Encounter with an Ani
🪖🤔 PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 🤔🪖
A saving Grace from
heaven.
self with a Khampa tribal with Ani Gumpha in the back drop
In the evening of life, when one
looks back upon the long trail already traversed, countless episodes and
anecdotes come flooding back. Some leave a lasting imprint; others fade into
the mists of time. Yet there are a few that remain remarkably vivid, even after
more than half a century. One such episode, which continues to haunt my memory
with extraordinary clarity, was my encounter with an Ani - a fully ordained
Buddhist monastic, or Bhikshuni - at Ani Gumpha, a female Buddhist monastery in
the remote frontier district of Tawang in NEFA (North-East Frontier Agency).
The memory has been bubbling and frothing in my mind for some time, and I feel
compelled to pen it down before the finer details recede into the shadows of
recollection.
While the rest of the Battalion enjoyed a measure of
relative cohesiveness at Rupa in the Tenga Valley, I, a young Lieutenant, had
been posted to Bum La on the McMahon Line, a place two to three days away. In
those days, distances in the mountains were measured not in kilometres but in
the time taken to traverse them. In retrospect, dumped and forgotten might have
been a more appropriate description than posted!
My task was to hold the border
post, situated at an altitude of approximately 17,000 feet, along with an
Observation Post another 2,000 feet higher, manned round the clock. My
effective strength was a modest 15–20 mundas - my men.
Mundas bringing potable water
Apart from routine patrols to nearby areas and occasional
visits to Sector Headquarters at Pankang Tso, a six-hour trek away, life at Bum
La was placid, if somewhat sterile. The place remained snowbound throughout the
year, with winter snowfall often exceeding six feet on the snow ruler. Neither
mules nor Haflingers - the sure-footed Austrian hybrid pack horses - ventured
beyond Mi La Pass because of the steep gradients and the ever-present danger of
losing these precious animals. The Animal Transport (AT) supply chain
terminated at Mi La. Beyond that point, the four-hour, steep ascent to Bum La
became an ordeal of man-packing and piggybacking. Only the bare essentials for
survival could be carried forward; luxuries were a distant dream.
On clear, sunny days, the entire landscape, stretching as
far as the eye could see, glittered like a magnificent silver platter. Even the
watershed marking the McMahon Line and the terrain beyond it shimmered beneath
the sun. The fierce ultraviolet rays, reflected and refracted by the snow,
could burn one's exposed skin to an almost ebony finish. Without snow goggles,
one risked snow blindness.
Moonlit nights were positively sepulchral, often
playing tricks on the imagination and inducing strange hallucinations. Above
us, the sky was a celestial kaleidoscope of falling stars and meteors. The
rarefied atmosphere rendered the heavenly bodies extraordinarily clear,
sometimes displaying prismatic colours that lent the entire scene an almost
surreal aura.
View from Bum La - Watershed on Mc Mahon Line
Life demanded constant vigilance against the cold. Even
while struggling to snatch a few elusive hours of sleep, one had to remain clad
in five layers of Extra Cold Clothing (ECC), the body's protection depending
more upon these layers than upon the accommodation available.
Regulations
prohibited permanent or semi-permanent structures, leaving us to make do with
makeshift sangarhs, fashioned from layers of stones, wild moss, CGI sheets and
PBS rolls. These pitiable contraptions could barely withstand even a minor
blizzard, which was a frequent visitor, particularly at night. Our makeshift
canopies would often be blown away, allowing snow and sleet to pour in and
making sleep impossible. Many a night, we found ourselves praying for first
light and for the fury of the blizzard to relent.
Being the only officer at the post, and a greenhorn Thampi
(a Madrasi, as I was affectionately identified) among my Sikh Khalsas, I
remember experiencing moments of formidable loneliness.
My only links with the
outside world were a Philips transistor radio, tuned to Radio Ceylon and the
BBC, and the twice-daily “Sab Achha”—all well—reports to the Sector Commander
over the field telephone. Ironically, those calls often became an additional
source of misery. On cloudy days, the telephone could deliver a nasty electric
shock, while the conversation invariably seemed more likely to bring additional
tasking than relief from the monotony of isolation.
I soon realised that the only antidote to this creeping
morbidity was to keep moving. Accordingly, I volunteered for a six-day Long
Range Reconnaissance Patrol (LRP) to Kharsan La, a journey involving a
three-day trudge through deep, untamed snow and ice. We preferred to be out in
the open, sweating and struggling, rather than languishing in forlorn
isolation. The Sector Commander was delighted that the request had come from
me.
After the briefing, a thorough check of all logistical and
operational arrangements, and the solemn Ardas seeking the blessings of
Waheguru at our little Gurudwara Sahib, the patrol was ready to move. It
consisted of one officer—yours truly—and seven men.
Tibetan Bhutia
Our mascots, two enormous
Bhutia dogs, growled impatiently, straining at their leads as though determined
to lead the expedition themselves. In the wee hours of the morning, we stepped
off in high spirits, hoping to cover as much ground as possible on the first
day. The weather was clear, and there was no fresh snowfall. We were venturing
into virgin territory, as this was our maiden patrol to Kharsan La.
Whenever
allowed to roam freely, the dogs took the lead. They seemed instinctively adept
at avoiding treacherous patches of soft snow and gave us early warning of
wildlife in the vicinity - musk deer, snow leopards, wild pheasants, other wild
dogs and, above all, unfamiliar human presence.
Rhododendron bush
I was leading the patrol, negotiating knee-deep snow, and at
certain places we had to crawl on all fours to distribute our body weight.
While crossing a snow-covered mound, the surface suddenly gave way beneath me.
I plunged into a deep pocket of soft snow concealing the stiff, woody branches
of rhododendron bushes, the only vegetation that seemed capable of surviving in
those conditions. I crashed through the unforgiving branches, sustaining
bruises as I fell, until, fortunately, my descent was arrested by a rocky ledge
some twenty feet below.
I could hear our dogs barking furiously and digging at
the spot where I had disappeared. My senior NCO, Havildar Bhajan Singh, was the
first to reach the edge. It took the patrol nearly an hour to cut a passage
down to me and haul me back to safety.
Fortunately, the bruises were not as
serious as I had feared, and some elementary field dressing was sufficient.
Before long, my men were cheerfully brewing tea and regaling me with their
inimitable bawdy jokes. I was the first to be offered a steaming glass. “Saheb
Bahadur ji, gut-gut chai pee lo. Sehat theek ho jaogi!” - (Sahib, have a few gulps
of hot tea; your health will soon be restored) . Such was the affectionate
irreverence of my men!
After that invigorating brew, we resumed our march,
carefully avoiding suspicious snow mounds. By evening, we reached a grazier's
hut, announcing our arrival to its surroundings through the distant, tell-tale
clanking of yak bells. We decided to camp there for the night with the grazier
and his animals.
He was a man of indeterminate age, but warm-hearted and
hospitable. I was fascinated to find him painting a Thangka, a traditional
Buddhist religious painting depicting the Buddha. Even more intriguing was his
method of preparing vegetable dyes by chewing local shrubs. Over a tot of
rum - which my buddy invariably carried for me - the grazier agreed to sell me the
finished painting after a fortnight in exchange for two bottles of rum, our
convenient currency of “dollars” in those remote parts.
The company of our
hospitable host had another advantage: Havildar Bhajan Singh magnanimously
exempted me from my turn of sentry duty that night!
(I eventually collected the Thangka during a subsequent
patrol and presented it to our Officers' Mess. It adorned the walls of the
anteroom for years, until, I was later told, it was condemned after suffering a
termite attack.)
The following day dawned clear, and we made good progress,
eventually reaching another abandoned grazier's hut. Its slate-tiled roof had
collapsed, and snow had filled nearly half the interior, but the walls were
still standing. With last light fast approaching, we decided to camp there.
Although the missing roof offered no protection from the falling snow, the
surviving walls at least shielded us from the full fury of the howling
blizzard.
We set off early the next morning and, by evening, reached
an Assam Rifles post at the foothills of Kharsan La. The hospitality we
received was memorable. The post commander, a Junior Commissioned Officer
(JCO), welcomed us warmly, and I was allotted a proper room in their
guesthouse, which even boasted a Western-style toilet! To celebrate our
arrival, the men had butchered a precious Meat on Hoof (MoH) - a bakra, or
goat - and generously shared the feast with us. After the hardships of the
preceding days, this was luxury of the highest order.
With the morning sun came another leg of our
journey. We continued towards our objective, circling a magnificent waterfall
whose sprays produced surreal rainbows in the sunlight. The day's march
involved climbing, negotiating slippery slopes and sliding over rock-hard ice,
but we steadily closed in on our destination. As the last light began to fade,
we made camp in a natural depression, seeking protection from the strong winds
and their debilitating wind-chill factor.
We set out again in the early hours the following morning
and, by 0900 hours, reached the frozen lake bordering Kharsan La. The lake was
covered in ice, and I considered it prudent to cross its frozen surface rather
than make a long detour around it. Taking two men with me, I left the remainder
of the patrol behind a huge rock for protection. My mundas were eager to brew
tea, but I forbade it on security grounds. The smoke could betray our presence
and attract unwanted attention.
We crossed the lake and reached a vantage point
near the pass. Careful not to expose ourselves against the skyline, I moved
farther down and began observing the terrain ahead through my binoculars. I
could make out a track disappearing behind a hillock, with occasional movements
of vehicles and pack mules. I completed a panoramic sketch and recorded my
observations. My trusty HMT Jawan watch showed 1500 hours. Clouds were
gathering on the horizon, and visibility was deteriorating. We abandoned our
observation position and hurried back through the pass.
Curiosity, however, proved to be a dangerous companion. At
the crest of the pass, I noticed a series of abandoned trenches along the
ridge. On closer examination, I found that every one of them faced due
south - towards the direction from which we had arrived! It felt as though I was personally inspecting the defensive positions of an adversary. Fortunately,
common sense prevailed, and I moved away before curiosity could get the better
of me.
After crossing the frozen lake again, I noticed similar trenches disposed
along its banks. An uneasy suspicion began to take hold: we might have strayed
well beyond our intended area, perhaps even across the international boundary.
I assembled the patrol, explained our predicament and urged everyone to move
towards the safety of our own territory without delay.
By then, the clouds had descended upon us, and heavy
snowfall had begun. Our maps were of little use. With no visible landmarks or
discernible geographical features, map-reading became virtually impossible.
Even our own tracks had disappeared beneath the fresh snow. The only option
left to extricate ourselves from this shtook was to set a compass bearing due
south and keep moving. Visibility was almost nil. We advanced with our arms
outstretched, maintaining physical contact with one another. Soon darkness enveloped
us, and movement became increasingly hazardous.
We halted and began digging a deep snow shelter to escape
the direct fall of snow and the fury of the blizzard - the dreaded yellow wind
blowing down from China. We excavated a hollow large enough to accommodate all
of us, crouched together with our arms around one another's shoulders, and
covered ourselves with ground sheets and kapok mattresses. Our collective body
warmth became our only defence against the freezing night. Dinner consisted of
our reserve composite ration of shakkarpara. Those who had already consumed
their share surreptitiously on previous days had to make do with whatever their
comrades were willing to spare. Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by discomfort,
cold and anxiety.
The following morning, we emerged from our makeshift igloo
into a grey world where visibility remained poor. Soon, my buddy appeared with
a glass fashioned from the cut-off bottom of a rum bottle, filled with warm,
black and uninviting tea. I asked why it was so bland. Hesitantly, he explained
that the milk powder and sugar had run out. So, I thought wryly, life too would
remain bland from then on! I asked whether everyone had had tea. “Haan ji!” (Yes Sir!) came the prompt and unanimous reply.
While I sat down to work out our next move, my breakfast
arrived: a single chapati, spit-cooked, accompanied by a spoonful of pickle and
a glass of warm water smelling suspiciously of smoke and kerosene. The chapati
was discoloured, with traces of olive green, and had a distinct taste of
blanco. My repeated questioning eventually brought the reluctant truth to
light. The flour had run out, and my men had scraped material from a Pack 08
carrying harness to prepare a single chapati for Sahib Bahadur! By then, I had
already bitten into half of it; I could not bring myself to eat the remainder.
I remember my eyes welling up, despite the bitter cold. I asked whether the men
had eaten breakfast. Once again came the prompt response: “Haan ji!” - followed
by a broad smile stretching across their badly chapped lips. I knew
instinctively that it was a lie, but one I could neither punish nor bring
myself to challenge. Their loyalty had found expression in a sacrifice that no
regulation could prescribe and no order could demand.
We resumed our southerly march, guided by the compass. I
checked our radio communications with Sector Headquarters, only to discover
that the set could receive but not transmit. From the base at Pankang Tso, I
could hear the radio operator repeatedly calling out: “Jankee Phor, Jankee
Phor (Yankee Four), report my signals, over! Jankee Phor, nothing heard, report, over!” I
instructed our signaller to change the battery. To my utter disbelief, I was
informed that the spare battery had been left behind to reduce the carrying
load. I controlled my temper and ordered him to switch off the set to conserve
the remaining charge.
With visibility still poor and the blizzard raging, we
continued cross-country, guided solely by the compass needle, climbing and
descending as the terrain dictated. We even attempted to scale cliffs, only to
be forced back to the bottom. The afternoon slipped away, and the fading
fluorescence of daylight gave way to darkness. Once again, we dug ourselves
into the snow for the night. Hunger and exhaustion soon overwhelmed everyone.
The next morning, I did not even expect tea. I merely asked
for some warm water. My buddy hesitated before informing me that the matchbox
had become wet and was useless. Since none of the men smoked, there was no
alternative source of fire. At first light, we resumed our southerly march. The
men were exhausted from lack of sleep and food. Some struggled even to carry
their weapons; for others, the carrying harnesses and equipment had become
unbearable burdens. The fitter men began carrying the weapons of their weaker
comrades. I, too, took turns carrying an additional SLR rifle. Every step was
becoming an exercise in endurance, and the patrol was beginning to show the
physical and psychological effects of prolonged deprivation.
Soon, we came across a dilapidated, windblown structure that
appeared to be the remains of an old prayer hall. As evening approached, I
decided to halt and grant the men some respite. Quietly, I acknowledged to
myself that I needed the rest as much as anyone. The signaller's repeated
attempts to contact the base continued to fail. The staccato crackle of the
AN/PRC-25 radio wireless set was punctuated by the increasingly desperate calls from Pankang
Tso: “Jankee Phor, Jankee Phor, report, over!” I finally switched off the set
to conserve its depleted battery. Sleep mercifully overtook us, while one man
at a time remained on guard.
With the first light of the next morning, we reorganised
ourselves and moved out once again, faithfully following the magnetic compass
towards the south. By now, exhaustion had taken a terrible toll. Tempers were
frayed, men were collapsing into the snow and some were reluctant to rise. The
weaker ones were being piggybacked by their fitter comrades, and the entire
patrol was inching forward like a procession of zombies.
As the leader, I did
not have the luxury of surrendering to exhaustion or even voicing my own
distress. I coaxed, cajoled and goaded my men with a colourful repertoire of
gaalis - the choicest Punjabi expletives in my vocabulary. Soldierly affection,
in such circumstances, sometimes assumes rather unconventional forms!
Despite my rebukes, the men had begun eating snow to
alleviate their thirst and hunger. Our two Bhutia mascots, which had been
leading the way, were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the pursuit of a curious snow
hare or some other elusive creature had separated them from us. By afternoon,
according to my HMT Jawan chronograph, we were utterly spent, close to physical
collapse.
Even the gaalees (abuses) had dried up, our throats too sore to produce them.
It was now the third day without proper food, potable water or communication
with our base. Panic was beginning to surface, and I knew that, as an Afsar and
Sahib Bahadur ji, I could not afford to lose my composure.
We had slumped into yet another enforced halt, the men lying
prostrate on the snow while I squatted upon a mound, contemplating what the
future might hold. Suddenly, one of the men sprang to his feet, cupped his ears
and strained to listen. “Kutte bhaunk rahe hain!” he shouted - The dogs are
barking! It was an unmistakable sign of human habitation. Soon, I too could
hear the distant growling, barking and snarling of Tibetan mastiffs.
The men
initially surged towards the sound in desperation, but I quickly brought them
under control with a few well-chosen expletives. Regaining their composure,
they reorganised and advanced cautiously. At that moment, I sorely missed our
own Bhutia mascots, whose instincts had served us so well.
From the snow and fog emerged an apparition of
a weird human being. Getting closer we realized that it was an old woman in the
garb of an astute Buddhist religious order. She was exceptionally tall, an old
'Ani' (bhikshuni) and appeared to us as a Grecian Goddess, led by two ferocious
wolves with formidable bared fangs. Her yell, silenced the dogs and she
gesticulated towards an ancient isolated structure of a Gumpha (monastery),
partially hidden by thick fog and snow and cautioned us not to proceed beyond
the entrance gate of the Gumpha, as any man trespassing into Ani Gumpha (Female
Buddhist Nunnery) was sacrilege.
The saying was that they were so astute that,
leave aside any men folk, they didn’t even permit male species of animals or
birds into the Nunnery. Diametrically opposite to what was the practice at the
Jang Gumpha (male monastery) at Tawang. No female species were admitted into
that Gumpha. !!!
 |
| Tibetan Mastiff -( Curtsey googles) |
We all just slumped where we were and
requested the venerable 'Ani' for some hot tea, more by gestures, as none of us
were in a state to speak!!! Everyone had sore throats due to excessive
consumption of snow to quench hunger and the mouth when opened looked like the
open beak of fledglings - red and parched!!! Most men had dried lips to the
point of bleeding.
I could perceive the maternal care in Ani’s slanted
eyes. She gestured to us to relax where we were and left, leaving the two
‘wolves’ behind to keep an eye over us. Keeping an eye they did while circling
around and sniffing each one of us; their smell was nauseating and in
retrospect, may be ours to them too!!
In a few minutes, she returned with two
more 'Anis' carrying begrimed buckets made of some dubious metal, but
containing steaming local tea brew with globules of yak butter, rock salt and
visible yak hair floating all over. As the leader of the miserable looking
gang, I had the privilege of the first mug of this hot brew. What a feeling it
was … as if having Amruth !! I reminisce guzzling down nearly three mugs
full, and so did my men.
Miraculously, At that very moment our
communication got through to our base at PankangTso . I had no ears for the
pure, chaste and select expletives-'galies' MC/BC / @#*-@ etc - from my Sector
Commander (Maj xxxxxxx) who by our lack of communication so far must be mostly
convinced that we had strayed across the border and by now were en-route to Peking,
sans our boots !!! My reply was only that we are at Ani Gumpha, starved for 3
days and need hot food immediately!!! And we are not moving till ‘Khuraak’(
food supply) arrives. To avoid taking his protests I chose to then hastily
cut off the radio set, and a wise decision it was.
At Pankan Tso
The response was astonishingly swift. In less than three
hours, familiar faces from Pankang Tso emerged through the snow and fog,
carrying hot sabjis, dal and rotis. It was a record of sorts, considering that
the journey normally took more than four hours even in fair weather.
This was
the kind of camaraderie one seldom encounters outside the armed forces: men who
could be fiercely critical of one another, yet would move heaven and earth to
rescue a comrade in distress. And the Sector Commander, despite his fury, had
not forgotten the finer courtesies of soldiering. He had sent along a bottle of
the Army's free-issue Himalaya Ghoda Rum as a little compliment!
We shared our food with the Anis, those heaven-sent angels
who had appeared at the precise moment of our greatest need. Before departing,
I offered the remaining quarter-bottle of rum to the elderly Ani, suggesting
that she keep it for medicinal use in an emergency. She blessed me profusely.
Overcome with gratitude and reverence, I bent down and touched her feet before
taking leave. In that remote, snowbound corner of the Himalayas, religious
conventions had momentarily yielded to something more fundamental: the bond
between a fellow human being in distress and the compassionate soul who had
come to his aid.
By nightfall on the eighth day after leaving Bum La, we
reached Pankang Tso. Reporting to the Sector Commander, I found him still in a
thoroughly foul mood. After dismissing the patrol, he summoned me into his
Arctic tent. I followed him inside, only for him to turn abruptly and deliver a
resounding slap that left my head spinning and stars dancing before my eyes.
“You fool!” he roared, punctuating his words with a colourful assortment of
expletives. “The Divisional Headquarters has been eating my head over the
whereabouts of your patrol! Intelligence reports indicated that the Chinese had
laid ambushes along the border to capture Indian patrols. And what am I
supposed to make of your radio silence?”
With Jang Gumpha in the background
By then, I had learnt that on such occasions, it was wiser
to remain silent rather than attempt to explain or complain. Once his initial
fury had subsided, I ventured a lighter explanation concerning the obsolete
maps we had been carrying. The border had apparently been marked with
extraordinary ingenuity by an Intelligence Section Havildar. Since cartography
was considered a highly technical function, the task had been entrusted to the
INT - Intelligence -section. Our INT da munda (man from Intelligence Section), however, seemed to have exercised
his intelligence rather liberally. I imagined him drawing the boundary line on
the map just as a mosquito bit him on the nose! The resulting line, drawn with
such authoritative confidence, had sent us wrestling with deep snow and the
dreaded yellow blizzard along a boundary that might have existed more
convincingly on paper than on the ground. Our eventual extrication to safety
was a saga in itself.
Nevertheless, I was censured for failing to conduct a
thorough personal check of the patrol's logistics before departure. It was a
lesson learnt the hard way, and one that remained with me throughout my
military career.
For all his outward harshness, the Sector Commander was not
without compassion for his young subaltern. A teetotaller himself, he had
arranged a special dinner in my honour, complete with my preferred brand of
Hercules XXX rum and a junglee murgha - wild fowl - speciality. His anger had not
diminished his concern for the welfare of his men or his affection for a young
officer who had been through an ordeal. It was a characteristic blend of stern
discipline and unspoken care that one came to recognise in the old school of
military leadership.
As we prepared to retire to our respective tents, the
Commander reminded me that I was expected to be back at Bum La, a six-hour
climb from Pankang Tso, by 1100 hours the following morning. This meant
stepping off at 0500 hours sharp! Yet, in the midst of all his admonitions, he
found time for a final piece of fatherly advice: “Ravi, dheere-dheere chalna,
lekin time te pahunch jaana”—Ravi, go slowly, but make sure you reach on
time!Sic.😕
That night, the venerable Ani appeared in my dreams and
blessed me.👐
In the evening of one's life, when one pauses to revisit
such extraordinary experiences, one cannot help but feel overwhelmed by
gratitude to the Almighty. Through the many trials and tribulations of a
soldier's journey, divine grace often reveals itself in unexpected forms - in the
loyalty of one's men, the stern but compassionate hand of a commander, the
instinct of an animal, or the kindness of a stranger in a remote Himalayan
monastery. That day, in the midst of snow, hunger, exhaustion and despair, salvation
came in the humble form of an elderly Buddhist nun and her steaming mugs of
yak-butter tea.
To this day, I remain convinced that the Ani was no ordinary
apparition in the snow. She was a messenger of mercy, appearing at the very
moment when hope was ebbing away. Whether one calls it providence, divine
intervention or the boundless compassion of the human spirit, I know that we
were granted a second chance that day.
Somewhere along that snowbound trail, Heaven had reached out
to save us - and I shall remain eternally grateful.🙏
- Col Ravi Nair -
