A Glorious Cavalry Exposure
in NEFA
🪖🤔
PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 🤔🪖
Somewhere in the North-East
Frontier Agency (NEFA), c/o 99 APO - 1972. Perched rather regally, if somewhat
incongruously, on the saddle of an Army mule (khachhar), I look every inch a
mounted officer. Well, almost!
The photograph, rescued from a
fading negative after more than half a century, preserves what must surely have
been a rare moment in military history: a Pongo (Poor Bloody Infantry)
subaltern briefly elevated to mounted status. A singular honour, indeed! It was
probably the first and last occasion in my military career when I enjoyed the
privileges of cavalry without having to worry about the upkeep of a horse. My
steed, incidentally, had longer ears, sturdier legs, and considerably stronger
opinions than most cavalry horses.
But then, in the Army, one must
never underestimate the importance of izzat - and occasionally, a mule!
The Signal That Changed My Mode of Traverse
It was 1972. I was the Picket
Commander at Bum La (18000 Ft), one of those windswept, snow-laden outposts in
the Panken Tso sector, keeping a watchful eye across the watershed along the
McMahon Line.
Life at such isolated posts was a
curious blend of vigilance, endurance, boredom, and the occasional adventure
that arrived without warning. I had barely returned from a Long-Range Patrol
when fate, disguised in the innocuous form of a signal message, decided to
complicate my existence.
I was detailed as the Presiding
Officer for the Army Certificate Examination and Map Reading tests of an Animal
Transport (AT) Company located at the roadhead, a mere five hours away.
The signal (Official Message) was
crisp, precise, and refreshingly economical with the truth:
“Leave at first light. Back by
evening.” Simple. Elegant. Entirely unrealistic!
I mentally surveyed the proposed
journey: knife-edge ridges, steep snow-covered slopes, treacherous streams,
disappearing tracks, and the Himalayas' well-known habit of rearranging
geography whenever it suited them.
In those parts, punctuality was
not merely a virtue. It was an act of divine intervention!
During the customary evening “Sab
Achha” ( All Okay) report, my Sector Commander, with the wisdom of experience
and absolutely no sympathy for the predicament of his young officer, delivered
his instructions.
“Ravi, dhire dhire chalna… lekin
time par pahunch jana!” (Walk slowly, but reach on time!)
And, just to ensure that the
message had penetrated my skull:
“Be back the same day. I cannot
leave the border picket without an officer.”
Ah! Such touching concern for a
young subaltern! 🙄
I wondered whether he was more
worried about my exposure to the hazards of high altitude or about having to
explain to higher headquarters why an officer had gone missing in the
mountains. Either way, the responsibility remained mine.
Thus was born the classic
Himalayan paradox: ‘Proceed slowly, but arrive on time’; return before evening,
irrespective of what the mountains have to say!
Having delivered his customary
“Mein thonu dassiya si” - “I had told you so!” - sermon, he left me to
negotiate with destiny, altitude, and the laws of physical endurance.
As a seasoned subaltern, I knew
better than to argue with mountains, orders, or fate. They invariably had the
last word.
So, humming “Que Sera, Sera…”, I
adopted the only practical strategy left to me: spiritual preparation.
From beneath my cot, I retrieved
my trusted crate of ghoda (horse) rum -
the Himalayan vintage that was supposed to cure everything from a frozen soul
to a flagging spirit. Two generous medicinal doses later 🍷🍷,
I retired into my sleeping bag, confident that whatever the morrow brought, I
would face it with renewed philosophical resignation.
Enter the VIP Transport!
Before first light, my faithful
Man Friday, Jagtar Singh, materialised with a cup of tea strong enough to
revive the dead and possibly frighten away the living.
I dressed in five layers of
high-altitude clothing, looking less like an infantry officer and more like an
onion that had ambitions of joining the Army. Boots laced, patties secured, and
every available inch of skin protected against the cold, I stepped out of my
sangarh (shelter).
There was a commotion outside.
Lo and behold! My official
transport had arrived despatched by the AT Company where I was to conduct the
examination - as a good will gesture. It was a great surprise to me who was
mentally prepared for a 10 hrs march through mountains.
A mule. 🫏 Complete with AT
(Animal Transport) driver!
Lance Naik Dorrai Chamy, its
proud handler, stood beside his charge and delivered a salute so crisp that it
could have been framed and hung in the company office.
Dorrai Chamy during his
introduction was candid enough to reveal that he was also one of the candidates
appearing for the very examination I had been detailed to conduct.
Probably the AT Company
deliberately planned this arrangement to ensure that the examiner would receive
the sort of personal attention usually reserved for Generals and visiting
dignitaries.
Dorrai Chamy was determined that
I should feel every inch a VIP. He even produced a leather headpiece bearing
brass stars from his haversack, apparently contemplating the possibility of
decorating the mule with a star on its forehead. I dissuaded him vehemently.
The Army had its established
rules of rank and insignia. I had no intention of introducing a new system in
which the transport might outrank its passenger
For Dorrai Chamy, however, I was
already the VIP rider of the day. 🌟
And so, with the dignity of a
mounted officer and the apprehension of a man who had never before entrusted
his life to an animal with a mind of its own, I mounted my steed. My cavalry
career had begun!
A Mule With a Mind of Its Own
The mule, unlike many soldiers I
have known, knew exactly what it was doing.
It negotiated the snow-covered slopes with the assurance of a mountain
veteran, zigzagging up gradients that seemed to defy gravity, sliding down
descents that made my heart leap into my throat, and splashing through icy
streams without the slightest concern for the dignity of its passenger. It
appeared to possess an intimate knowledge of the terrain, the weather, and the
many shortcuts that were conspicuously absent from my map.
I, meanwhile, clung to the saddle
and pretended to be in command.
Every now and then, I heard the
loud curses of Dorrai Chamy behind me. He was scrambling up the slopes,
occasionally grabbing the mule's tail for support - an arrangement that the
animal found entirely unacceptable. The mule's protests were immediate and
emphatic. I could hardly blame it. Even a mule has its limits, and being
converted into a combination of transport, climbing aid, and towrope was
perhaps asking too much.
My buddy Jagtar Singh, as usual,
was treading ahead on foot. He provided a running commentary of Punjabi wit and
profanity, most of which appeared directed at the terrain, the weather, the
Army, and the general injustice of life.
I enjoyed the ride immensely. There
is something uniquely satisfying about watching a fellow soldier struggle up a
mountain while one sits comfortably astride an Army mule. Friendship, in such
circumstances, is best appreciated from a slight elevation!
We reached the AT Company
location well ahead of schedule.
I was remarkably fresh,
physically unscathed, and thoroughly pleased with the efficiency of Army
transport. If there existed a record for the most comfortable arrival of an
infantry subaltern at a remote Himalayan examination centre, I was prepared to
claim it. I had, after all, reached my destination without breaking into a
sweat, while my companion had already accumulated enough exertion to qualify
for a separate endurance test.
Hospitality, Examination, and a Candidate With Expressive
Eyebrows
The AT Company Commander, a
Major, welcomed me with commendable hospitality and a degree of enthusiasm that
deserved closer examination. Tea appeared in generous quantities. Pakoras
followed. Warmth, conversation, and the comforts of civilisation gradually
restored my faith in military administration.
There were also a few gentle
reminders that his men were “very good boys”, though perhaps a little deprived,
and certainly deserving of consideration. I listened with the attentive
expression expected of a Presiding Officer.
The hospitality continued through lunch, which featured cold beer 🍺, eggs, liver, and a warmth that contrasted sharply with the frozen wilderness outside.
I began to suspect that the
examination was not merely an academic exercise. It was also a carefully
planned diplomatic initiative aimed at securing a favourable impression of the
candidates.
Still, a Pongo must be fair. I
enjoyed the hospitality, appreciated the warmth, and remained determined that
the examination would be conducted strictly according to the rules.
After lunch, the Major and I with Jagtar drove in his jeep
to the examination site, which was some distance away. The candidates were
assembled, the papers distributed, and the proceedings commenced.
Among the examinees was my good
friend and erstwhile transport provider, Dorrai Chamy. The moment the
examination began, he transformed himself into a full-fledged Kathakali
performer. His eyes spoke volumes. His eyebrows communicated entire paragraphs.
His occasional glances in my direction conveyed a complex mixture of
recognition, friendship, personal appeal, and what might generously be
described as professional optimism.
By 1800 hours, the duty was done.
Papers were checked, records completed, and documents signed, sealed, and
dispatched.
I had fulfilled my mission. The
Army's administrative machinery had functioned as intended. Or so I thought.
Himalayan Justice !
When I returned to the camp, I
was greeted by a sight that would have tested the composure of even the most
seasoned cavalryman.
The camp was deserted. No Major.!
No Dorrai Chamy.! No mule.! Not even a helpful note explaining the
disappearance of my official transport to return! My mount had vanished into
the Himalayan ether, leaving me stranded at the roadhead with five to six hours of
mountainous wilderness between me and my picket.
So much for VIP treatment!
Now, every Pongo knows that a
mule ride is not an entitlement. It is a fleeting blessing, bestowed by
providence and withdrawn without notice. To ask for it twice would be poor
form. To chase after the mule would be worse. And to complain about the loss of
such a magnificent privilege would be an admission that one had become too
comfortable for the Infantry.
I turned to my faithful
companion. Jagtar Singh appeared unusually cheerful and energetic, perhaps
fortified by the hospitality we had enjoyed. His grin suggested that the entire
episode was merely another of life's minor inconveniences.
With the wisdom of a philosopher and the vocabulary of a Punjabi soldier, he declared: “Jaane do, Saab ji! Yeh sab B@#×#@ idda hi hai. Appa chaliye… tur ke! Ki farak painda?” (Leave it, Sahib! These bloody fellows are all like this. Let us walk. What difference does it make?
What difference, indeed!
We removed our caps balaclava in
unison, slapped them against our thighs in a spontaneous expression of military
indignation, and delivered a few choice observations about the people
responsible for our predicament. The language was colourful, emphatic, and
wholly unsuitable for inclusion in an official report. “MC! BC!” and several
other expressions of refined military diplomacy echoed across the deserted
camp. Having exhausted our vocabulary and restored our wounded dignity, we put
our headgear back on and prepared to march.
Such is life in the Army!
Six Hours Into the Himalayan Night
We set off on foot. The afternoon
light faded. The familiar ridges became dark silhouettes against a deepening
sky. The cold sharpened, and the trail grew increasingly treacherous beneath
our boots.
Soon, darkness enveloped the
mountains. Then the snow began to fall. Not a gentle, picturesque snowfall of
the sort that delights tourists and decorates Christmas cards. This was a heavy
Himalayan snowfall, driven by the wind, obscuring the track and swallowing the
surrounding landscape in a relentless white curtain.
The world around us dissolved
into desolation and silence. There was only the snow, the wind, the darkness,
and that bone-deep, sub-zero cold that seemed determined to penetrate every
layer of our clothing.
Our bodies shook in violent
spasms of shivering. Our boots crunched through the snow, and each step
required a conscious effort. The trail ahead was barely visible. The mountains
offered neither shelter nor sympathy. We trudged on like two frozen zombies,
our figures reduced to moving shadows beneath a vast Himalayan sky. The stars
glimmered faintly through the swirling snow whenever the clouds parted.
Somewhere ahead lay our isolated picket, and somewhere behind us lay the luxury
of an abandoned mule.
Jagtar Singh continued his
running commentary, his profanities rising above the wind with remarkable
regularity. I suspect he was cursing the Major, Dorrai Chamy, the mule, the
Animal Transport Company, the signal writer, the Sector Commander, and possibly
the entire chain of command. The precise order of precedence remains uncertain.
I had little energy left to
contribute to the conversation. My earlier enthusiasm for the Army's transport
arrangements had evaporated, along with my body heat.
And then, as if the heavens had
taken pity on two abandoned infantrymen, a slender sickle of moon emerged from
behind the clouds. Its pale light fell across the snow-covered slopes,
revealing just enough of the track to guide us forward.
For a moment, the wilderness
seemed less hostile. The moonlight silvered the ridges, softened the darkness,
and lent an eerie beauty to the frozen landscape. It was a magnificent sight,
though I would have gladly exchanged the entire celestial spectacle for a warm
room, a hot meal, and a mule that knew its way home.
But a young soldier has few
luxuries in such circumstances. One learns to accept whatever nature offers -
moonlight, snow, freezing winds, or the occasional animal that refuses to
cooperate.
And so, ever the optimist, I
resumed my anthem: “Que Sera, Sera… Whatever will be, will be…”
What else could a young Pongo do?
Step after weary step, we pressed
on through the freezing wilderness, two tiny figures moving across a vast and
indifferent Himalayan landscape.
The Army had ordered me to reach
the examination centre and return the same day. Technically, the order was
being obeyed. Whether the authorities had intended that I return in one piece,
with functioning fingers and toes, was a matter for philosophical debate.
At long last, sometime around
midnight, we reached our picket.
We were exhausted, chilled to the
bone, and considerably wiser about the limitations of Army transport. I had
enjoyed a memorable mule ride, conducted an examination, lost my mount, and
completed a six-hour trek through a Himalayan snowstorm.
All in a day's duty!
The Final Ritual of a Pongo
The first thing I did upon
reaching the picket was to report:
“Sab Achha, Sir!” (All Okay)
The Sector Commander responded
with the mildly growling tone of a man who had expected his officer to return
on schedule and was not particularly interested in the finer details of the
journey.
So I didn’t report to him about
the magnanimity of the AT Company to spare a mule for my out ward journey and
also the horrible trudge back
Some things are better left out
of the 'Sab Achha' report.
There remained, however, one
final duty to perform.
I crawled beneath my cot and
retrieved my faithful Himalayan companion. The rum! After the day's adventures,
I dispensed with the elaborate medical reasoning of the previous evening. Four
fingers. Neat.
Two restorative shots. 🍷🫱
“Que Sera Sera” - Just the warmth
of familiar spirits and the quiet satisfaction of having survived another day
in the mountains.
The hurricane lamp was
extinguished. The sleeping bag beckoned. Outside, the snow continued to fall
over the silent ridges of NEFA - the watershed demarcations of McMahon Line. The border remained secure, the picket was
manned, and the Army's youngest cavalryman had finally returned to his infantry
roots.
I slipped into a deep, dreamless
sleep.
Sushupthi! 😴😴
And that, dear reader, is how a
Pongo briefly became a mounted officer in the frozen heights of NEFA - only to
discover, by nightfall, that the oldest and most reliable mode of Army
transport was still a pair of infantry boots.
- Col Ravi Nair -
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