Gattepalli (Maharashtra): At the north-west corner of the village, a cot leans lazily over two upright bamboos. On one end are some clumsily stacked old clothes – perhaps unwashed, perhaps worn for one last time. What must have once been a white dhoti is pinned at the centre; of which only tatters remain.

This impressionistic installation in Gattepalli, the northern-most village in Gadchiroli, is all that remains of 23-year-old Mangesh Buklu Atram, whose life came to an abrupt end in an alleged encounter with the Gadchiroli police’s C-60 commandos in April last year. His body was not handed over to the family, so they decided to bury his belongings.

Atram was the oldest of eight village youths believed to have been killed in what the police termed the “biggest anti-Maoist battle in over 40 years”. The youngest among them was a 15-year-old girl.

It’s been a year since the attack and the villagers are still waiting for some sort of official communication on whether the eight youngsters from Gattepalli village were indeed the ones to be killed in the police ‘encounter’ that claimed 40 lives.

Soon after the killings, the police took the families of the eight to its headquarters in Gadchiroli and drew their blood for DNA profiling to ascertain kinship with those killed. A year later, the report is still awaited. Family members have visited both the district police and hospital several times, but say they were turned away each time. In June last year, the police allegedly forced the families to sign documents claiming their children had joined the Naxal movement.

Also Read: One of 40 ‘Naxals’ Killed in ‘Encounter’ Was Child, Say Villagers, 7 More Missing

Meanwhile, the police have already disposed of the bodies without informing the families or formally concluding the identification process. Gadchiroli General Hospital officials confirmed that the police have obtained the DNA reports but these have not been communicated to the concerned families. On the district police’s official website, under a tab titled “unidentified Naxal dead bodies”, pictures of 37 fully decomposed bodies are still on display. Most of them show disintegration beyond recognition, a brutal reminder of how each of these youngsters met their end.

On May 9, resigned to their fate and lacking any mortal remains, the eight families collectively decided to conduct the final rites.

Atram and seven others youths – of whom five were minors – had left home on the evening of April 21 for Kasansur village, 15 km away, to attend a wedding. These children, the police say – and the villagers of Kasansur corroborate – never reached the wedding venue. They were allegedly killed along with several other Naxal commanders on the banks of the Indravati river that flows from the village boundary.

Last year, on April 27, when this reporter along with the zilla parishad representative and lawyer Lalsu Soma Nogoti travelled to the village to report on the incident, the villagers accidentally came to learn of the youngsters’ possible death. It had already been five days since the killings and the families had not been informed about their children’s whereabouts.

The police had released a list of photographs of those killed in the attack, which this reporter possessed. While scrolling through this reporter’s phone, the villagers looked at one of the pictures of a partly decomposed face and identified it as 15-year-old Rassu Chuku Madavi. Later, it turned out to be the body of a 17-year-old girl, Bhujji Karve Usendi. “They both had worn similar clothes that night,” says Karve Usendi, Bhujji’s father.

In the Madiya tribal culture, the passing away of a person is considered the beginning of an afterlife and is hence auspicious. The two-day ritual, known as ‘Dinaalk’, is celebrated on any day after the death. On May 8-9, along with the eight families, three others too celebrated dinaalk. One of them was of 32-year-old Dolesh alias Sainath Ataram, a divisional committee (DVC) member of the banned CPI (Maoist) organisation. Sainath was killed along with the eight youngsters. Two others were older villager members who had died of natural causes in the past year.

The route to Gattepalli is full of challenges, particularly at night. Besides the constant police shadowing, the only access road that leads to the village is rickety and riding a motorbike proves to be risky. Even a blink could land you on sharp boulders and help won’t be available for hours. The villagers here, however, are used to covering long distances on foot and the unavailability of proper roads is the least of their concerns. “Bad roads are an outsider’s problem. Until last year, no one visited our village. Suddenly the police, state administration and journalists want to come here,” says Bukku Atram, a villager.

The dinalk rituals began a little before midnight. Amid unsettling darkness, young teenage girls slowly begin gathering near the ghotul – a central space where all important discussions are held and decisions taken. In pairs, they sing songs of birds, forests and river. Some recall their ancestors and others pray for a better future. The dancing goes on for hours. At another end of the village, several chickens, lambs and a buffalo are readied for slaughter for the morning feast.

The following day, however, quickly turns into a mourning. Much before day break, people are woken up from their deep slumber by the shrill cries of women remembering their loved ones. “This pain will never leave us. It won’t. It won’t,” cries a grandmother. Her 17-year-old grandchild Mangesh Madavi was one of those gunned down.

Also Read: Gadchiroli ‘Naxal’ Encounter: The Wedding That Saved a Village

Through the day, at regular intervals, relatives come calling. Several of them had walked the entire night, covering 20-30 kilometres in some cases, to attend the ceremonies. “We have to be there for our children,” said Vijja Gawade, a man in his 60s. He had walked over 25 kilometres from the neighbouring Mulchera tehsil – west of Ettapalli – to reach Gattepalli at 6 am.

As soon as a relative enters the village, he or she breaks into melodies, singing paeans to the youngsters. This rhythmic pattern repeats over and over again. “What song can I sing for you? You left us even before we could witness your glorious life,” sings an old lady in Madiya outside 18-year-old Suresh Pedu Madavi’s house. Others join in a chorus. Suresh’s mother, Navaari Madavi, stands in a corner and sobs softly.

Last year, as news of the killings travelled, very few relatives showed up to meet the deceased families. “This was not because they did not care, but because the police would not have let them be. They were camping in the village and the police looks at every tribal as a potential criminal. We also discouraged them from travelling all the way,” says 30-year-old Vijja Chundu Madavi, whose 17-year-old college- going brother Mangesh was killed in the firing.

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By 10 am, the sun is already unforgiving. The temperature has reached 47 degrees and is likely to soar by a degree or two by noon. The dry heat hits your skin hard, making outdoor activities nearly impossible. But by now, each of those eight houses, plus Sainath’s, have put their children’s pictures on an elevated stand. A fistful of rice, a quarter sized bottle of country liquor and incense sticks adorn each of those blurred, grainy pictures. Each visitor walks in with some more liquor and rice and incense sticks.

Once every relative has paid their respects to the dead ones, the families visit the nearby water body and pick up giant, elongated stones for the boys and rounder, relatively smaller ones for the girls. “These stones will be washed and decorated in the memory of our children. They will be hoisted next to our forefathers. Those dead govern and take care of the welfare of the village,” explains Zoru Madi Madavi, as he pulls a massive boulder along with other men on a cart. “This stone represents our son Irpa,” says his brother Jogga Vatte Madavi. Irpa was 22 years old, one of the most educated persons in the village, having studied till Class XII.

As Zoru explains, every villager here feels a dire need to govern their youth. “Every person – young and old, living or dead – is a suspect here,” he says. In a village of just 36 families, nearly a dozen have been booked under section 110 of the Indian Penal Code for “abetment of an offence”, a charge that police in this region generously slap against all those they suspect are in contact with or aiding Naxals.

Also Read: Ground Report | The Build Up to the Killing of 15 Commandos in Gadchiroli

Zoru was issued a notice too, just a few days before The Wire’s visit. “I have asked them to explain what my crime is. Such notices mean nothing. They blindly issue it against one of us every month. They call us to the headquarters or their sub-police station and subject us to extreme mental and physical torture,” he says.

“The police take an undertaking from those booked under section 110 of the IPC, saying if ever any attack were to happen in their jurisdiction, they would be responsible for it. Several villagers have been booked under false cases purely on the basis of such an undertaking,” advocate Nogoti says.

Nogoti is now preparing the villagers to petition the human rights commission and the district administration to seek the truth behind the deaths. “The state has brutally snatched away their children and branded them as Naxals. At least an impartial investigation into their killings will bring closure to these families,” he says.

For closure is all that they seek now.