancelled. Now we have to take care of the CRPF. The streams of VIPs, netas also take their toll on us,8217;8217; says Ghosh.
The silver lining: the lockups are empty. 8216;8216;No usual complaints of thefts or anything. That8217;s the only positive side of the situation,8217;8217; says the SI.

2 Am
Maheshpur Bazaar
Enveloped in winter mist, the streets are deserted; stray dogs bark their annoyance. All doors are bolted. The few villagers who are still out melt away when they see the Express car. A lone figure emerges from behind a row of shops, torch in hand. Introductions over, he gives a signal and 15 people come out of the dark.
They are all night guards who, for the last 11 months, had taken turns to patrol the area. By day they are shopkeepers and villagers.
8216;8216;Some of us returned two days ago after the BUPC went away. Today the CPIM rules here and everything is peaceful. We are guarding against the BUPC people,8217;8217; says one.
8216;8216;Political allegiance does not matter, our homes and shops do,8217;8217; says another.
8216;8216;Now things are peaceful, but there is fear in the air. We have seen people being shot dead and houses burnt down. We try and save whatever we can,8217;8217; says Shankar Parul, a shopkeeper-cum-night guard.
A final word of caution: 8216;8216;No one will speak to you here.8217;8217; And it is not safe for us to be here, we are told. We move on.

2.30 Am
Tekhali Bridge
Bordering Nandigram and Khejuri, the bridge demarcates the strongholds of the BUPC and the CPIM. Tonight, dressed in red flags, the bridge stands deserted.
The sandbag bunkers, once used by the police, are unmanned. Neither the CRPF, nor the Eastern Frontier Rifles, which has a camp nearby, are present on the bridge.

3 Am
Maheshpur High School
Our car is stopped by a group of lathi-wielding CPIM youths. Eight men with flags and lathis greet us and ask us a number of questions and check our credentials. 8216;8216;We take turns to watch the area. You never know when the BUPC people might retaliate,8217;8217; says Manu Das, fish vendor and party cadre, almost apologetically. 8216;8216;We have formed a village rakskhi bahini and the BUPC and outsiders are not allowed. Which side are you on?8217;8217; asks Das.
Further down, we meet Swapan Das, a CPIM supporter who says he was chased from the village by the Trinamool Congress adherents heading the protest against land acquisition in February and has only now managed to return home.
8216;8216;The Trinamool people burnt down my house in February and I fled along with my wife and children. They committed atrocities, beat up people and raped girls. We have spent 11 months in the Khejuri camp in inhuman conditions. My food stall was ransacked and my two bigha land remained untilled. Now it is our turn,8217;8217; says Das, who returned home last Wednesday.
Manu Das, the fish vendor, also talks revenge. 8216;8216;We have a list of neighbours who will not be allowed to come back. Their property belongs to us now. If they try to return, they will be finished.8217;8217;
CPIM cadres tell us that they are opening the schools closed for months. Women feel safer now, they claim.

3.30 Am
A tea stall
near Hospital More crossing is the first to open. The owner, 78-year-old Lakshmikanta Jana, begins his early morning routine.
8216;8216;For the past 11 months, fear and bloodshed have ruled the area. But business was good. I am the first to open, at 2.30 am everyday. People have thronged the hospital and many of them depend on me for their tea and bread,8217;8217; says Jana.
He has been running this shop for the past 22 years. 8216;8216;Never have I seen such trouble in Nandigram. This was a very peaceful area until Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee, the West Bengal Chief Minister decided to take our land,8217;8217; he says. 8216;8216;Whenever there was firing and bombing in the area, I closed my shop. Four days ago, when the CPIM men came on motorcycles, there was a lot of trouble. They sprayed bullets on the walls,8217;8217; he adds.
The night was dark, but the rising sun does not appear to dispel the darker days in Nandigram.