I winced in pain. The newspaper was ahead, big bold words of its headlines ‘Terrorists, Not Maoists’ were dancing around me. It is now everywhere. I freaked out. Now I cannot sleep for 12 hours in stretch when I will be on a Bihar bound train from Howrah. The subject of my reveries will change from how am I going to cope up with the pre-medieval facilities of my village to what last minute action I can take to survive a Maoist manslaughter. With civic polls going on in Bengal, and Mamata Banaerjii getting stronger each day to throw away the communist regime, I could see another puppet Maoist regime after JMM-led Jharkhand. The murderous act was carried out in such a simple manner that I was in instant confusion which one can be more appropriate, cold-blooded or gory. Just remove some bolts and fish-plates and wipe out so many lives. I shivered, not because of cold weather, but pure fear. And this fear was of helplessness, of impotency. This fear was the realization of the fact that everything we are doing, this job, this study, all will have no meaning if we will reach in a situation like so many others in our neighborhood. I was getting frightened more and cursed myself why I took so much interest in history and international politics. I could have remained ignorant and not thought about pattern in uprisings and how they destroyed everything. I was sad, and despite knowing I might be overreacting, I could not get my mind off it.