The year was 1977, when Emergency was in force, when K. Karunakaran was the home minister of Kerala, when C. Achyutha Menon was the chief minister. And when Warrier's son, Rajan, was a student at the Kozhikode Regional Engineering College. The Seventies were a time Marxism was the religion on the campus, Rajan was a practitioner of that religion. The question was not whether he was a hardliner, the question was how hardline his views were.
The police believed he was a Naxal. They had their reasons for that. Rajan used to attend streetside meetings, collect people, give inflammatory speeches. They had one other reason. They got wind that one Rajan was involved in an attack on a team of policemen. One Rajan. But which one, they had no clue. So one evening they rounded up all the Rajans they could find in the vicinity. The arrested included Warrier's son and a rubber plantation labourer* by the same name.
They were all taken to a camp at the Kakkayam dam site. There they were subjected to all the truth-provoking tortures the state police are known for. Like plucking nails, rolling heavy rollers on the victims, making them drink you-know-what. The walls reverberated with the wails of prisoners. Sometime during the night, one of them stopped crying.
One didn't have to be a father to feel Warrier's pain. One only needed to be a human being, made of flesh and blood. Alas, there were none in the police, none in the state government. Not Karunakaran. Not even Achyutha Menon, the chief minister, whom Warrier had sheltered in the 40s, when the Communists were hounded like dogs. Now it was Warrier's turn to be hounded. But there was nobody to give him shelter. He ran from pillar to post for news on his son, but got none from anywhere. One day he realised his search was futile. He realised his son would never come back. He went to the Periyar in Aluva to perform Rajan's last rites, all alone. As he offered rice to the crows, he thought about his son, who could stand anything but hunger.
Then began the father's struggle for justice. Did he get it? No. Rajan's killers are all roaming free. He just got some money as compensation, which he donated.
Last week, Eachara Warrier died. Condolences came from all corners. But one name was missing. That of K. Karunakaran. A journalist asked him about Warrier. "Which Eachara Warrier?" he said, "I know many. What's his contribution to the country?"
One doesn't have to be a father to feel Eachara Warrier's pain. One only needs to be a human being, made of flesh and blood. What stuff is Karunakaran made of?first published:April 18, 2006, 12:25 ISTlast updated:April 18, 2006, 12:25 IST
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Rahul is a Class XII student. He is a rebel. Perhaps all students at that age are rebels. I was one, chances are you were also one. Once in a while his father calls him for some serious heart-to-heart, father-son talk. Rahul is used to his father's lectures. All their conversations end in one line. One line that summarises the helplessness of the hapless father. "You will know my pain one day when you become a father." But to feel Eachara Warrier's pain, one doesn't have to be a father. One only needs to be a human being, made of flesh and blood.
The year was 1977, when Emergency was in force, when K. Karunakaran was the home minister of Kerala, when C. Achyutha Menon was the chief minister. And when Warrier's son, Rajan, was a student at the Kozhikode Regional Engineering College. The Seventies were a time Marxism was the religion on the campus, Rajan was a practitioner of that religion. The question was not whether he was a hardliner, the question was how hardline his views were.
The police believed he was a Naxal. They had their reasons for that. Rajan used to attend streetside meetings, collect people, give inflammatory speeches. They had one other reason. They got wind that one Rajan was involved in an attack on a team of policemen. One Rajan. But which one, they had no clue. So one evening they rounded up all the Rajans they could find in the vicinity. The arrested included Warrier's son and a rubber plantation labourer* by the same name.
They were all taken to a camp at the Kakkayam dam site. There they were subjected to all the truth-provoking tortures the state police are known for. Like plucking nails, rolling heavy rollers on the victims, making them drink you-know-what. The walls reverberated with the wails of prisoners. Sometime during the night, one of them stopped crying.
One didn't have to be a father to feel Warrier's pain. One only needed to be a human being, made of flesh and blood. Alas, there were none in the police, none in the state government. Not Karunakaran. Not even Achyutha Menon, the chief minister, whom Warrier had sheltered in the 40s, when the Communists were hounded like dogs. Now it was Warrier's turn to be hounded. But there was nobody to give him shelter. He ran from pillar to post for news on his son, but got none from anywhere. One day he realised his search was futile. He realised his son would never come back. He went to the Periyar in Aluva to perform Rajan's last rites, all alone. As he offered rice to the crows, he thought about his son, who could stand anything but hunger.
Then began the father's struggle for justice. Did he get it? No. Rajan's killers are all roaming free. He just got some money as compensation, which he donated.
Last week, Eachara Warrier died. Condolences came from all corners. But one name was missing. That of K. Karunakaran. A journalist asked him about Warrier. "Which Eachara Warrier?" he said, "I know many. What's his contribution to the country?"
One doesn't have to be a father to feel Eachara Warrier's pain. One only needs to be a human being, made of flesh and blood. What stuff is Karunakaran made of?
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