Every act of governance has a political rationale. But to carry out a political act as a mere bureaucratic operation is to embody a sense of mechanical inhumanity. Or perhaps the government believes it has no moral or propagandist grounds to stand on. In that sense, it has admitted that it has nothing but brute force at its disposal.
Published Nov 24, 2025 | 11:00 AM ⚊ Updated Nov 24, 2025 | 11:00 AM
Madvi Hidma was one of the most wanted Maoist leaders in India.
Synopsis: For years now, we have been hearing that the ruling dispensation in India has been treating people on religious lines, and that as a result, divisions in the country have intensified. Because of this propaganda, suspicion grows towards those branded as “others”, and the idea that they commit crimes collectively becomes easy to accept. So why has the Union government not stamped the Maoists with any emotional or ideological stigma to gain legitimacy for its war of extermination?
About thirty-five years ago, when I visited Ranchi, I had to search and make enquiries to locate a statue of Birsa Munda at a four-road junction.
When the very leaders who carried the blood of Adivasis on their hands later began worshipping him as “Bhagwan Birsa Munda”, it felt surreal.
Just as those who opposed the path of Bhagat Singh, or any such figure, and authored their deaths later used them symbolically to serve their own purposes, the rulers have now forcibly placed Madvi Hidma in a similar genre.
When the news of Hidma’s killing broke out, one could either accept it with a sense of inevitability in an ongoing, long-running war of extermination or be prepared for such a day at any time.
Yet the news did not simply dissolve into nothingness like any routine encounter report. When even the mainstream media turned his acts of daring into sensational headlines, it became evident that the system itself had recognised that he was not ordinary.
We have our own contemporary bias, like a backyard tree that is not considered medicinal, though it has potential. We are living in the middle of a major historical moment, and it feels as though the memory of this man will travel with human history for a long time to come.
Rulers who do not sell out tomorrow for the benefit of today have moved Hidma out of the present and into the future.
Today, the country may shut its ears to the historic rolling wail of Adivasi women, and the media may easily forget it. But after three or four generations, his name may find its place in public memory; airports and universities may be named after him, and the rulers of that time might have to utter his name with reverence for political advantage.
History is full of such examples.
Many killings are attributed to him. Policemen, politicians and leaders of armed groups—many died at his hands. What other consequence can await such a person, a representative of a force that sought to overthrow the state, except extermination?
He acted as part of his political ideology, but who would believe the argument that none of his actions were personal? Did the state view him merely as a murderer? As a key leader of a banned armed political party? After all, what did he and people like him enter this war for?
What selfish motive? What luxuries? Did civilisation encroach into forests, or did he invade the civilisation in the plains? Who infiltrated whose space? Many such questions can be debated or conveniently put to bed.
Are these operations taking place to excavate and hand over the rich mineral resources of Dandakaranya to corporate allies? Or to crush the armed forces that challenge the state?
Either, or both, may be answers. Since governments cannot tolerate another competing gun, there is at least a minimal explanation for such repression. But does the ethical justification that exists for waging war against an external enemy apply to waging war on internal citizens?
If one must kill a dog, it must be declared rabid, mustn’t it? Then who are these Maoists? Are they terrorists who kill innocent people? Foreign agents?
Rebels receiving arms and money from across borders? What does the government say? Does it at least claim that their extermination is necessary for public interest?
For years now, we have been hearing that the ruling dispensation in India has been treating people on religious lines, and that as a result, divisions in the country have intensified.
The strategy used to deepen this division is branding certain religious groups and ideological groups as “the others”. This binary, “us” versus “them”, is central to the division. To declare that those who are not “us” are bad, a constant stream of narratives is circulated.
Because of this propaganda, suspicion grows towards those branded as “others”, and the idea that they commit crimes collectively becomes easy to accept. Once this social division turns political, the government gains power with overwhelming support.
So why has the Union government not stamped the Maoists with any emotional or ideological stigma to gain legitimacy for its war of extermination?
Why did it not define them as “others” and cultivate public hatred? If Hidma were truly an evil to be eradicated, why did a minister visit his home and plead for his surrender?
Why invite him into public life, promising respectful rehabilitation without conditions? Does the government have any real, defensible reason to point fingers at the Maoists?
The astonishing fact is that the BJP-led government has not levelled any charges of treason or anti-national activity against the Maoists, nothing that would create public hostility.
Unlike Manmohan Singh, who once called them the country’s “number one internal security threat”, I do not remember Narendra Modi ever saying that.
Apart from calling them misguided, asking them to join the mainstream, and occasionally blaming them for hindering development, the government has never explained why eliminating them is unavoidable. Nor has it explained its repeated vows to wipe them out within a specific timeframe.
If the state had built public resentment and created a favourable emotional atmosphere for repression, it would be easier to understand.
There would at least be the value of persuading the public to some extent and functioning with public approval. But carrying out violent repression without levelling any accusations at all means a kind of indifference, an attitude that anything can be done without regard for public sentiment.
Every act of governance has a political rationale. But to carry out a political act as a mere bureaucratic operation is to embody a sense of mechanical inhumanity.
That is where ruthlessness and cruelty express themselves. Or perhaps the government believes it has no moral or propagandist grounds to stand on. In that sense, it has admitted that it has nothing but brute force at its disposal.
When various organisations and media outlets criticise the governments—Union, Chhattisgarh, Maharashtra—for suppressing Maoists in Dandakaranya to facilitate corporate mining and to intimidate Adivasis, none of these governments has felt the need even to deny it perfunctorily.
When the owners of mining companies roam freely near the Maoist surrender melas, the government does not even bother that their intent is becoming public. Whether it is vote-chori during elections or mining links in the suppression of armed opposition, the Union government remains unmoved.
When governments with unchecked power no longer fear what the public thinks, or whether they are violating constitutional norms, what future awaits the country? If the precedent is set that severe repression can be carried out without any justification, what kind of despotism might it lead to?
Looking at how even ordinary people, who are not revolutionary sympathisers, reacted on social media to Hidma’s death, it is clear that admiration for such figures remains in the public.
Anyone who has seen his village, his home and his impoverished mother will not consider him selfish, even if they condemn his actions. People do not believe the state’s war on Adivasis is innocent and pious.
Still, the public remains silent, resigned, helpless. That silence is not consent; it is the quiet of the oppressed.
(Edited by Dese Gowda)
