Red flag to green steel

Ex-Maoists forge new destiny in Gadchiroli Gadchiroli: The rugged, forested terrain of Gadchiroli district, long synonymous with the violence and deep-rooted anti-establishment tenets of the ‘Red Ideology’, is now witnessing a remarkable social and industrial transformation. At the Lloyds Metals and Energy Ltd. (LMEL) plant in Konsari, once-feared Maoist operatives are shedding their past lives and embracing a new, respectable existence as skilled workers in a cutting-edge Direct Reduced Iron...

min read

Ex-Maoists forge new destiny in Gadchiroli Gadchiroli: The rugged, forested terrain of Gadchiroli district, long synonymous with the violence and deep-rooted anti-establishment tenets of the ‘Red Ideology’, is now witnessing a remarkable social and industrial transformation. At the Lloyds Metals and Energy Ltd. (LMEL) plant in Konsari, once-feared Maoist operatives are shedding their past lives and embracing a new, respectable existence as skilled workers in a cutting-edge Direct Reduced Iron (DRI) and pellet plant. This ‘green steel’ project, part of LMEL’s push for an integrated steel complex in the region, is functioning not just as an industrial unit but as a crucial pillar in the Maharashtra government’s surrender-cum-rehabilitation policy. So far, LMEL, in coordination with the state government and the Gadchiroli Police, has provided employment and training to 68 surrendered Maoists and 14 members of families affected by Naxal violence, a total of 82 individuals, offering them a definitive pathway back to the mainstream. The Shift The transformation begins at the company’s dedicated Lloyds Skill Development and Training Centre at Konsari. Recognizing that many former cadres had limited formal education, the company implements a structured, skill-based rehabilitation model. They are trained in essential technical and operational skills required for plant administration, civil construction, and mechanical operations. For individuals like Govinda Atala, a former deputy commander, the change is palpable. “After surrendering, I got the right to live a new life,” Atala said. “I am very happy to get this job. I am now living my life on my own; there is no pressure on me now.” Suresh Hichame, who spent over a decade in the movement before surrendering in 2009 too echoed the sentiments. He realized the path of violence offered neither him nor his family any benefit. Moreover, his self-respecct was hurt. He knew several languages and carried out several crucial tasks for the banned organization remaining constantly under the shadow of death. Today, he works in the plant, receiving a steady monthly salary that enables him to care for his family—a basic dignity the ‘Red Ideology’ could never provide. The monthly salaries of the rehabilitated workers, typically ranging from Rs 13,000 to Rs 20,000, are revolutionary in a region long characterized by poverty and lack of opportunities. Trust, Stability The employment of former Maoists is a brave and calculated risk for LMEL, an industry that historically faced stiff opposition and even violence from the left wing extremist groups. LMEL’s management, however, sees it as an investment in inclusive growth and long-term stability for the district. The LMEL has emphasized the company’s commitment to training and facilitating career growth for the local populace, including the surrendered cadres. This commitment to local workforce upskilling is proving to be a highly effective counter-insurgency strategy, chipping away at the foundation of the Maoist movement: the exploitation of local grievances and lack of economic options. The reintegration effort extends beyond the factory floor. By providing stable incomes and a sense of purpose, LMEL helps the former rebels navigate the social transition. They are now homeowners, taxpayers, and active members of the community, replacing the identity of an outlaw with that of a respected employee. This social acceptance, coupled with economic independence, is the true measure of rehabilitation. The successful employment of cadres, some of whom were once high-ranking commanders, also sends a powerful message to those still active in the jungle: the path to a peaceful and prosperous life is open and tangible. It transforms the promise of government rehabilitation into a concrete reality. The plant, with its production of iron ore and steel, is physically transforming the region into an emerging industrial hub, and in doing so, it is symbolically forging the nation’s progress out of the ashes of extremism. The coordinated effort between private industry, the state government, and the Gadchiroli police is establishing a new environment of trust, stability, and economic progress, marking Gadchiroli’s transition from a Maoist hotbed to a model of inclusive and sustainable development.

A River Runs Through It

Correspondent
Jun 19
3 min read

The Polavaram–Banakacherla project has rekindled old water wars between Andhra Pradesh and Telangana, with deeper currents of politics and power at play.

Few things stir passions in India’s southern states as deeply as water. For decades, the sharing of river flows between Telangana and Andhra Pradesh has been the subject of fierce legal, technical and political wrangling. The latest flashpoint is the Polavaram–Banakacherla project, a grand scheme by Andhra Pradesh to divert floodwaters from the Godavari river to the parched Rayalaseema region and parts of coastal Andhra. The project, say its backers, is an act of hydraulic salvation. Its critics, chiefly Telangana’s Congress government, see it as an illegal siphoning of the state’s rightful resources.

On paper, the plan sounds benign. Andhra Pradesh’s irrigation minister, Nimmala Ramanaidu, insists that the project would tap only the surplus floodwaters of the Godavari - waters that would otherwise drain uselessly into the Bay of Bengal. According to his figures, over 3,000 thousand million cubic feet (TMC) of water flood into the sea each year. If Andhra Pradesh can catch a fraction of this excess, Rayalaseema’s parched fields might bloom.

But Telangana sees red. Its irrigation minister, N. Uttam Kumar Reddy, has accused Andhra Pradesh of trying to bulldoze its way past legal clearances and water-sharing norms enshrined in the Godavari Water Disputes Tribunal (GWDT) Award and the Andhra Pradesh Reorganisation Act of 2014. Chief Minister A. Revanth Reddy has gone a step further, threatening not only legal action but a full-fledged political campaign while accusing Andhra of attempting to divert 400 TMC of Godavari water to Krishna and Penna basins without due consent.

Congress-ruled Telangana’s rage is not only aimed at Andhra Pradesh, whose government is a BJP ally. Reddy also trained his guns at K. Chandrasekhar Rao (KCR), the former chief minister and head of the opposition Bharat Rashtra Samithi (BRS). In 2016, KCR himself told the river management’s Apex Council that surplus Godavari water, then estimated at 3,000 TMC, could be used to irrigate Rayalaseema. He even laid the foundation for the Banakacherla project. Now, as BRS leaders accuse the Congress of failing to resist Andhra’s designs, the Congress is accusing them of complicity.

All this exposes a darker truth: water politics in the two Telugu states is often less about the rivers than about who controls them. In the past, Telangana’s leaders justified their massive, questionably cleared schemes like the Kaleshwaram Lift Irrigation Project on similar grounds of surplus water. Andhra Pradesh is now echoing that same rationale. Each state blames the other for procedural short-cuts, while accusing New Delhi of partisanship or neglect.

The heart of the matter lies in the ambiguity surrounding ‘surplus’ waters. The Godavari, India’s second-longest river, is mighty in monsoon but fickle in lean months. Diverting floodwaters without affecting downstream allocations is an engineering challenge and a political minefield. Who gets to define what constitutes ‘surplus’? How much of it can be harnessed without disrupting flows elsewhere? These are questions that India’s outdated river tribunals and half-formed river boards have yet to answer with consistency.

The Centre, as always, is walking a tightrope. Telangana has already petitioned ministries including Jal Shakti, Finance and Environment and warned of legal escalation. Andhra, for its part, is banking on Chandrababu Naidu’s renewed proximity to the Modi government to fast-track permissions.

For Telangana, memories of historic water neglect during its decades under unified Andhra rule still sting. For Andhra, especially Rayalaseema, the project is an overdue attempt to redress regional imbalance within the state.

There is an urgent need for institutional reform. India’s river boards are essentially toothless. Until water-sharing agreements are periodically reviewed, transparently enforced and jointly monitored, each project becomes set to be a pretext for conflict.

The Polavaram–Banakacherla saga is about competing visions of justice and development in a climate-stressed India. As states scramble for every drop, the Union government must rise above parochial politics and insist on clear, enforceable mechanisms that prioritise long-term sustainability over short-term gain. If not, India’s rivers may continue to unite regions on the map but divide them in spirit.

Red flag to green steel

A River Runs Through It

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