A Temple in the Land of the Konyak Nagas

🪖🤔 Ponderings of a Pongo 🤔🪖

Back in 1980, I found myself thrust into the world of staff duties at a charming little hill station in Nagaland called Chakabama.

My first staff posting - ah, the joy! A whirlwind of responsibilities descended upon me like an avalanche, lovingly delegated by my commanders, who, having handed them over, promptly developed a remarkable ability to forget that they had ever assigned them!

Thus, I became the proud - if somewhat reluctant - foster parent of a whole assortment of orphaned tasks. After all, in the Army, everything is training - even unsolicited babysitting! 😩

One such stray responsibility landed squarely on my unsuspecting lap: the renovation of a temple at Mon (Nagaland), nearly 200 kilometres away, in the remote and turbulent land of the Konyaks.

I tried every trick in the book to wriggle out of it. But divine dispensations, as I was soon to discover, are not easily negotiated. 😇

A Temple in the Wilderness

The temple had humble beginnings. About a decade earlier, during the height of fierce insurgency in the Naga Hills, an elite infantry battalion had put up a simple ‘gummat’ - a makeshift, dome-like shrine - with Sri Durga Ma as its presiding deity.

The battalion had survived the turbulence and emerged victorious from its operations. Naturally, the soldiers attributed some of their good fortune to the Divine Mother.

Who were we mere mortals to question Her choice of architecture? 🙏

By 1980, however, the little shrine needed a facelift - or, as events would prove, something much more ambitious than a facelift!

But before embarking on this unusual mission, we had to acquaint ourselves with the land and, more importantly, its people.

A Date with the Ang (The King)

Mon was no ordinary place. Nestled deep in the Naga Hills, it was the homeland of the Konyaks - a proud and fiercely independent tribe, once renowned for their headhunting traditions and legendary warrior spirit. In those days, the region was also an active theatre of fierce insurgency.

We visited Lungwa, a Konyak village of ‘Naked Nagas’ right on the India - Myanmar border, to seek the blessings of the Ang, the traditional Konyak chief.

Lungwa itself was fascinating. Its traditional ‘morongs’ - large communal dwellings - straddled the international boundary, with border pillars appearing to have been placed almost as an afterthought. In some places, India was literally on one side of the room and Burma - now Myanmar - on the other!

The morong of the incumbent Ang was an enormous structure, reportedly stretching nearly 100 metres. It had separate cabins for his thirty wives - an arrangement that, I thought, made even Army accommodation planning look remarkably simple!

I was fortunate to have an audience with the Ang himself.

The entrance to his royal morong was quite an introduction to Konyak history. It was decorated with the skulls of enemies - grim trophies from the days of headhunting. Skulls of mithun (wild buffaloes) were also mounted prominently, presumably to add a touch of local aesthetics to the otherwise macabre décor.

Above us was a magnificent ‘A’-shaped canopy adorned with scores of metal-tipped spears. Their shafts were wrapped in long red fur, giving the entire structure an unmistakable air of tribal grandeur. 🤴🏽

As we waited for the Ang to appear, two royal attendants carried in a throne and placed it upon an elevated pedestal. On closer inspection, I realised that the throne was none other than the pilot's seat from the cockpit of a wrecked Dakota aircraft, a relic apparently salvaged from the Burma Campaign of the Second World War! The seat had, naturally, undergone some local modifications - spears, red fur and tribal embellishments had transformed a humble aircraft seat into a royal throne. Only in the North-East, I thought, could a wartime Dakota cockpit become a king's throne!

Then, with due ceremony, the Ang appeared, flanked by his guards.

His age was impossible to guess. His face etched by heavy dyes seemed to have been carved by time itself, carrying within it the stories of generations.

His elongated earlobes sagged beneath unusual ornaments made from flattened and rolled steel torchlight covers. His long hair was tied into a knot on top of his head and secured with yet another torchlight casing. And then came the crowning glory - two enormous wild-boar tusks mounted on either side of his head like a Roman coronet.  He wore a garland of beads interspersed with some wild animal's deadly fangs. Draped in a traditional red Naga shawl, he nevertheless exuded a quiet and benign authority.

He summoned us closer. We paid our respects.

The Ang spoke in the Konyak dialect. An interpreter translated his words into Hindi. We replied in Hindi, which was then translated back into Konyak. Our mission was duly explained. The Ang listened, blessed us, and gave us his permission. And just like that, our royal appointment was over.

The Malayalee Interpreter

There was, however, another little surprise waiting for me.

            The interpreter's name was Raju - a rather quaint name to encounter in that remote corner of the Konyak country. As I shook hands with him and exchanged a few pleasantries, he suddenly began speaking to me in chaste Malayalam - my mother tongue! For a moment, I wondered whether I had somehow been transported from Mon back to Kerala.

Raju soon solved the mystery. As a young boy, he had accompanied an Inspector of the Madras Special Police (MSP), whose company had been deployed to provide security in the Mon area, to the Inspector's home in Kerala. Raju had spent nearly eight years there, attending school and helping the family. In the process, he had picked up Malayalam as well as Hindi.

And there I was, deep in Konyak country, exchanging Malayalam pleasantries with a local interpreter! The world, I discovered, was considerably smaller than the map suggested.

The Curious Crowd

Meanwhile, a curious crowd had gathered at a respectable distance.

The women were adorned with nothing other than elaborate beaded necklaces, while some had teeth darkened with traditional dyes. The men wore little more than loincloths and carried their traditional dah, or hatchet, as naturally as we urban folk carry our mobile phones today.

One thing struck me as particularly strange. There wasn't a single dog in sight. Why?

I decided that some mysteries are best left unsolved! 😄

It was an experience of a lifetime - though strictly on the sidelines.

For me, however, the real adventure was only about to begin.

Mission Impossible -  Mon Temple

The humble gummat stood on a flattened hilltop, alongside a Company of the local militia and Mon's very own helipad. What was officially described as a "renovation" was, to put it mildly, a complete construction project!

My team consisted of just seven men and me, operating nearly 200 kilometres away from the resources of my parent organisation. And my only tangible financial resource? A princely donation of ₹500 from my Commander, accompanied, of course, by his profound blessings!

That was it. ₹500, seven men, a remote hilltop and a temple to be built.

Clearly, someone upstairs had great faith in us!

The trials and tribulations that followed - and the remarkable assistance that came from unexpected quarters - could fill another chapter. And perhaps it should.!

When the Army Meets the Civilian World

One of our greatest sources of support came from the Road Construction Company (RCC) of the Border Roads Organisation and its Officer Commanding Mr Nambeesan - a pious elderly person. A supervisor, Mr Kunju Ahmed was detailed who took personal interest in the project. Not only was he an excellent technical supervisor, he was also a remarkably good mason. The RCC provided technical manpower and other assistance, and suddenly our impossible-looking project began to look slightly less impossible.

I also contacted the Officer-in-Charge of the Tizit Forest Division - Mr Nambiar. He too took an extraordinary interest in our endeavour. On his advice, we procured timber at remarkably low rates, and arrangements were made to transport it to the construction site by him.

With the timber arriving, technical assistance available and my seven-man team raring to go, we got cracking.

The VIP Visitors - and Their Shradhha (offerings)

From time to time, senior Army and Assam Rifles officers visited Mon. Their helicopters would land right next to our construction site. The moment the rotors stopped, the VIPs would invariably make their way to the little gummat, offer their prayers and pay obeisance to Sri Durga Ma.

And, almost without fail, they would leave behind a handsome donation towards the construction. The temple, it appeared, had developed its own fundraising strategy!

There was, however, one major problem.

We had timber. We had labour. We had technical expertise. But we were desperately short of steel for the RCC work.

That was when the local Marwari business community came to our rescue. They collected sufficient funds for us to purchase the required steel. We travelled down to Sibsagar, the foothill township, to procure it. The cause itself earned us a substantial discount.

It was becoming increasingly clear that the temple had friends everywhere.

Shramdaan (voluntary labour) and the Malayalee Connection

The local people also came forward with shramdaan. Local contractors contributed materials, manpower and whatever else they could spare.

The District Collector, Mr Raghu Menon, was another great supporter of the project. His encouragement, sponsor  and assistance were invaluable.

Our common Malayalee connection soon turned into a warm personal friendship. In a remote corner of Nagaland, far from Kerala, I discovered once again the extraordinary usefulness of the Malayalee network!

A Friend Called Chingwang

Among the locals was Mr Chingwang Konyak, the son of the Ang. He was something of a ruffian - but a ruffian with a heart of gold. He moved around Mon in the only car in town and invariably carried a pistol for his protection.

We clicked almost instantly. Chingwang became a close friend and one of my strongest local supporters and in the environment of insurgency my bodyguard. He was eventually inducted as a Life Patron of the temple.

His friendship would prove particularly useful when the temple ran into its first serious controversy.

When the Pastor Came Calling

There were two schools close to the temple site. Naturally, the construction activity attracted the curiosity of the local children. Soon, they began visiting the temple, where the priest would happily distribute sweet prasad to them, which they liked verymuch.

One day, the local pastor came to see me. He accused me of trying to reconvert the local population. The thought had honestly never crossed my mind. I explained that we were simply renovating a temple that had existed there for years and that the children were merely curious visitors.

The pastor, however, was not particularly convinced. He warned me of unpleasant - and potentially fatal - consequences.

It was one of those moments when an Army officer has to decide whether to argue, negotiate, or discreetly summon reinforcements. I chose the latter! I mentioned the incident to my friend and self-appointed bodyguard, Chingwang .

He dealt with the matter in a manner that, I suspect, only a Konyak could. I never saw the pastor again. Nor did I receive any further warnings.

Some negotiations, I learned, are best conducted locally! 😄

Three Months - and a Miracle

Against all odds - and whether by divine intervention or sheer Army stubbornness - the temple was completed in a record three months. The little gummat had been transformed into a proper temple.

And the date chosen for its formal opening could not have been more appropriate:

Durga Puja.

The temple was ceremonially opened to devotees and local people of all faiths.

My Commander was present. So were the District Collector, officers of the Border Roads Organisation, Assam Rifles, Border Security Force and local Police, along with a large gathering of devotees and local people.

Adding colour and festivity to the occasion was the unexpected arrival of a Bengali troupe, who seemed to have materialised almost as miraculously as the temple itself! The occasion was filled with prayer, music, fellowship and a sense of achievement that is difficult to describe.

For us, it was more than the completion of a building. It was a small bridge between the Army and the local community - and between very different worlds.

The Accidental Architect

Having now been, as it were, drafted into God's personal workforce, I found myself dreaming about the temple - both while asleep and awake. Stranded in the wilderness of Mon, I began visualising a temple reminiscent of those I had known in my childhood in rustic Kerala.

There was no architect. No architectural drawing board. No computer-aided design. Just a ‘Pongo’ (infantry officer), a pencil, a piece of paper and an overactive imagination!

So I put my thoughts to paper and sketched the temple as I imagined it.

That little sketch has survived. And so has the temple.

Nearly four and a half decades later, I look back at that episode with a mixture of amusement, affection and wonder. What began as an unwanted staff responsibility, thrust upon an unsuspecting young officer, turned into one of the most memorable experiences of my military life.

I had gone to Mon as a reluctant infantry officer with seven men, ₹500 and a seemingly impossible task. I came away with friendships, memories, a deeper appreciation of the people of the Konyak country - and, quite unexpectedly, the reputation of being an accidental architect of the Divine!

A Note of Solemn Gratitude

        As I look back upon that remarkable endeavour after more than four and a half  decades, my heart is filled with solemn gratitude to every person who, in ways large and small, contributed to the fulfilment of what initially appeared to be an impossible mission.

        My deepest appreciation goes to my 'country cousins' Mr Raghu Menon, the District Collector, for his unstinting encouragement and support; Mr Nambeesan, Officer-in-Charge of the RCC, for extending his invaluable personal indulgence; Mr Nambiar, Officer-in-Charge of the Tizit Forest Division, for his generous assistance in making timber available; and Mr Kunju Ahmed, GREF Supervisor, whose technical expertise and personal involvement were of immense value to us.

        My sincere gratitude also goes to Mr Sharma, the senior-most Marwari merchant of Mon, and to the entire Marwari business community, whose generosity in raising funds for the essential steel and other materials came to our aid at a crucial juncture. I remain equally indebted to the local people of Mon, whose goodwill, shramdaan, hospitality and spontaneous cooperation transformed our modest resources into something far greater than we could have achieved on our own.

        And I can never forget my dear friend and self-appointed 'bodyguard', Mr Chingwang Konyak -  whose friendship, loyalty and local influence stood by me when it mattered most.

        Looking back today, I am convinced that it was no mere coincidence that all these remarkable individuals crossed my path at that particular time. It was, perhaps, a divine coincidence indeed, an act of Divine Providence - that brought us all together, from such diverse backgrounds and walks of life, at the most opportune moment, for a common and holy cause.

        Each contributed what he could; together, we accomplished what none of us could have achieved alone. For that, I offer my solemn and enduring gratitude to them all.

But, in all honesty, I know who really deserves the credit.

We were merely the foot soldiers.

The real architect was Ma Durga Herself. 🙏🙏

            And perhaps that is the real lesson from Mon:

            Sometimes, in the Army, you don't choose the mission.

            The mission chooses you.

            And occasionally, the orders may even come from above - quite literally! 😇

 

= Ravi Nair-