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 -