EXCLUSIVE | India’s last Maoists: Inside story of their surrender

PHOTOS BY BHANU PRAKASH CHANDRA AND KRITAJNA NAIK

SUKMA, BASTAR, KANKER, DANTEWADA, WARANGAL: Barse Singe is busy collecting fallen Mahua flowers. The Mahua is celebrated by the tribal communities in rural Chhattisgarh as the tree of life and spirit. Its flowers are dried, consumed or fermented into an elixir worthy of these hardy deciduous trees. Before the flowers fall on the moist forest floor, controlled fires are lit through the night, tracing pathways for forest dwellers and leaving behind fine ash that will cradle the blossoms by morning. At daybreak, the dry ash makes it easier for dwellers to pick flowers. Singe, in her late 70s, is gazing into the forest. But her eyes are not focused on the fire pathways. She longs for her son Barse Deva’s homecoming.

The dreaded Deva, commander of the People’s Liberation Guerrilla Army’s (PLGA) battalion number one, has been gone for 24 years, moving through forested hillocks and carrying out more than two dozen ghastly attacks on security personnel—wiping out a convoy of 23 Congress leaders and two security personnel in Jheeram Ghati in Bastar in 2013; killing 76 security personnel in the 2010 Tadmetla attack. The killings were carried out on the orders of his childhood friend—comrade Madavi Hidma, commander-in-chief of the PLGA.

THE WEEK met Deva after his recent surrender. He was born in Puvarti, along the Telangana border in Chhattisgarh’s Sukma district: a village that has bred some of the deadliest military commanders of India’s Maoist insurgency. Deva and Hidma played kabaddi, and ran, climbed and moved through the forest terrain together. They would go on to steal US-made Colt rifles, AK-47s and grenade launchers from the police and make improvised explosive devices (IEDs) to spread terror across the Chhattisgarh-Telangana border regions—the largest and last fallen bastion of left-wing extremism in India.

When Hidma was killed by security forces last November, the news travelled fast to Puvarti, where his mother Madavi Pojje, alongside Deva’s mother, was sending out a message asking them to return. Hidma’s elder brother Madavi Muya says his mother had done so after meeting Chhattisgarh Deputy Chief Minister Vijay Sharma (who holds the home portfolio). “But, Hidma did not respond immediately,” laments Muya. He lives in a small settlement in the poverty-stricken village that is a four-hour drive from Abujhmad, where the red corridor has made way for forest roads dotted by security force camps that sprang up last monsoon. The last stretch remains cut off, stones and boulders making it difficult to reach Puvarti. Here, in this remote realm, Singe hangs on to the hope of reuniting with her son. “I heard he surrendered,” she says. “I don’t know what will happen next. They say he will return, but I have not heard from him yet.”

Hidma’s killing brought Deva out of the jungles four months later and he surrendered to Telangana Police. Hidma’s death also shocked villagers—the much-feared Maoist who left home at 15 was considered invincible, much like the movement. Now, the return of commanders and ideologues is prompting villagers to demand a life better than what was promised by the so-called guardians of the jungles.

In 2002, Deva had left behind not just his mother, but a wife and two children—a son and a daughter. “My daughter stays home but my son goes to school,” he says sheepishly. He wants to educate his son to pursue a life outside the forests. “When we were growing up, there were no schools, roads or facilities,” he says. “From a young age, I attended meetings: members of CPI (Maoist) would talk about working for the people, fighting for justice and standing up for the common man’s rights. I thought I should also do something for the people.”

Deva joined the outfit and later became part of its military arm, eventually rising to command. He neither dramatises nor denies violence and admits that roads, schools and mobile towers were among their targets, arguing that these went against people’s interest. Wider roads, for instance, would enable government and security forces to extend their footprint deeper into the jungles. For decades, IED blasts targeting civil works, kidnappings and the killing of local administrators were commonplace in the ‘liberated zones’ of the CPI (Maoist).

Deva, who has diabetes, swelling in his hands and feet, and pain in his knees, admits that times have changed. “People want facilities like water, food and livelihood,” he says, before adding, almost angrily, “but, there are still many problems. Schools are very far—children have to travel long distances, sometimes 70km.”

Deva last met his family in 2022 during a clandestine visit to Puvarti. On learning that THE WEEK met his mother and that she expressed hope of his return, a smile lit up his forlorn face—almost like the Mahua flowers on ash-laden forest floors.

THE FAILED REVOLUTION

The genesis of left-wing extremism in India was the 1967 Naxalbari uprising in West Bengal. The movement, rooted in land reform and tribal issues, spread across Odisha, undivided Andhra Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh, and Maharashtra, gradually turning into an armed insurgency. In Bastar, cadre fleeing intensified operations in Andhra Pradesh arrived in the 1980s and 1990s, exploited tribal grievances and, over time, resorted to forced recruitment. By the late 2000s, the movement had evolved into a sophisticated network sustained through extortion. In 2024, Union Home Minister Amit Shah committed to eradicating left-wing extremism through a coordinated strategy spanning operations, development, connectivity and confidence-building.

By March 2026, it had effectively ended in Bastar and most of the country. More than 2,000 cadre had surrendered in the past 26 months and are being rehabilitated. During the same period, 600 Maoists were neutralised in encounters, including senior leaders like Basavaraju and central committee members Sudhakar, Kata Ramchandra Reddy and Kadari Satyanarayana Reddy. The central committee and politburo had 24 members at the start of 2024; just two remain now: Misir Besra in Jharkhand, and Muppala Lakshmana Rao aka Ganapathy, general secretary from 2004 to 2018, who has been inactive for six to seven years.

Across Dantewada, Bijapur, Sukma and Kanker in Chhattisgarh, and Warangal in Telangana, disillusionment runs deep. Yet returning cadre are being greeted with garlands, even as old comrades nostalgically chant laal salaam.

The Maoists had initially benefited from several structural advantages. Dense forests, difficult terrain, sparse population and significant language diversity, where dialects change frequently across short distances, had long protected the movement. Limited police presence and poor infrastructure allowed Maoists to expand, attack and loot weapons. The state closed these gaps—expanding police infrastructure, establishing interior camps, deploying units like the District Reserve Guard (DRG) and Special Task Force and Central forces, and, crucially, recruiting local youth who knew the terrain, the language and Maoist tactics.

Basanti, 28, a political science postgraduate from Kanker, is part of Bastar Fighters, a unit in the DRG. For her, the job is not just duty, it is about reclaiming opportunities she believes violence has long denied young people in the region. “The killings have taken away the freedom and choices that youngsters in other states enjoy,” she says. She is among the 340 women commandos in the 3,000-member strong DRG, working in some of the most difficult conflict zones. Raveena Suri, 29, a BTech graduate, shares a similar story. “My father is a farmer but I wanted to study and build a career in the police force,” she says. The transition from civilian to combatant has been demanding but satisfying. “We killed five Maoists in a night-long operation near the Gadchiroli border a few months ago,” says Suri. “You can’t afford casualties, but we are prepared to fight back.”

In 2000, when Chhattisgarh was formed, around 20,000 officers policed 42,000sqkm—giving Maoists an upper hand. “Bastar alone is larger than Kerala and even some Scandinavian countries,” says Sundarraj Pattilingam, inspector general of the Bastar Range. “Over the years, police strength has increased to 60,000 plus. This, along with the creation of new police stations and deployment of specialised and Central forces, has improved operational and administrative reach. Maoists no longer have the space or capability to sustain their presence.”

It was Sundarraj’s idea to open Pandum Cafe in Jagdalpur, Bastar, where surrendered Maoists alongside victims of Maoist violence and specially abled youngsters serve cafe lattes and mushroom risottos—making it one of the most cheerful sights of the government’s surrender and rehabilitation policy. The initiative is the first of its kind in the country.

“I was 15 when I joined the Maoist movement inspired by their call to fight for jal, jangal and zameen (water, forest and land),” says Lakhmu Poyam, a cafe employee formerly of the Dandakaranya Special Zonal Committee. His wife Phoolmati Pyam, a petite 35-year-old, can handle an INSAS as well as hot chocolate. They formed an ideological bond when they met in the jungles, held hands in a brief ceremony and got married. The couple surrendered after contacting Phoolmati’s sister’s husband, a police officer. “It felt odd working in the cafe initially,” says Lakhmu. “But, it has been our best decision so far.” Denied the chance to raise a family in the jungles, Lakhmu now looks forward to a vasectomy reversal to start one with Phoolmati. Their excitement is shared by the Deputy Superintendent of Police Deepmala Kurrey, who has assured them a new beginning.

THE JUNGLE ARITHMETIC

The Maoist movement drew its legitimacy from unresolved questions of land, forest rights and tribal autonomy. It embedded itself within local grievances in regions where the state was absent or distant. Villagers recall how a motley band of tribal activists, cultural leaders and ideologues wandered from home to home, singing paeans in praise of their lands, invoking local goddesses and offering produce and water, while settling land disputes. The corrupt and troublesome were punished; the promising recruited—giving unbridled power to the few who wielded the gun.

Ranita from Kanker district, Chhattisgarh, served as Maad division in-charge of the military wing of the CPI (Maoist). She says that when land ownership in forest areas was not regulated, it was the Maoist party that gave them the freedom to cultivate crops by distributing equal portions. “They were our first point of contact, so either some of us joined them or stayed in villages and supported them,” she says. “This is how the Maoist and tribal movements got joined at the hip.”

The fair-skinned, 5’5” woman with black hair has muscles to challenge any city-bred youth. “We followed a tough routine,” she says. “Up at four, exercise, meetings and strategising our next move,” says Ranita. Observing her surroundings to ensure she isn’t overheard, she reveals that while she stayed in hiding, most of the time she knew what was happening in the outside world. “I bought a tablet with my sister’s help,” she says. Maoists were banned from carrying mobile phones. “But I could download some reading material on my tablet whenever I got a chance,” she says. “It was as easy as using an AK-47.”

In October 2025, Ranita surrendered along with 140 Maoist leaders in Chhattisgarh. Much to her amusement, she was handed a kit that included a mobile phone.

THE WARANGAL STORY

If Barse Deva represents the foot soldier, Thippiri Tirupati alias Devji represents the ideological core. Having spent more than four decades in the CPI (Maoist), he rose to become a member of the central military commission and politburo. Today, he is the highest-ranked surviving Maoist leader. Devji, 65, speaks Telugu, Hindi and English, and is a suave, well-read and argumentative ideologue who earned the title ‘strategist of the south’ within Maoist ranks for his ability to make the ideology resonate across Telangana, Chhattisgarh and Maharashtra.

“I joined the movement in the early 1980s and became associated with the CPI(ML) People’s War and its frontal organisation, the Radical Students Union,” he says. His motivation came from socioeconomic inequality and what he believed was a system built on exploitation. “I was drawn to the idea of building a society where everyone was equal,” he says. “That vision led me to commit to the organisation.” His student days were spent reading what were then seen as the universal theories of Marx, Lenin and Mao. “Lenin applied them successfully with the top to bottom approach, Mao the bottom to top approach,” he says. “There were other examples, such as Nepal. But, in India, applying these was not straightforward.”

Over time, he realised that following a protracted people’s war without adapting it for Indian conditions was not sufficient. “There were also debates on using parliamentary democracy as a means of change,” he says. International support also proved elusive.

The leadership, especially from undivided Andhra Pradesh, shaped the ideological direction. Across the Maoist belt of Warangal, homes of ideologues, like Macherla Yeshobu alias Jagan Ranadeva, have images of Che Guevara and Karl Marx. Outside, walls bear a painted hammer and sickle. “Over the years, economic policies shifted—liberalisation, the growth of the stock market, and changes in the rural economy altered social and economic relations,” says Devji.

Another failure was the movement’s increasing militarisation. “The movement drew inspiration from militant movements like the LTTE—for military training—and the Naga insurgency—for negotiation,” says Devji. Ultimately, both models failed: they could neither build a leadership capable of sustaining a disciplined armed movement, nor fit the mould of a separatist struggle that could negotiate with the state.

This brought the Maoists back to a fundamental question. “While we had rejected the parliamentary path earlier—believing it could never bring real transformation—later, questions emerged about whether that position needed reconsideration,” says Devji.

AFTER THE INSURGENCY

Today, Devji is debating how the organisation can continue its ideological work in political and social spaces. Some leaders, like central committee member Rupesh alias Satish, 54, who gave up arms last October, even nurse political ambitions. “I recently visited my village in Warangal and all my friends and supporters came to greet me,” he says. “My friends, comrades and family members do not think I chose the wrong path. We still have grassroots support and we will work for the people.” Rupesh, like several notable Maoists, is an alumnus of the Regional Engineering College—now National Institute of Technology Warangal. “There was a strong left political atmosphere in the region, and many social problems,” he says. “We believed revolution was needed.”

Like Devji, Rupesh insists he has not surrendered—unlike comrades in Gadchiroli in Maharashtra commanded by Mallojula Venugopal Rao alias Bhupati, or Sonu, who was offered a job in a mining plant in Gadchiroli last October.

The rift in Maoist ranks is open. While Bhupati and several surrendered leaders allegedly gave information on Maoist hideouts and dumps of weapons, gold and money, others reject the rehabilitation plan and want to begin life on their own terms. “The word surrender is wrong,” says Rupesh. “We have decided to adopt an alternate route to continue the struggle. People will always struggle to secure their rights in some form. The Maoist ideology or left ideology will continue as a form of struggle.”

The struggle is already taking new shape. While leaders like Rupesh are looking to enter politics, for Mogilicherla Venatraju alias Chandu, head of the cultural wing of the banned outfit, it remains deeply personal. “As a child, I was deeply interested in songs—especially cultural and revolutionary songs,” he says. “Through songs and cultural programmes, we raised awareness against feudalism and injustice.”

Chandu says that while the performances were earlier often the first point of contact for recruiting youth—especially in regions with low literacy and strong oral traditions—he is keen to continue cultural outreach, albeit for a different purpose. “In 2020 and 2022, we discussed how to reorient the movement, but there was division among the cadre and the central leadership failed to arrive at a consensus,” he says. “Change is inevitable. We will continue to sing to raise awareness of jal, jangal and zameen, but we will appeal to the masses to embrace development to build better lives.”

Chandu’s life took a turn in 2019 when he met Soni, an area committee commander operating in the jungles between the two states. Their love flourished amid constant fears—of encounters, of losing people, of being surrounded. The couple was trapped at Karregutta hills as security forces rained bullets on the Maoist stronghold last year, forcing them to hide in caves before surrendering. Soni’s path to the Maoist fold was different from Chandu’s. “Women faced double the oppression—inside the home and outside in society,” she says. “The movement, at least initially, offered an alternative. I could choose my life partner.” But, in hindsight, Soni admits there were challenges within. “There were hierarchies and gender issues as decisions were mostly taken by male leaders,” she says. Today, she is studying elementary books to learn Telugu and plans to start a family.

As more Maoist leaders attempt to negotiate their lives after laying down arms, it is an uphill task for the government to ensure that the former military commanders and ideologues stay overground. Around 100 cadre are still in forests of Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand and Telangana. There are also missing foot soldiers—young men, women and children, untraced after the hierarchy broke down leaving low-rung cadre, who worked on a need-to-know basis, out in the cold.

Another big challenge is the few hundred Maoist leaders in jail. A senior security official said that the courts will need to balance “the soft approach” with provisions under the stringent anti-terror law and that the state will have to “study in detail which cases to pursue and whom to pardon”. Already, ideologues such as Devji and Rupesh say they will not be forced to join security forces like the DRG. And, there is unanimous demand among surrendered rebels to lift the ban on the outfit and its fronts, and to free jailed Maoists.

But, the security official said not all conditions of the Maoists can be met, especially since “many do not have remorse for killing innocents”. Bastar military commander Papa Rao, who surrendered in Bijapur in March, is one among them. “I have agreed to give up the armed struggle and work within the tenets of the Constitution,” he says. “Then why should I go to jail?” Held at an undisclosed location, he asks for a new shirt as he sits down to speak to THE WEEK.

“I did not surrender,” he says. “I was contemplating joining my family as many top leaders were killed or surrendered. I was apprehended while going for treatment. An insider had leaked information to the police.” He says the movement failed because it did not expand into urban areas and remained confined to forests.

For commanders like him, it may be the end of the road. For ideologues, like Rupesh and Devji, there could be reinvention. Rupesh speaks of the Leninist idea of strategic retreat. “Retreating, regrouping and, if necessary, working through the very structures it once sought to dismantle,” he says quietly.

It is getting dark, a slight drizzle settles in and we switch on the camera’s flash light to catch the last strains of our conversation. “Did you know,” Rupesh asks, almost casually, “a flash light is the best to carry out an IED blast?”

Devji spoke of “resetting of the movement”—shifting from arms to engagement. “I need inputs on the way forward,” he says.

A starting point may well be internal reform in the CPI (Maoist), including revisiting the party constitution. The document reflects a classical revolutionary framework: the party, the armed wing and the united front are termed “three magic weapons”. With one of those weapons now blunted, what remains is rewriting the grammar of the revolution itself.