MIZO HILLS OF THE 70s

🤔 🪖 PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 🪖 🤔

(Some friendships are forged in the most unlikely of places. And sometimes, they prove more powerful than the weapons we carry.)

Induction to Lushai Hills🪖

     On commissioning my first posting was to Mizoram, Lushai Hills. More than half a century has passed, yet I can still feel the burning in my calves whenever I recall that final, punishing ascent. Four days of trudging through leech-infested bamboo jungles, with the ever-present possibility of an insurgent encounter, had finally brought us to Champhai. We staggered through what passed for a 'welcome arch' at the battalion location, perched along the helipad contour.

      It was hardly the grand reception one might have expected, but after that arduous trek, even this modest gateway looked welcoming!

     Champhai occupied the highest ridge in the area, with its Protected Progressive Village (PPV) spread across the slopes like a precarious chessboard of civilisation amidst an otherwise untamed wilderness.

     The helipad remains etched in my memory, as does the solitary jeep track winding down towards the Inspection Bungalow (IB), passing through the famous Burmese Open Market.  It was a colourful sensory extravaganza, displaying an assortment of merchandise ranging from Burmese bamboo parasols, sarongs, cigars and hats to more adventurous delicacies such as smoked bandicoots and edible maggots. A gourmet's paradise, perhaps, though one requiring a considerable suspension of culinary inhibitions!

     The Inspection Bungalow was our administrative and residential hub. It accommodated the Officers' Mess and the residences of the Commanding Officer (CO), Second-in-Command, Adjutant and Medical Officer. In keeping with the Army's irreverent sense of humour, we had our own little menagerie: the Tiger (CO) 🐅, the Lamb (Second-in-Command) 🐑, the Lion (Adjutant) 🦁 and the Sheep (Medical Officer). Each, I must say, appeared quite comfortable in his designated animal kingdom!

     Further down the track lay the Dropping Zone (DZ), our lifeline to the outside world. Supplies arrived periodically from the skies, courtesy of a vintage Dakota, a veteran of World War II. Its cargo included rations, ammunition, liquor (sometimes arriving with a parachute of its own!) and, most importantly, MoH - Meat on Hoof. Live goats would descend under parachutes, bleating indignantly all the way down, apparently unaware that their airborne adventure was merely a prelude to a less exciting destiny!

     Champhai had only one four-wheeled wonder - a Willys Jeep. Its journey to the hills was an engineering feat in itself. Dismantled at the Motor Transport Park in Lyallpur, it had been transported - hump backed- piece by piece through the unforgiving bamboo jungles and painstakingly reassembled at Champhai.

     This solitary mechanical marvel would then ferry our Tiger through the Burmese Bazaar, attracting considerable curiosity. To the villagers, it must have seemed that the Army had somehow manufactured a motor vehicle out of a giant jigsaw puzzle!

     But beyond these peculiarities of life in a remote counter-insurgency location, something far more enduring was beginning to take shape in my own life.

     I was then a newly commissioned young officer, barely out of adolescence, wearing a single star on my shoulder. It looked rather modest, but I had already discovered that the responsibilities attached to it were considerably heavier!

Initiation to the Battalion🪖

     My initiation into the battalion had followed the traditional route of learning soldiering from the ground up. I had lived with the men, familiarised myself with the ways of the Sardars (Junior Commissioned Officers), attended the Umedwar Cadre alongside the troops, sans stars on the shoulders, and gradually found my feet in the regimental environment. Only after this initiation was, I formally introduced to the Officers' Mess.

     My dining-in ceremony was conducted in the finest traditions of the Battalion. The ceremonial toast was served in the Warwickshire silver trophy, specially reappropriated for the occasion as my personal goblet. The contents were another matter altogether - an unholy cocktail of every brand of liquor available in the Officers’ Mess bar, all generously blended into one formidable concoction! By the way the Battalion had returned from United Nations Emergency Force assignment at Gaza (Isreal) and hence had certain exquisite liquor, liqueur and alien spirits! That didn’t make a difference to me as I was a teetotaller till then.

     The ritual required me to raise this magnificent goblet, grasping it firmly in both hands, propose a solemn toast to the Battalion and drain the contents in one uninterrupted gulp.

     One can well imagine the predicament of a confirmed teetotaller, who had not yet graduated to the exalted fraternity of drinkers, suddenly confronted with such a baptism by fire - or, more appropriately, by liquor!

     I survived the ordeal, though not without considerable wobbling. It took me a full two days of enforced recuperation to regain my bearings and return to the land of the living.

     But the mission had been accomplished! I had upheld the Regimental tradition, drained the goblet without surrendering, and, at least for the record, demonstrated that I was every bit as manly as the rest of the fraternity.

     The Battalion had its toast; I had my two-day hangover - and my manhood, officially certified!

My Appointment

      A few weeks into my appointment as Intelligence Officer, and having begun to understand the nuances of the job, I was posted to Vanzau, a good eight hours away from Battalion Headquarters. I was placed under the command of Major O.K. Verma , the seasoned Delta Company Commander.

Induction to Vanzau🪖

     My association with Major Okay proved an invaluable learning experience. He was a thorough gentleman and a professional soldier to the core. His guidance and mentoring helped hone my skills and confidence. When he subsequently proceeded on a course and leave, I was entrusted with the responsibility of commanding the post for a few months, pending the arrival of his replacement.

     Vanzau itself was a Protected Progressive Village (PPV), comprising five villages that had been displaced and subsequently resettled under a common administrative arrangement. My responsibilities soon settled into a demanding operational routine - regular patrolling, and planning and executing ambushes at strategic points: the passes leading into and out of the Vanzau Valley, as well as prominent track junctions within my area of responsibility. These operations were mounted at unpredictable intervals, often under the cover of night and during curfew hours.

     My Commanding Officer was a strict disciplinarian who, through his directions to all Company Commanders, laid particular emphasis on probity and impeccable conduct in dealing with the local population, especially its womenfolk. That emphasis became a guiding principle for me as Post Commander. I made it a point to constantly impress upon my men the need to maintain a respectful distance from local women and, above all, to treat them as they would the womenfolk of their own villages back in Punjab - with dignity, consideration and sensitivity. Vigilance, however, should not become a casualty in the bargain. We had to remain mindful of what people carried, and occasional searches were unavoidable. But these had to be conducted with tact, humility and utmost courtesy, without ever compromising the dignity of the women concerned.

     My Sardars - platoon commanders- were a pious, mature and seasoned lot. They understood that military discipline was not confined to obedience to orders; it extended equally to personal conduct, self-restraint and respect for the local populace. They upheld these values admirably. By God's grace, there was never a single untoward incident during our tenure.

Khabung

     Khabung, a security post located about three hours away, was perhaps the most beautiful and relatively well-developed PPV under Vanzau Company's operational responsibility. As the Operational Commander, I particularly enjoyed my visits there. The post was manned by a platoon of the Central Reserve Police (CRP), commanded by Inspector Rajaretinam from Trivandrum - a well-educated, affable gentleman who had established an excellent rapport with the local population. During my visits, I also struck up close friendships with two schoolteachers from Aizawl.

     A visit to Khabung was always a welcome change from the monotony of life at Vanzau. It offered not merely a change of scenery but also some pleasant company - something I particularly cherished, being the only ‘Mona’ (non-Sikh) in an otherwise all-Sikh post. Those visits were, in their own way, refreshing interludes in the otherwise routine and somewhat insular life at Vanzau.

Reconnaissance through Bamboos🪖

     One of the reconnaissance patrols from those days remains particularly vivid in my memory.

     Acting on intelligence inputs received at Battalion Headquarters; we were tasked to investigate reports of insurgent activity in some of the old village settlements. These were abandoned sites from where the original inhabitants had been displaced to Protected and Progressive Villages (PPVs) in the wake of the insurgency. There were indications that insurgents were frequenting these deserted settlements.

     Our mission was straightforward, at least on paper: recce the abandoned villages, verify the intelligence, and, if fortune brought us face to face with the militants, engage and eliminate them. The patrol was planned for four days.

     We combed through the deserted settlements, examining dilapidated huts, isolated churches and other signs of habitation. At night, we camped wherever the terrain offered some degree of comfort and tactical advantage.

But the jungle had its own surprises in store.

     Among the most delightful discoveries were the old pear orchards. The trees were laden with ripe fruits, seemingly waiting for someone to come and claim them. We needed little persuasion! We ate to our hearts' content and stuffed our haversacks with as many pears as we could possibly carry. Little did we realise how providential that little indulgence would prove.

     The real ordeal began on our return journey.

     We entered an almost impenetrable bamboo forest. What followed was less a march and more a battle of attrition against the vegetation. We had to hack our way through the dense growth, one bamboo stem at a time, with no clear end to the green labyrinth in sight.

     The leeches and other jungle insects were having a field day at our expense. Despite the precautions, several men were suffering severe leech bites, with some showing signs of considerable blood loss.

     I too had my own unpleasant encounter. Despite my puttees securing my boots and trousers, a particularly enterprising tiger leech had managed to find its way up to my thigh. I became aware of its presence only when I noticed something unusually thick protruding from beneath my trousers.

     On extracting the unwelcome guest, I discovered a gaping wound from which blood was flowing freely. Experience, however, had taught me a rather unconventional jungle remedy. I took out my cigarettes, lit two at a time and puffed away until I had accumulated sufficient ash. I then packed the wound with it. The bleeding soon stopped. A rather primitive field dressing, perhaps, but in the middle of a bamboo jungle, one learnt to improvise!

      Every man in the patrol carried another ingenious piece of jungle equipment: a thin bamboo stick with a small cotton pouch of salt tied to its tip. The man at the rear would attend to the leeches on the body of the man ahead, touching them with the salt-tipped stick until they loosened their grip. It was an unusual chain of mutual assistance, with each soldier looking after the man in front of him!

     Eventually, we came upon a small clearing. Darkness was fast approaching, and pressing on through the bamboo jungle would have been foolhardy. We decided to halt and camp for the night.

     Our carried rations were almost exhausted. Fortunately, those pear orchards we had raided earlier now came to our rescue. The fruits that had seemed such a welcome luxury when we collected them had turned into our survival ration. We thanked our stars for that little act of foresight!

     The following morning, we resumed our struggle through the bamboo thicket, hacking our way forward and constantly checking our direction with the compass. Progress was painfully slow. By afternoon, however, the seemingly endless green wall finally gave way, and we emerged into an old, abandoned jhoom (shifting cultivation) field.

     The fields lay barren and overgrown. For a moment, there was little to suggest that this desolate patch of land had anything to offer a hungry patrol.

     Then came another unexpected discovery!

     Scattered among the tall grass and weeds were some large, golden-coloured objects. On closer inspection, they turned out to be enormous pumpkins, fully ripe and dried by the sun, apparently left behind after the last cultivation.

     It was nothing short of a culinary windfall!

     We halted immediately. The men gathered around the pumpkins, cut them open and discovered the rich, deep-orange flesh inside. What followed was a scene of unrestrained delight.

     My men scooped out the pumpkin flesh and set about preparing some improvised jungle concoction. I cannot recall the exact recipe, nor would any gourmet have cared to ask! But to a bunch of hungry soldiers who had spent the better part of two days hacking through bamboo and feeding on pears, it tasted nothing short of nectar.

     We ate our fill, and spirits rose dramatically. The map indicated that Vanzau was barely five kilometres away.

     Replenished by our unexpected pumpkin feast, we gathered our equipment and pushed on with renewed vigour. The remaining distance was covered with an enthusiasm that would have surprised anyone who had witnessed our weary, leech-bitten selves a few hours earlier.

     We reached Vanzau before sunset.  God had indeed been kind 🙏

Winning Hearts & Minds

     Equally important, however, was another dimension of my assignment - fraternisation with the local population, building trust, establishing rapport and winning hearts and minds.

     My posting there brought me into close and continuous contact with the local population - an association that would leave an indelible impression on me.

A Young Kaptan Finds His Feet in YMA

     As was customary, the Young Mizo Association (YMA) took me under its wing. As a freshly arrived talangwal (young man or Gen C), I was bestowed with the rather intriguing sobriquet 'Kaptan Zua'  - Captain Wild Rose ( Kaptan means an officer and I was a raw 2nd Lieutenant only). It was an affectionate introduction into a society whose warmth I was soon to discover.

     My initiation into local customs was equally interesting. I learnt to roll and seal crude cigarettes made from locally grown tobacco, using the thin onion-paper pages of little booklets distributed by well-meaning pastors.

     At YMA gatherings, while occupying the place of honour on an upturned wooden soapbox, I would invariably be offered one of these hand-rolled cigarettes by a noola (young village girl). The ritual was complete only after it had been lit with a puff and I had taken a ceremonial drag. Then followed one too many! One had to respect local protocol, even if one's smoking credentials were still very much under development!

     I was equally fascinated by the attire of the young men and women who attended these gatherings. The talangwals sported flamboyant cowboy hats, fashionable bell-bottom jeans and chequered shirts with oversized collars. The noolas wore colourful shawls, fashioned into skirts and other garments.

     There were no children or elderly folk at these gatherings; the congregation was very much a young people's affair. The young men arrived with guitar-like instruments, locally known as 'Ting Tang', and displayed remarkable proficiency in playing them. The girls, on the other hand, seemed to have little need for lipstick - perhaps it was not readily available, or perhaps their natural charm made such embellishments quite superfluous!

     The Noolas were accomplished bamboo dancers, and their performances, accompanied by songs and the lively strains of the Ting Tang, formed the centrepiece of the evening's entertainment. Their musical repertoire was not confined to local folk songs either. They even ventured into Jim Reeves and Elvis Presley, rendering their favourites in their own delightfully improvised style. The spirit was infectious, if not always faithful to the original compositions!

     There were also the customary long-drawn speeches in Lushai, warmly welcoming me and inviting me to become one of their own. Though I could hardly follow a word, the warmth and enthusiasm needed no translation.

     Hospitality came in generous measure, too, in the form of an uninterrupted supply of 'Rakshi', the local rice beer. I had thoughtfully carried two bottles of rum as my contribution to the festivities, but I have a lingering suspicion that the organisers quietly appropriated them for their own private enjoyment!

     Interestingly, there was not a pastor or clergyman in sight. Perhaps their absence lent the gathering a certain freedom, allowing the youngsters to sing, dance and make merry without the watchful eye of ecclesiastical propriety. For one evening, at least, the village seemed determined to let its hair down!

     I later learnt that much of their colourful attire was painstakingly hand-sewn. Even the Ting Tangs were handmade - a delightful example of local craftsmanship and youthful ingenuity.

     The YMA gatherings were particularly significant during those curfew-bound days. They provided opportunities for the talangwals and noolas to meet during their Noola-rim (courtship) sojourns, and everyone naturally turned up in their best.

     Noola-rim was a socially accepted and recognised prelude to formal marriage. It was considered an essential stage in courtship rather than a social taboo. There were, of course, traditional safeguards and community obligations. Any untoward consequences before marriage attracted a substantial fine for the young man, while the village council assumed responsibility for the welfare of the offspring.

     It was a social arrangement quite different from what I had grown up with, and I found it fascinating to observe how village customs governed relationships and community responsibilities.

A Cup of Thing Pui and the Language Lesson

     I soon discovered that the easiest way to become acquainted with a village was not through official meetings or security briefings, but through its children.

     They began visiting me in groups, and I would offer them thing Pui -  tea. They explained that 'thing' meant wood and 'pui' meant water; hence, thing Pui, literally 'wood water', was tea. A wonderfully uncomplicated explanation for something that had become an indispensable part of our daily lives!

     I made a modest attempt to learn Lushai, beginning with a handful of everyday expressions ' - Kapu /Kapi Cheebai (greetings), Kapa (father), Kannu (mother), talangwal (youngman), noola (young girl), minpero (give me), kalawme (thank you), mangtha (good) and a few others. My vocabulary was rudimentary, my pronunciation probably atrocious, but the children were wonderfully patient. Before long, I was attempting short conversations in broken Lushai. Their delight was unmistakable.

     It dawned upon me that children are perhaps the best language teachers. They have neither the patience nor the inclination to conduct formal lessons, but they are generous with corrections and infinitely encouraging when one gets something right!

     Through these little interactions, I began to understand the simplicity of village life and the economic hardships faced by its people. Their material possessions were few, and even ordinary household necessities were not always readily available. Yet they displayed an unaffected warmth and generosity that left a lasting impression on me.

The Curfew the Children and Little Kerosine

     The curfew hours offered another window into their lives.

     Vanzau (a totally non electrified village) observed strict curfew after last light. No movement was permitted, and the village was expected to remain in darkness. As post commander, I would periodically take a patrol through the settlement to ensure compliance.

     On some nights, as we approached a house, the flickering light of a hurricane or chimney lamp would suddenly disappear. It did not take much detective work to understand what was happening. On entering, one could still feel the warmth of the recently extinguished chimney. The children had clearly been doing their school homework and had hurriedly put out the lamps at the first indication of an approaching patrol.

     I began allowing them to relight their lamps and continue their studies. On occasions, I would sit with them and help with their Hindi lessons. Before leaving, I would leave behind a bottle of kerosene - a commodity in desperately short supply in those days.

     It was a small gesture, but I noticed a gradual change in the way the families received me. The initial apprehension associated with the uniform and the security post slowly gave way to familiarity, cordiality and trust.

     I also made it a point to visit households whenever there was a birth or a death in the village. A few kilograms of milk powder, some tea leaves, sugar and biscuits would accompany me. These were modest offerings by our standards, but evidently valuable in a village where such items were not easily available. The happiness they brought was often far greater than the contents of the little parcels themselves.

     I invariably addressed elderly women and men as Kapa and Kannu - mother and father. It was a simple expression of affection and respect, but it seemed to dissolve many of the reservations they initially had about me.

     In time, I was no longer merely the uniformed officer in charge of the security post. I had become a familiar face in their homes.

A KERALA CONNECTION

     One day, an elderly lady asked me : 'Kapu, nagma kua khoenge?' - Where is your village?

     I replied, 'Kerala.'

     She promptly followed up with another question: 'Kerala mo? Nagma Kristen mo?' -  Are you from Kerala? Are you a Christian?

     I hesitated for a moment, but answered in the affirmative.

     The reaction was immediate and heartwarming. Kerala was familiar territory to the Mizos, as many of their churches had traditionally been served by Christian pastors and clergy from our State. However, counter-insurgency restrictions had resulted in the withdrawal of non-Mizo pastors and clergy from insurgency-affected areas.

      Word soon spread through the village that the new post commander was, rather unexpectedly, a Christian from Kerala. I sensed that this little discovery could prove useful in strengthening my fledgling bonds with the local community. With the assistance of our Administrative Officer, Mr Lal Moya, I managed to procure a small cross, which I thereafter wore quite visibly - not quite a conversion of convenience, but certainly a gesture of goodwill!

      Mr Lal Moya, however, was determined to take this newfound religious affinity a step further. In his own inimitable fashion, he insisted that I attend church prayers as well. Not wishing to disappoint my rapidly expanding congregation, I made a sincere effort to learn a few prayers in Lushai. Armed with this modest vocabulary and considerable goodwill, I began joining their prayer gatherings, contributing whatever I could in a language that was still very much foreign to me.

     It was an unusual extension of my duties as a post commander - part soldier, part social ambassador, and now, rather unexpectedly, a reluctant student of Lushai theology!

Volleyball matches

     We regularly organised volleyball matches at the Vanzau school ground, with the Talangwal team who took to the game enthusiastically once given the opportunity. A few soon emerged as accomplished players. The contests, usually between the Security Forces and Vanzau teams, became eagerly awaited fixtures.

     The volleyball court had a remarkable levelling effect. The usual reservations of a security-regulated life vanished, and the Talangwals could shout, tease and even abuse their opponents without the slightest fear of repercussions! It was perhaps their opportunity to vent the frustrations of a life lived under constant security restrictions. More often than not, Kaptan Zua's team emerged victorious, though the Talangwals too won a few matches, much to the exhilaration of the cheering crowd.

     The games were invariably held on Sabbath days (Sundays), when nobody ventured out to their jhooms. The proceedings were followed by Thing Pui, pakoras and shakkarparas (sweets)  - delicacies the Talangwals particularly adored.

     These Sunday encounters were much more than sporting events. They broke the monotony of security duties, dissolved inhibitions and fostered genuine camaraderie. The volleyball brought us to the court; the freedom to abuse one another and the promise of refreshments ensured that nobody missed a Sunday match!

      There was, of course, one unavoidable contradiction. Wherever and whenever I went to the locals, the premises or building would be cordoned off for my security. Even a visit to church or a volleyball match, it appeared, required something resembling a military security operation!

     Those were difficult times, and security precautions could not be relaxed merely because the occasion was religious or sports.

What's in a Name ?

      There was one more amusing memory.

      Mr Lal Moya had once pointed out that my name, Ravi, sounded feminine to Mizo ears, as names ending phonetically in an 'ee' sound were often associated with women. Thereafter, he took to addressing me as 'Pu Rava' - Mr Rava.

     I never quite managed to establish whether this was a genuine linguistic observation or simply another opportunity to tease the young officer

Natural Fraternisation

     Looking back, I realise that these small interactions had gradually built a bridge between the security post and the village. I certainly had no grand theory of counter-insurgency or a well-crafted programme of civil-military relations. I was simply a young officer trying to understand the people among whom I had been posted, and to make their difficult circumstances a little more bearable wherever possible.

      Little did I realise how significant these seemingly insignificant gestures would eventually become.

When Friendship Stood Between an Ambush and Column

     Much later, a rather extraordinary piece of information came to light.

     A group of insurgents from the Vanzau area had surrendered. During their interrogation at higher headquarters, an interesting detail emerged. A security column of Sikh soldiers, led by a non-Sikh officer, had once been moving through a carefully coordinated ambush site in the Vanzau area. The insurgents had identified the approaching column and were in a position to open fire.

     But they did not.

     On recognising the officer as Kaptan Zua - a friend of their kinsmen in the PPV -"-they had held their fire.

     The information was subsequently conveyed to the unit.

     I was stunned. My little exercise in village fraternisation, undertaken without any strategic design or expectation of reward, had apparently spared the column from what could have been a disastrous encounter.

     There was, however, another side to the story!

     I received a fairly emphatic dressing-down for not having cleared the probable ambush sites along the route. The Army, quite rightly, was not prepared to let sentiment override security procedures! I accepted the reprimand. After all, affection for the villagers and professional responsibility as a soldier were two entirely different obligations, and both had to be respected.

     Yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I could not help feeling that an unexpected dividend had accrued from YMA, that hand rolled cigars, those cups of tea, conversations with children, visits to homes, volleyball matches and little acts of kindness.

     Perhaps the people had remembered the young officer not because of the weapon he carried or the authority of his appointment, but because he had made an effort to understand them.

A Farewell, I have Never Forgotten

     My stay at Vanzau was eventually coming to an end. I was detailed to attend a three-month course at Sonamarg, followed by leave, while the battalion was preparing for its subsequent move to NEFA. (North East Frontier Agency- present Arunachal borders)

     The day I left the post remains one of my most cherished memories.

     The day prior, the familiar call of the 'Khoi Khoi Walah', the village announcer, echoed through Vanzau, declaring a day's respite from work in the jhooms (fields) the next day, so that the villagers could come together to bid farewell to their departing post commander. The response was overwhelming. Almost the entire village turned up, many carrying eggs, while some had gone a step further and brought along fowls as farewell gifts.

     I was deeply touched, quite beyond words. These were simple people, living with very little in terms of material comforts, yet they had come forward with whatever they could spare from their modest household stores. Their gifts may have been humble in material value, but the affection and generosity behind them were immeasurable. They were sharing not from their abundance, but from what little they had.

     That farewell remains etched in my memory. In the end, it was not the village I was leaving that mattered, but the warmth of the people I was leaving behind. I had arrived among them as an unfamiliar soldier; I was departing as someone they had, in their own special way, accepted as one of their own.

     They accompanied me right up to the village kanta - the point marking the village boundary.

     I found it difficult to conceal my emotions. There were no elaborate speeches or formal ceremonies, only the warmth of people who had come to regard a young Army officer as one of their own.

     I can still recall fragments of that final conversation:

      'Kapu Chebai!' -  Greetings!

     'Nagma khoyenge kholdon?' -  Where are you going?

     'Khooootha?' - Far away?

     'Aizowla mo?' -  Is it Aizawl? ( Their limit was Aizawl ...)

     'Oh!' - Yes!

     'Ka lawme, KaPu. Kan hre reng ang che'.. - Thank you Sir.We will always remember you.

     'Dam takin le...' - Be in good health / farewell.

     'Pathianin malsawm che rawh se' - May God be with you.

     I left Vanzau with more than a collection of memories. I carried with me the affection of people who had taught me, without lectures or sermons, something about trust, kindness and human dignity, more so rudiments of another language.

Over Half A Century Later...

     Over half a century has since passed. I understand that Mizoram has undergone remarkable transformation, with broad roads, electricity, modern communications and amenities reaching even its remotest settlements. The socio-economic landscape, too, must have changed enormously.

      I can only imagine how different Vanzau and its people must be today.

     My recollections belong to another era - the Mizo Hills of the 1970s, when bamboo jungles were formidable obstacles, a jeep was a prized spectacle, kerosene was precious, and a simple cup of ‘thing Pui’ could bring people together.

     I do not know how much the village remembers of its young Kaptan Zua. But I remember Vanzau, its children, its elders, its YMA gatherings and, above all, the affection of its people.

     Perhaps that is the real meaning of fraternisation.

      It is not necessarily about winning hearts and minds through programmes, promises or proclamations. Sometimes, it begins with a cup of tea, a little kerosene for a child's homework, a respectful 'Kapa' or 'Kannu', and the willingness to see beyond the uniform.

      The years may have taken away the bamboo jungles, the solitary jeep and the old security post. But they have not taken away the warmth of Vanzau.

      Somewhere in the Mizo Hills, the young Kaptan Zua may still live in the memories of a few old villagers.

      And in the heart of one old Pongo, Vanzau will always remain a home away from home.🤔

                                                                             - Ravi Nair -

'

 

Glorious Absurdities of Life in Uniform.

🤔🪖 PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 🪖🤔

The Morning Parade Nobody Ordered!

              A field anecdote in which the enemy was imminent, the terrain was hostile, and the chain of command was embarrassingly intact! Your humble Pongo was in the middle of a highly sensitive jungle operation when a cheerful voice rang out from behind the bushes:

        “Sat Sri Akal, Saab Bahadur Jee!” 🫡

              There are battles recorded in regimental histories, discussed over maps, and commemorated with medals. Then there are battles omitted from official dispatches because the survivors have too much self-respect to mention them before ladies and senior officers.

        This belongs firmly to the latter category.

              Welcome to the less glamorous side of Infantry life, where a soldier may face enemy fire without blinking, march for miles with a full battle load, and survive mosquitoes the size of reconnaissance drones - only to discover that his greatest challenge is the call of nature.

              Your humble Pongo has seen enough military life to know that the Army prepares you for almost everything - except perhaps a jungle toilet without walls, a roof, or even a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.

Operation Dawn : A Mission for Nature’s Cause

               It is somewhere in the small hours of a Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol, to ferret out and engage the CRG (China Returning Gang) of Mizo insurgents.

              Picture this: dawn is still a rumour, the jungle is tuning up its orchestra of chirps and rustles, and a battle-hardened Infantryman - your humble Pongo - crawls out of his ‘teniya’ (pup tent) on a Long Range Patrol… not in search of the enemy, but in pursuit of something far more urgent and utterly non-negotiable: a decent spot for morning 'operations.'

              In civilian life, one might proceed to a bathroom, switch on a light, turn a tap, and enjoy the reassuring presence of a door with a functioning bolt. In the field, such luxuries belong to the category of unserviceable stores. There is no bathroom, running water, flush, newspaper, or sanitary assistant waiting outside with a towel.

              There is only the jungle, a few trees, a patch of grass, and the faint hope that the Almighty has not posted another soldier to the same coordinates.

              The mission is clear: Locate a suitable site, establish temporary occupancy, complete the operation, and return to the patrol without compromising operational security or personal dignity.

              Simple enough on paper. But then, so is capturing a hill feature on a map.

🪖 Reconnaissance Before Occupation

              First comes reconnaissance. The ground must be firm, the vegetation dense enough for concealment, and the approach free of thorny surprises. A gentle slope is desirable; a sudden depression must be treated with the suspicion reserved for an enemy minefield. And, if luck favours, a bit of obliging moss.

              The canopy may harbour ants, spiders , tiger leeches or some other species of jungle pest whose idea of hospitality is to descend uninvited down one's neck. The undergrowth must be checked for snakes, scorpions, subterranean leeches, and other members of the local intelligence network.

              Then there is wind direction - a matter of importance in artillery warfare, chemical warfare and, as it turns out, personal hygiene.

              Even when civilisation has withdrawn its services, military training continues to function:

        Range. Cover. Concealment. Escape route. - The site is selected. The enemy is not in sight. Occupation is authorised.

🎯 The Morcha (Position) is sited

              Having identified a suitable patch, your Pongo occupies it.

              The process is neither elegant nor suited to a regimental documentary. One must negotiate wild grass, avoid thorns, keep weapon and equipment within reach, and prevent the uniform from entering unnecessary negotiations with the local ecosystem.

              The boots are awkward. The trousers have developed an independent personality. The ground is harder than anticipated. A particularly enthusiastic leech appears to be conducting close reconnaissance of one's exposed anatomy.

        Yet the mission must continue. With grim determination, he mutters the adapted war cry:

              “Akhiri dum, akhiri goli… morcha nahin chhodoonga!”

(Last breath, last bullet… this position shall not be abandoned!)

               It is a magnificent declaration of courage.

        Unfortunately, the enemy is not the problem. The terrain is. And the terrain is winning.

The Unexpected Arrival of a Visitor

               It is precisely when a soldier is most vulnerable that fate decides to test his character.

From behind the bushes comes a cheerful voice:

“Sat Sri Akal, Saab Bahadur Jee!” 🫡 (regimental greetings). The sound strikes the inconvenient Pongo like an unexpected mortar round.

              The jungle falls silent. The birds suspend their conference. The mosquitoes pause in mid-flight. Somewhere in the distance, even a langur appears to reconsider its life choices.

              The voice belongs to a young Munda  -  a cheerful, conscientious soldier whose devotion to duty is matched only by his inability to recognise an officer's occasional need for solitude.

              There he stands: rifle properly carried, 'pug banna hua' (donned his pugri correctly), salute delivered with the enthusiasm of a recruit who has just discovered the Commanding Officer inspecting his section.

              He has found his Sahib. Unfortunately, he has found him at a time when the Sahib is in no position to receive visitors.

              The Pongo attempts a response. It emerges as a faint, strangled sound somewhere between “Sat Sri Akal” (return greetings)  and a request that the earth open up and provide an emergency bunker.

              “Sab theek hai, Saab Bahadur Jee? (Everything all right, Sir?)

              What can an officer say?

              Instead, the Pongo manages a vague nod and diplomatic grunt. The munda, satisfied that all is well, salutes once more and disappears into the undergrowth. Peace returns. The mission resumes.

🚶‍♂️ When the Scene Becomes a Parade 🪖

              Barely minutes later come the crunch of boots, the rustle of equipment, muffled conversation, a suppressed giggle, and then a familiar command:

              “Squad! Bayen dekh… !” (Squad, look to your left…! )

              Your Pongo's blood runs cold. The voice belongs to the same enthusiastic munda. Only now he has company.

              A whole column approaches in formation - one abreast, rifles carried smartly, boots striking the ground with the rhythm of a ceremonial march. At their head is the very soldier who, minutes earlier, discovered the Sahib's secluded location.

              The wretched man has apparently decided he has found a useful navigational landmark.

One can almost imagine his briefing: “From here, we move along the nullah, cross the elephant grass, and take a slight left near the Sahib Bahadur's position.”

              Military reconnaissance has reached a new level of precision. The map may not show it, but the munda knows exactly where it is.

              The Pongo considers remaining still and hoping to be mistaken for an ugly tree stump, issuing a stern halt, or disappearing into the nearest bush. All three are rejected. The squad is too close, and a senior officer must maintain command presence - even when temporarily deprived of the means to demonstrate it.

              The column marches past. “Squad… saamne dekh!” Eyes front!

              The soldiers look ahead with magnificent discipline - or make a heroic attempt to do so. A few eyes wander. One jaw tightens suspiciously. Another soldier develops an intense fascination with a nearby tree.

              The munda looks pleased with himself. He has located the route, maintained formation, and conducted movement through difficult terrain.

        His morning is going splendidly.

              The Pongo, meanwhile, has become an involuntary participant in a live demonstration of infantry drill. There is nothing in the Standing Orders explaining how an officer should respond when his private ablution area becomes a regimental inspection point.

🫡 Dignity : A Tactical Casualty

              There is no alternative. The Pongo must terminate the operation, restore what fragments of dignity remain, and rejoin the world of rank and decorum.

              Combat trousers are retrieved from their negotiations with gravity. Equipment is checked. The surroundings are reassessed. The officer rises not quite like a phoenix from the ashes, but with more determination than grace. Then, in front of the squad that has transformed-  his retreat into a public landmark, he delivers a perfectly respectable military salute.🫡

              And yes - between you and me - finishing the morning call of nature in the field, sans water - may be with a pinch of moss, can sometimes feel tougher than facing a bullet.

              Because an officer is an officer, a soldier is a soldier, and the Indian Army does not suspend discipline merely because an individual's circumstances have become complicated.

              The squad returns the salute. The munda beams. The Pongo maintains a straight face. The patrol moves on.

              There were a few more days of this agony before we could accomplish our reconnaissance mission. The poor Pongo consequently learnt to answer the call of nature at odd hours of the night, to avoid the prying eyes of inquisitive mundas.

              Eventually, we were back at Battalion Headquarters, rendering our completion and after-action reports.

☕ The After-Action Report

              By breakfast, the next day the incident has acquired a life of its own. The munda discusses the morning scene in the patrol with his comrades. The squad, he insists, noticed nothing unusual. The Sahib was perfectly fine.

              He even returned the salute. This, apparently, proves excellent morale and sound leadership. Somebody grins. Somebody coughs into his tea. Somebody else suddenly remembers an urgent appointment elsewhere.

              Before long, the episode enters the unofficial archives of the battalion - records maintained through memory, exaggeration, and the remarkable ability of soldiers to remember an officer's most embarrassing moments long after forgetting his finest tactical appreciation.

              The war diary will record route, distance, weather and operational observations.

It will not mention the incident.

              But at a Bara Khana, (feasting with men) perhaps after a generous peg of Patiala rum (four finger measure), somebody will raise a toast: “To our gallant Sahib Bahadur - who held his ground against all odds, survived an unexpected inspection, and saluted the squad without losing his commission!”

              The laughter will be deafening. The Pongo will protest and threaten postings, disciplinary proceedings, and other official remedies.

              Nobody will be impressed.

              For, in the Infantry, the higher the rank, the greater the entertainment value of a good story. The best stories are rarely those in which an officer does everything correctly. They are the ones in which he discovers that, despite rank and command presence, he is still gloriously human.

🪖 The Philosophy of a Pongo🪖

              Jokes apart, these ridiculous little episodes conceal a deeper truth.

              Infantry life is not made up entirely of heroic charges, firefights, decorations and solemn commemorations. Much of it consists of uncomfortable marches, sleepless nights, damp socks, bad food, worse weather, inadequate facilities, and the constant business of remaining cheerful when circumstances provide little reason to be so.

              The soldier learns to laugh because laughter is resilience. He learns to tolerate inconvenience because complaining does not make the jungle less wet. He learns to accept embarrassment because tomorrow someone else will provide the entertainment.

              Camaraderie is forged not only in grand speeches, but in shared discomfort, mutual assistance, and the ability to laugh together at military absurdity.

              The munda who greets his Sahib at an unfortunate moment is doing what he was taught: acknowledge his superior, maintain discipline, and carry on. The squad is following orders, maintaining formation, and completing its patrol.

              Only the Pongo has failed to appreciate that, in the jungle, seclusion is a temporary privilege, not a guaranteed entitlement.

              The Army teaches you to defend your position, stand your ground, and never abandon a comrade.

 🪖The Infantryman’s Last Word🪖

              The Army never taught us how to choose a jungle toilet, survive an unexpected inspection, or return a salute while defending the last scraps of personal dignity.

              We learnt the hard way. We adapted. We survived. And, years later, we laughed.

        That is the peculiar magic of Infantry life: hardship becomes memory, embarrassment becomes folklore, and the men who shared both become family.

              The patrol ended. The squad dispersed. The Pongo and munda grew older. The uniform was eventually hung up.

              But the story survived - because soldiers preserve what official histories leave out.

        So here is to the Infantry: to the men who march, endure, improvise and laugh; to the comrades who turn discomfort into fellowship; and to the glorious absurdity of military life.

               May your boots stay dry, your water bottle remains full, your patrol route stays clear, and your chosen patch of jungle remain unoccupied, with plenty of moss nearby.

               And remember the golden rule of the Pongo:

        In battle, hold your ground. In the jungle, choose it wisely. And whatever happens, never lose your sense of humour. Because an Infantryman who can laugh at himself can survive almost anything - even a morning parade he never ordered.

        That's Infantry. That's camaraderie. That's resilience. That's life in uniform.🤔

                🪖 Deg Teg Fateh! 🙏

                                                                                                                                                                                   – Ravi Nair –