AGARTALA: Ranjit Debbarma still remembers the day 11 years ago when, as an area commander with banned terrorist group NLFT, he trekked for two months -- from the Jampui hills to Rangamurra and then to border areas of Bangladesh before finally reaching Burma -- to carry back Ak 47, 56, M 16 and SK guns for the insurgency back home in Tripura.
Today, though, the 37-year-old can be seen going from one rubber tree to another, collecting latex and talking to his labourers in the plantation at Jarul Bachai, about 13 km from Agartala. His daughter is in an English school and he now wants to buy a motorbike so that it's easier for him to drop her to class every day.
"We were safe in the camps of both Bangladesh and Burma then," the National Liberation Front of Tripura guerrilla says, squinting under an unusually bright February sun. "But I now realize that we were misled. I spent six years of my life carrying arms and collecting protection money from terrified people. We were told Tripura should be for its indigenous people and that even our king has been dispossessed by the Bengalis who came here much after we did. We had taken this falsehood as religion. Rubber is the only thing that matters to me now, my only god."
Tripura's burgeoning rubber trade, which has grown from a cultivable area of just 3500 hectares in 1982 to a massive 57,620 hectares in 2012, has changed the life of Debbarma and hundreds of other former militants like him in Tripura. A senior Rubber Board official puts the number at 754. "I have personally trained 60 of them," he says. "This has been a major rehabilitation effort, and I would go to the extent of saying it helped curb insurgency. People like Debbarma will always be grateful to the CPM government for this, if nothing else."
A state done in by lack of connectivity with the rest of the country and an even greater absence of industry, Tripura has been quick to latch on to rubber, spreading fear in many that the way things are going no one will be cultivating anything else in the near future. "Now it is second only to Kerala in terms of production," says Madhu Chatterjee, who has around 100 kanis (6.25 kanis make a hectare) devoted to the crop. "More than 50,000 farmers are involved in this these days as the returns are very high - a kg goes for Rs 210 on an average and profits can be more than Rs 100 - and the state has just the kind of weather that suits this thing. Even those with very little money can invest in it."
A rubber board official, who doesn't want to be named, says that the government is still reluctant to come clean regarding the names or numbers of former rebels who have either been given money to invest in rubber or have been provided small patches of land. "Most of those who came for training used their nom de guerre and went away leaving behind their nom de guerre," he says, adding, "I think we are better off not knowing who they really were, how many they killed and how many lives they ruined. That was the quid pro quo - give us a new life and we'll leave you in peace."
Back in Debbarma's field, he says he knows at least ten others like him who are leading normal lives, stuck to latex, and working as farmers and plantation managers. "If every government helps terrorists in this way, few will pick up the gun,'' he says. "After all, it is only us poor who because of hunger and penury are easy targets for recruitment. You can brainwash easily a man with no food on his table."
Stuck to rubber, terrorists let go of gun
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Stuck to rubber, terrorists let go of gun
