‘My propagandize uniform means all to me’
December 27, 2015 - School Uniform
Mangal Macche, 17
Titirgaon, Jagdalpur, Chhattisgarh
Moved to residential propagandize here to shun Naxal violence
Home is a treacherous word for 17-year-old Mangal Macche. His encampment is called Ambeli, low in Bijapur’s forests, “kuchh kilometre” from Kutru town, he says.
But that is not his home any more, not given 2007, when his father married another lady and Macche was sent off to Gayatri Ashram in Titirgaon in Jagdalpur, over 150 km away, with 16 other children, who were orphaned or whose families were strike by Naxal violence. Macche’s mom was killed by Naxals when he was usually five. “They killed her since my father had assimilated a Salwa Judum,” he says.
A Class IX tyro and a yoga instructor during Gayatri Ashram, Macche feels “my home is now my school, and my encampment is usually my village”. He has visited his encampment usually twice in a final 8 years “for fear that Naxals would mistreat me”.
Six months ago, he visited Ambeli for hardly a week, and even for a brief visit, he carried a 5 things always with him. “There is small else we have,” he says.
There are during slightest 8 photographs Macche is unapproachable of — a support of himself wearing an orange dress and dancing, another of a travel play he and other students staged for dignitaries in Jagdalpur, and of him behaving yoga in front of state Education Minister Kedar Kashyap. “When we went home, we took along a photos. So they will trust me when we tell them what we do during school,” he says.
His scholarship book
He likes scholarship a most. “I always lift a scholarship book with me to read… we wish to turn a alloy and go behind to my village, provide my people,” he says.
His propagandize uniform
Mangal Macche has usually dual sets of garments — a span of shirt and trousers that he wore on his journey, and his propagandize uniform, that he took along to a village. “This propagandize gave me my life. This uniform means everything,” he says.
When Macche initial went to Titirgaon, he carried a a sweeping along. Now tattered, it is his “only memory from a village” that he always carries with him.
The white string
Asked about a fifth item, he falls silent. Repeatedly, he says “kuchh nahin”. Then he talks about a memory, of his mom shouting with him as she worked in a fields. There is zero to remember her by now, solely one thing. Thin, gossamer and fragile. He looks down during his right hand, during a white fibre unresolved from his wrist. It was put on him as a child by his mother.