A drive through a forest in central India with Mukesh Chandrakar changed the way I looked at journalism and society.

Mukesh ran Bastar Junction — a popular, honest and sensitive YouTube channel in Chhattisgarh. He also contributed news to NDTV. The facts he presented were thorough, and he resisted the lure of easy revenue at the expense of his integrity. Above all, he was a most decent human being.

He did not share the cynicism of many of us in the profession. He was as wary of the State, armed groups, corporate houses and political parties as any of us. But despite the odds against journalism presented by all these entities, Mukesh strove hard to improve the lives of people in Bastar through his work.

Last week, Mukesh’s corpse — he was 33 — was found in a septic tank in Bijapur, Chhattisgarh.

The ruling BJP in the state and the Opposition Congress have both claimed that the mastermind behind Mukesh’s murder — he was killed apparently for his exposé on corruption in a road project — is a member of the opponent party.

The prime accused, civil contractor Sukesh Chandrakar, is reportedly related to Mukesh, who never hesitated to expose corruption even if it involved his own relations.

Mukesh lost his father when he was a child, and his village was relocated because of the insurgency. He lived in camps run by Salwa Judum vigilantes. His mother, an anganwadi worker, died when he was in his early 20s, after which he raised his siblings alone. Behind his indefatigable cheer, Mukesh had an air of melancholy.

During the Lok Sabha polls last year, Mukesh, Bijapur-based journalist Pinaki Ranjan Das and I travelled to Palnar village where a polling station had been re-established after a decade following its recapture from Maoists by security forces. The trip was a lesson in journalism for me.

First, Mukesh suggested that I leave behind the SUV I had travelled in from Jagdalpur, and offered me a lift in his sedan. A sedan is not an ideal car for unmetalled roads on uneven terrain, but it is safer than travelling in an SUV which could be mistaken for a police vehicle by Maoists on the undefined frontline of the insurgency.

Second, he said, we should go in style and be well-prepared. Mukesh wore one of his trademark bandhani scarves. “Yeh apna Bastar ka style hai. My viewers associate me with this,” he said.

Mukesh also suggested we take at least a litre of water each for the trip that was only expected to be a few hours long. “We have survived drinking water from streams, but why take the risk?” he reasoned.

After the drive down the Bijapur-Gangaloor highway — popularly called “Khooni Rasta” (Road of Blood), one littered with charred vehicles from gun battles — we were stopped at a CRPF checkpoint.

The officers were unwilling to let us go farther down the dirt track, saying there could be landmines ahead. Mukesh persisted, firmly yet politely.

“Never lose your cool with the police, but keep telling them that they must let you do your duty. They also want to tell you stories of their problems,” he had warned me beforehand.

Mukesh was proved right by a constable who walked up to him and said he was doing a good job reporting about corruption, and that many of his colleagues watched Bastar Junction. The officers eventually let us resume the journey after photographing us and our identity cards.

Incidentally, Mukesh had been instrumental in the release of a CRPF constable from Maoist captivity in 2021. The video of him riding out of the forest with the hostage on his bike is pinned to his X profile.

On our way back, Mukesh did lose his temper with a drunken Chhattisgarh Police constable at another checkpoint. “They are all stressed out and that’s why he was drunk. Should the government give such people firearms?” he asked me.

At Palnar, we found a man shrivelled to the bone by tuberculosis. While interviewing him and his family, Mukesh asked me if I knew much about the disease.

“I will speak to a doctor about this. I can do a follow-up with more information, and try to help this man,” he said.

We soon ran out of water, and the punishing heat drew me to a mango tree. As I jumped to pluck a raw mango, Mukesh yelled at me to come back. “There could be landmines there. The CRPF has cleared the roads but not the rest of the forest,” he said.

Still thirsty, Mukesh asked a group of children for water. But they only had char berries, from which the prized chironji seeds are extracted. After we had somewhat quenched our thirst with the berries, Mukesh did a short video on the berries and their relevance to Bastar.

I remember him saying to the camera: “Chironji seeds fetch thousands of rupees, but look at the school these children have to go to.”

He then pointed towards the dilapidated toilet of the school — which was to be the polling booth.

On our way back, he told me that he too had plucked these berries for a living as a child. “Those kids may not be lucky enough to become journalists like us. If we don’t tell their story properly, who will?”

Mukesh was dedicated to the people of Bastar. He also understood what they wanted to see. “Mahua, char berries are all part of our culture. If mining starts here, all this will vanish. The viewers will like this story,” he said.

I asked him if he had drawn a line about how far he would push himself to get stories. He simply replied: “Dada, it’s dangerous for everyone in Bastar. How can a reporter stay away from it all?”

After I left, he continued to send me his stories: “Everyone should get news of Bastar, only then will people understand us.”

It was the dictum he lived — and died — by.