In 2013, Chandrashekhar was a young man with a government college law degree in search of employment, when his father Govardhan Das was diagnosed with terminal cancer and moved to a hospital in Delhi. The sickness would take its time to run its course, but in the months that followed, father and son sought to make up for the years in which they had, without quite knowing it, drifted apart.

Chandrashekhar had spent much of his youth in Dehradun, a liberal town known for its many schools and colleges, while his father had moved from post to post as a government teacher. He hadn’t experienced overt discrimination growing up; but his father, he realised, had suffered silently for years.

“My father was a headmaster, but he was frequently humiliated in meetings. In the staff room, his glass of water was kept separate from the other teachers,” he said, “He told me of hundreds of such instances that he didn’t share earlier because he didn’t want us to think that we were less than anyone.”

When his father died, Chandrashekhar returned to his childhood home in Chhutmalpur, a settlement not far from Saharanpur, with an urge to “do something.” His hometown, he soon learnt, was a good place to start.

Locals say Chhutmalpur was settled in 1959 when Nathiram, a Dalit strongman, realised that the future of his people lay in urban clusters near arterial roads, rather than in villages dominated by land-owning castes. Nathiram was a labourer, but caught the attention of veteran congress leader Mahmood Ali Khan when he become one of the first Dalit sarpanches in the district.

“Nathiram became Khan’s secretary, and asked him to allot land for a Dalit colony on the highway,” said Satish Kumar, Nathiram’s grandson, “And that’s how Chhutmalpur came to be.”

Today, Chhutmalpur is a settlement of about 10,000 Dalits and Muslims serviced by a bus stand, petrol pump, mosque, mandir and inter-college, strung out along the Delhi-Saharanpur highway.

Chandrashekhar lives a short walk from the petrol pump, in a modest, single-story house, in a small room with just enough space for a bed and wooden side table on which a set of broken speakers were balanced on an aging 15-inch laptop.

"A line of clothes hooks nailed to the wall stands in for a closet; and on the far end of the room is a poster of Chandrashekhar’s favourite quote attributed to Ambedkar: “Go write on the walls that you are the rulers of this nation.”

“The Dalits of Chhutmalpur are educated and united,” Satish continued, “So when Chandrashekhar said he wanted to set up an organisation, we decided to help him.”

The Bhim Army’s core is drawn from Chandrashekhar’s immediate neighbourhood. Satish Kumar, who describes himself as an older guide, lives in the lane behind Chandrashekhar’s house, while Vinay Ratna Singh, the organisation’s 'national convener' lives 5 minutes away.

The Bhim Army’s first skirmish with authority was in August 2015 when the Dalit students of a Rajput-run inter-college complained that they were being discriminated against.

“Thakur boys would force us to sweep the classrooms,” said Ankit Kumar, “After games period, the Thakurs would always drink water first, and the Dalits would drink last.”

One day, the Bhim Army showed up and “straightened things out” to use Chandrashekhar’s euphemism. Satish Kumar was more direct. “If they hit two of our boys, we hit four of theirs and the matter was resolved.”

The fracas over the signboard in Gharkoli a year later proved to be a turning point.

“We only heard of the Bhim Army when Chandrashekhar was arrested after the Gharkoli kand,” said Rajkumar, a well-connected activist in Saharanpur, “There were rumours that the police wanted him booked under the National Security Act, so everyone from the BSP to BAMCEF to independents like me got together and held a huge rally to show our solidarity.”

The police relented; the NSA charges weren’t filed and Chandrashekhar was released from prison.

Rajkumar acknowledged that not everyone in the local chapter of the Dalit movement appreciated the Bhim Army’s confrontational style; but Gharkoli found universal support because it was thrilling just to see a Dalit group standing up to the police.

It reminded people of the early days of the BSP, when Mayawati went from village to village on a rickety cycle and no issue was too small or insignificant for her to take a personal interest in.

One morning, Chandrashekhar and three hefty office bearers of the Bhim Army squeezed into a Hyundai Santro hatchback and headed to Gatheda, where a statue of Dalit saint Ravidas had been smeared with black paint the previous day. Initially, he said, the police had refused to file a complaint.

“The problem is that the police doesn’t investigate these matters properly,” Chandrashekhar said, as we dodged through traffic, “Instead, the police becomes a party to the incident."

“Then someone found my number and called me. We had no presence in Gatheda, but we went.”

After the fracas over the board and Ambedkar statue in Gharkoli, the police appeared more conciliatory and agreed to open an inquiry. Today’s visit was to get Gatheda’s young men to join his Army.

But first, the Santro turned off the highway and stopped beside a juice shop, unremarkable save for a small photocopied picture of Ambedkar pasted at the entrance.

“A well-wisher here wants to contribute to our cause,” Chandrashekhar said, “Unfortunately he’s getting a haircut.”

"Sliced bananas appeared before us as we waited; Chandrashekhar unfolded the Dainik Janvani, the morning edition of which had a three-quarter pager on Gatheda, including an article whose headline translated as “Bhim Army Explodes in Anger Over Idol Desecration.”

“Things start over an idol, and end like this,” he said, pointing to a report in another newspaper – the night before, a Dalit labourer in Uttarakhand had been hacked to death by a primary school teacher for “polluting” a sack of wheat at a flour mill.

Older activists I interviewed spoke of Keezhvenmani, Tamil Nadu, in 1968, where 44 Dalit men, women and children were locked into a hut by their landlords and burnt alive; those in their forties spoke of the murder of 58 Dalits at the hands of the Ranbir Sena in Lakshmanpur Bate in 1997. The 2000s were marked by Khairlanji; and for Chandrashekhar, who turned 29 in December, the touchstones are the death of Rohit Vemula, a PhD scholar who committed suicide after he was persecuted by the university administration, and the viral video of the flogging of 4 Dalit men in Una Gujarat in July 2016.