The Silent Hills Speak Anew: Seven Families in Karreguttalu's Shifting Landscape

The Karreguttalu Hills, a rugged, almost mythic stretch along the Telangana-Chhattisgarh border, once held a different kind of silence. It wasn't the peaceful hush of nature, but the heavy quiet of a feared Maoist stronghold, a dense, unforgiving terrain where whispers of conflict were more common than birdsong. For years, this was their dominion, a strategic hideout for nearly 500 cadre, even Central Committee members, nestled deep within its formidable embrace.

Then, in April 2025, everything changed. Operation Karreguttalu, a colossal push by security forces, swept through these very hills, lasting a grueling 21 days. For over two weeks, commandos faced an almost impenetrable wall – landmines, relentless firing, an unseen enemy guarding their positions with fierce determination. It wasn't easy, not by any stretch; several of our brave personnel were reportedly injured, battling an insurgency that refused to yield easily. But in the end, after nearly three weeks of intense struggle, the operation concluded, leaving behind a stark tally: 31 Maoists killed. The survivors, you see, were forced to retreat, scattering towards the safer, more remote corners of Telangana and southern Bastar.

And now, here we are, in Pamunuru village, nestled within those very hills, in Mulugu district. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? A place once synonymous with fear and conflict, now home to just seven families. Take Madvi Kamini, for instance. A mother of three, she's lived through it all, the terrifying ebb and flow of this decades-long conflict, right here amidst the hills. Her life, and the lives of her neighbors, have been inextricably linked to the presence – and now the absence – of the Maoists, and the heavy hand of the state.

The scars run deep, not just on the landscape, but on the people. Remember Madvi Kosa? He was one of eight from Pamunuru and Palem, caught up in 22 different cases. After his release from prison, his ordeal ended tragically, passing away just this past summer of 2026. And Chundam Pandu, another from that same group, he remains behind bars even now. These aren't just names; they are lives, inextricably woven into the fabric of this conflict, each a poignant reminder of the human cost.

But amidst these lingering shadows, there's a subtle shift, a quiet hum of hope perhaps. Right near Pamunuru village, perched at 342 metres above sea level, a new CRPF Forward Operating Base now stands. It's a clear symbol of the state's reasserted presence, a promise of security, if you will. And for the villagers, something else, equally profound, is on the horizon: electricity. Imagine that – light, power, a tangible connection to the modern world, coming soon to a place that has, for too long, existed in the literal and figurative darkness of isolation and conflict. It's not a complete transformation overnight, no, but it's a start, a gentle turning of the page in the silent, now less silent, hills.