As our vehicle started climbing the road beyond the main gate of the Battalion I realised the settlement was nothing short of a township on its own. In the fading light, I could make out a school building, a stadium, a big CSD canteen, and a hospital on one side of the road while on the other side residential quarters for the married Jawans lay in an ordinate manner on successive steps of the landscape. The road continued for almost two kilometres before taking a sharp turn towards the right and zigzagged to a relatively sparser habitat strewn on the slopes of the lush green foothills astride the road. The houses were typically of the colonial archaic bungalow type. The serenity of the environment induced by the twilight, a gentle breeze, and the tall hanging trees on the hill slopes adorned by soft creepers twirling up their trunks boosted my dopamine level. The scenery was nothing less than from a picture book of Swiss tourism that could be found in libraries and book stores.
The vehicle stopped in front of the Officers Mess, the premise, and the establishment where Officers (those who stayed single) dined and socialised. It was situated on two successive steps of the hills. The mess building occupied a central position in the quaint colony of residential quarters for the Officers. The bungalows bore a perfect picture of sophisticated living with well-manicured lawns in front of each of them. The Mess in charge was standing outside on the road and after greeting me heartily guided me inside. I was told that prior to the arrival of my Battalion in this location the previous one had stayed put there for almost 100 years and the tidily arranged mini cantonment was a result of their sustained efforts over the years in spite of the remoteness of the area.
The anteroom of the Mess was huge. The sofa sets and couches notwithstanding their volumes had hardly been able to occupy much of the cushy carpeted floor area. The walls were covered by burnished teak panels that added to the antiquity of the ambience. The walled mounting of the horned antelopes and the leopard skin reminded me of the British legacies that our Armed Forces carried since its inception. The inscriptions on the bronze plaques under each of them mentioned the name of the hunter, the British Officers, and the dates which of course went back to as early as the 1920s and 30s. On another side of the wall, the local tribal arms like Naga Spears, shields, bows and arrows, and daggers were displayed faintly illuminated by spotlights taking my mind back to a primitive era and for few brief moments, I could actually imagine a tribal man merged with the vegetation throwing a spear at a lurching tiger in these hilly forests.
As I was offered a cup of hot coffee and cookies I laughed at my ever imagining mind and at the same time, the Adjutant of the unit, supposed to be the administrative officer walked in to join me. Captain Praveen was few years senior to me and after exchanging the pleasantries we took a stroll in the remaining portions of the Mess also acquainting myself with him at the same time.
The setup had a well-stocked bar in a dimly lit room creating the ambience of a hunting lodge by its décor made up of bamboo and wooden structures designed like Machan I could well imagine how the corner would add to the spirits once spirits gently started flowing down the parched throats of thirsty souls. The place in itself was intoxicating.
On the other side of the anteroom, there was a library which to my amazement had a mind-blowing collection of books by famous authors spread across all genres. After having a look at the gym we strode down few steps to the most enchanting part of the Mess. The glass-walled dining hall had been constructed as an extension of the old building and was poised just on the edge of a ledge on the cliff. Beyond the glass walls, the darkness of the evening descended, gradually rolling down the gentle slopes to merge with the vast plains and then again become one with the drapes of the night skies. The blinking lights emitting out of the Mishmi huts at a distance presented the signs of life in this amazing kaleidoscope of existence and if you could keep following them farther, at one point they seemed to migrate into the heavens twinkling like numerous gems studded on a divine crown. The journey of life- on this earth and somewhere beyond…
I stood mesmerised marvelling at the wonders of nature when the Mess in charge requested me to follow him to my quarter. I took leave of the Adjutant and retired for the day to my twin room accommodation which would be my residence whenever I would be at this base. I liked the cosiness of the small yet compact apartment provided for single officers. My joy knew no bounds when I found that there was a colour TV with a cable connection. In those days a TV and books for your company would be the best comfort a youngster in Army could ask for. That was our ultimate level of contentment.
After a hot shower and meal as I snuggled under a comfortable mink blanket, I realized my stint in the lands of dawn-lit mountains had begun.
Followed by few days of formalities in the unit headquarters which included familiarization and interaction with the Commanding Officer and other appointments I was set to travel to a post on the Line of Actual Control. I would be taking over the charge of a Company Commander and relieve another officer there who had been tenanting the appointment for some time. For readers who are not very much acquainted with the functioning of the Armed Forces a Company in military parlance is a body of troops consisting of about 120 Jawans. A unit or a battalion is comprised of several companies which have their respective areas of responsibilities in the field area. This company that I was going to take over was located in a mountainous village almost 250 km away from the unit HQ. I would require to travel by vehicle a part of the distance and then walk down the remaining part climbing mountains.
So soon, one sunny morning in the month of November I set out for my new destination. The two-way highway gradually climbed keeping the Lohit River to one of its sides. The Border Road Organization had been doing great work in connecting these remote areas to the rest of the country. At these low-to-medium altitudes, one could find lots of vegetation. The snow line generally started beyond 8000 feet of altitude in these areas. The forested side was thickly populated with pines, firs, birches, and rhododendrons looming large over the roadway. The typical wet leafy smell of the mountainous flora hanging in the air was quite distinct from the air I had breathed in the upper plains of Assam and lower Arunachal. There was no trace of pollution and inhaling the fresh air could actually infuse more life into your lungs.
After every 100 metres or so there were streams rolling down, furrowing the surface of the terrain. The minor ones danced down in their nimble steps over the mossy rocks before passing under a culvert or over a causeway. The bigger ones poured like a torrent from a step in the rock face, spreading foamy mist and forming a frothy pool, before being mastered under a bridge, like overzealous school kids, to further flow down and meet the Lohit, their guardian.
Throughout the route, we could hear the sound of the river rushing down the gorge created by its fierce and turbulent force after having entered Indian territory at a place called Kibithu further northwards. The entire stretch of the geographic division that had Lohit flowing through it was hence named as Lohit valley, till a part of it had become Anjaw district later.
We stopped our vehicle ahead of a medium-sized waterfall for a cup of tea. I walked up to the edge of the road and peered down. About 2000 feet below the river gushed with unimaginable force colliding with the boulders, rocks, and the edges of the mountains. I could well imagine what the strength of the roaring water would be down there.
I also took the opportunity to interact with the Border Roads personnel who were present at the location supervising the widening of the existing road. They informed that once the rains started there would be regular landslides on the entire stretch of the road and clearing the muck to keep the road operational was a major challenging task for them. I saw tribal women working as labourers breaking rocks into smaller pieces which were used during levelling of the surface. They had their kids sitting nearby playing with ordinary toys and the infants were fastened to their backs as they continued with their chores. I was moved by their way of life.
Strangely I found that the menfolk who were working alongside the women were not the locals from the tribes. When I enquired, the Border Roads staff said that they had migrated from the Chota Nagpur plateau region and popularly were known as the Dumka party in these hills. They were from the Santhal, Bhil, Kol, Munda tribal origin who were adept in enduring hardships especially in those rugged terrains of the Himalayas. I stared at these short dark men with innocence written on their faces who kept on working silently yet cheerfully, towing handheld carts filled with stones and pebbles but stood out starkly in the Himalayan landscape. They made me wonder at the strange ways of our economy that forced able-bodied men to travel thousands of kilometres to find livelihood away from their folks, home, and hearth.
“Koi problem nahi Sir…Hum din bhar majdoori karte hain aur sham ke baad jhopri me so jaate hain… (No problem Sir. We work throughout the day and then sleep in the huts at night…)”, said Bhirku Sardar, a road construction labourer pointing out towards a line of shanties about fifty metres ahead. One could hardly call them dwellings after seeing the assortment of material from which they had been erected. The pitiable things made out of tin sheets, pitch boards and dried tree leaves were somehow standing by the edge of the roads as a testimony to the poverty and sufferings of a majority of people in our country those days. Over the years things had improved by leaps and bounds but the images had stayed back in my mind since then. I silently saluted the spirit of life in its different challenging forms. Yes, this was life too…
By afternoon we reached a small town called Lilang situated at the confluence of the Delai and the Lohit rivers. A small detachment of our unit was located there catering for a night stay before the people moving to the post walked by foot climbing the slopes of the Delai valley. The road had moved ahead in a northeastern direction to Walong and further to Kibithoo where Indian and Chinese posts faced each other across the LAC. This area had witnessed a fierce battle between the Indian Army and the PLA during the Chinese aggression of 1962. The memories of the bravado and courage of the ill-equipped Indian soldiers against the prowling mighty dragon were etched in every inch of these mountains. The brave Indian Army not only defended their posts but also managed to launch counter-attacks inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy in this sector.
From Lilang another axis followed the Delai River flowing from north to south. One had to walk almost ninety kilometres before reaching the Chemling village that would be my destination. We relaxed for the day and slept early as we had to start early the next day.
The next morning our journey commenced as early as 4 am. We drove down for five kilometres before the road came to meet a dead end. Our party, comprising of me, one JCO (Junior Commissioned Officer) holding the rank of Naib Subedar, two Jawans, and two porters disembarked from the vehicles. The JCO sahib, Bhuvan Singh informed me that from there it was all on twos.
“But where is the road or track to walk?” I asked looking ahead. The road had just ended abruptly as if blocked by a forested wall.
“It’s there, take a closer look Sahab”, Bhuvan Singh urged me to move ahead and look. I walked up few paces towards the dense vegetation and then only could observe the slender beaten track disappearing inside the jungles. After having adjusted our loads amongst ourselves we stepped on the trail which appeared to me like a labyrinth leading to some secret world of fables.
The track soon opened up to a wider valley with the Delai flowing fast on one side and a high mountain wall trying to reach out for the sky on the other. The track, which had been existing since ages used by the villagers and hunters was so narrow that at most places it made way for only one person at a time. The mountain surface was covered with flora of different types; creepers, plants, and orchids hugging the crust inertly. The aroma of leaves and wildflowers hung in the air pleasantly. As the track kept climbing up and down, taking turns after every while, the forests thickened and cleared up repetitively. The mountains and the rich foliage spoke in their own language. Chirping of unknown birds; streams running relentlessly, deflected by pebbles complained of the interruptions through their sweet yet monotonous cackling; Slosh…fell a dewdrop against its wish, after sitting for long atop a big leaf of an unknown tree on to a puddle, formed by the late-night drizzle.
As I walked with a bamboo stick in my hand and a rucksack tied on my back all my senses were engulfed by the splendour of nature I had not visited earlier in my life. It was a primitive world and after many years when I had watched the movie Avatar by James Cameron, I could instantly relate to the scenes that depicted the world of the humanoids shown in the movie.
For thousands of years the forests had remained unchanged, the nullahs and waterfalls tumbled down with same grace since the time of their origin, the wildlife spoke to each other in the same ancient language continued over genus, the pathway I was treading on had carried hunters, hermits, monks, and explorers since when who had kept any count…
As I journeyed basking in the natural beauty of the Eastern Himalayas, I realized I was not equipped properly for this kind of trekking. My pair of denim restricted my movement especially whenever I had to stretch my steps to jump over slender streaks of water or step on boulders to negotiate an ankle-deep water body. Also the very urban jogger shoes I was sporting practically offered no grips on the slippery surface of the track. I fell several times and then had to tread very cautiously. After travelling the whole day we reached a place where there was a Border Roads detachment set up temporarily to work on the construction of a vehicular road from Lilang to Chemling. The conversion of the narrow track to a road had just started and barring some alignment survey and formation cutting on the mountain slopes the activity had not generated much pace.
We stayed for the night in this detachment in their make-shift shelters. We had covered half the way by walking throughout the day and the porters boosted my morale by complimenting me on my stamina and pace of walking. I retired early and fastened myself inside the sleeping bag. It was cold. The nocturnal silence of the mountains which you could only realize in moments of occasional susurration of the tree leaves and by paying attention to the distant gushing sound of the fast-flowing river down in the valley pulled me in folds of a much needed refreshing sleep.
We thanked the Border Roads staff for their hospitality and commenced our journey as soon as the daylight broke. My whole body ached but I remembered the good old filmy saying- “Loha loha ko kat ta hain…” and knew the best way to reduce the pain was to keep going and soon the frozen muscles would relax getting attuned to the pattern of movement.
After walking for some time the track opened up in a flatter piece of land to our right. It had spread till the ridgeline which must have been about a kilometre away. It was a delight to see the plain feature after encountering the steep mountain slopes on the previous day. A small village of about ten huts was tucked in a corner of this lush green space.
The porters wanted a break. And so we decided to have a cup of tea and rest for a while there. The Gaon Bura of the village named Tufra cordially invited us to his hut. The Mishmi tribe huts had their own peculiarity. I found that they were not the types we were used to seeing in the villages of other places in India be it in mountains or plains. The huts were built of Bamboo sticks and the roofs were thatched with dried leaves. The structures stood elevated on logs planted on the ground and the spaces between the logged floor and the soil were used by the animals like pigs, goats, and hens as their sties.
We climbed the wooden ladder steps into the hut. It was dark inside and a hearth was lit in the centre of the cabin. That was the sitting room kind of arrangement and once the cabin ended there were smaller rooms partitioned by bamboo screens used as sleeping quarters. The Gaon Bura spoke manageable Hindi and welcomed me to the folds of the Delai valley. He wore a loincloth and a pink-coloured open-breasted jacket. A Mishmi Dah (Dagger) hung at his waist slung on a leather belt across his chest. On the chest, he wore few medals which he claimed to have been given to his forefathers by the British Army explorers for working as guides on their voyages to Tibet. A few medals had also been given by the Assam Rifles several years ago for helping out the patrolling parties which had got stuck in the higher altitudes due to landslides. I took a good look at the old medals. They were made of bronze and through the gradually fading embossment, I still could see the inscription of King George IV and his face on one of them. When the village headman told me that it was awarded to his grandfather almost ninety years back I inferred that probably there were some British Army activities during World War I and II in these areas. The British forces must have explored these areas to find an axis to Tibet and China for military or commercial interests.
A very old and frail-looking woman sat by the fire and smoked opium in a silver pipe. She was the mother of the Gaon Bura and the wrinkles on her face stretched into a toothless smile by seeing us. I had never seen such purity and tranquillity in a smile prior to that. These were people who basked in the warmth of the untarnished, unspoilt and primordial nature’s benevolence whom we the modern people called backward classes. I realized they were the actual civilized people as the mother earth and nature wanted us to be but in pursuit of comfort we, the urbanites had ruined the essential gifts of nature.
The wall of the hut contained skins of tigers, bears, and stag heads. They had stopped hunting bigger animals as directed by the Government but as there were little scopes of farming in the mountains they had to survive on games, an age-old practice amongst the tribal folks.
After having a cup of tea and distributing some toffees to the kids dancing around us merrily we resumed our hike. The Gaon Bura said that all the villagers in the Delai Valley depended hugely on the Assam Rifle post for medical and other help. I assured him that the same assistance would continue with me as the post commander and bade him goodbye.
I could hear some distant booms echoing in the valley ahead of us. The porters said that the Border Roads people used dynamite to blast hard rock surfaces to create space for road construction. I had seen a few places earlier these people were using dozers to remove the hill face to widen the track. They would convert the same alignment to road subsequently. The booms hardly gave me any idea that no matter however pristine and serene the mountainous ambience felt there were dangers lurking in curves and bends especially when mankind tried to tinker with nature. An hour later we had reached the spot where the blasting had been carried out. For about a stretch of fifty metres rock pieces and boulders of various sizes lay in a heap. I looked up and high above against a clear blue sky could see a fine mist of dust hanging briefly before dissipating into the thin air. This meant the artificial slide had not yet settled down fully and few boulders looked precariously resting on others trying to defy the gravity with their full might.
The Border Roads supervisor cautioned us to cross the stretch very carefully. One of our porters volunteered to negotiate the stretch first. He asked me to look at him intently as he manoeuvred over the place. He secured his load once more tightly behind his back and then very lithely jumped from one stone to another and in just over a minute reached the other side.
It was my turn. I prayed silently and embarked on the mission. I applied my mind and decided that I would not put my full weight on any of the boulders. Instead, I kept landing on my toes and prowled from one stone to another hastily. I had reached the other end when I heard voices yelling at me. At the same time, there was a rumbling sound over my head. I stood for a moment perplexed what to do. In the melee I could barely hear the phrase “Sahab Jump” and in that fraction of a second, my instinct dragged me to dive ahead without waiting to see if the boulder falling from above was in front or behind me.
I landed on all fours on the track ahead bruising my elbows and hurting the knees badly. But then when the enormity of the situation dawned on me I thanked the heavens that I was in good shape and alive. No sooner I had fallen on the track, several boulders tumbled down and along with them carried away few others into the abysmal depth of the gorge to bathe in the icy water of the Delai. My luck and prayers had saved me from the sheer fall.
My next concern was whether the JCO trailing me was safe. Much to my relief, I found that he had not started and waited till I had reached the other side. A lesson was learnt on the job which would prove to be of extreme importance in all my future travelling in the mountains. A bottleneck or hazardous terrain had to be negotiated one at a time and people should never bunch up there in a hurry to cross over.
Once the entire party crossed over and we steadied ourselves we resumed our journey. The valley was wider now and we hit another village settled on a piece of flat land. The cluster of huts at a distance looked like a page from a child’s picture book. Specks of vibrant colours against a green background. There was a wide stream ahead and we needed to cross it over a twine bridge. We decided to move on as it would be best to reach our destination before the last light.
The basin of the nullah was peacefully dark. Some unknown violet flowers danced ushered by a cool breeze flowing through the dale. The place smelt of damp soil, wet mossy surfaces, and tangy orchids blooming abundantly far and wide. The water gurgled down throwing foamy bubbles around the boulders that hindered the course of the stream inviting colourful tiny butterflies which danced in the mist of the vapour to tunes inaudible to humans.
I breathed in deeply and the freshness rejuvenated me for the final leg of our journey. We crossed the bridge one at a time as it creaked and croaked by our weights. The bridge had been built by the villagers by entwining bamboo, canes, and ropes like one would weave a basket. The bridge swayed by my steps and once I had reached the middle I feared if it would give away. But it was sturdier than I thought it to be and safely conveyed me to the other side.
We climbed a steep slope and again landed on the track. At a distance not far from there I could spot a tiny hamlet nestled on the folds of the terrain. The tiny hutments were strewn around the hillside under the fading blue skies. It appeared as if the benevolent Himalayas embraced the settlement wrapping it around in its adoring arms like a father would cuddle his child. As we increased our pace, a writing on the wall of the hill face caught my attention – “Welcome to Chemling, the heaven on Delai”.
Yes, finally after an arduous trek of ninety kilometres I had reached my post on the River Delai.
Many years later I had reminisced the journey and written a poem describing the experience. I feel it should find a place in this portion of the travelogue, especially for those who prefer the poetic expression of a story to a flat narration!
To the village Chemling
The slender track wound like a brown ribbon,
Shaded by canopy of leafy conifers.
Stared at me in awe of unknown,
Frozen in time, the mossy boulders.
As I climbed the ups and downs,
And took a turn in every while,
On one side hung the grouchy ferns
To peer across, over the River Delai.
The smell of vapours from the leaves,
Spiralled up hitting me savagely.
The monotony of hum of the crickets
Uncannily held its sway on me.
Alarmed, a raven out in the thick foliage,
Perched atop a branch cawed harshly,
The silence that had loomed at large,
Lay split in trembling layers suddenly.
Then there was an open space
Springing out in midst of the thickets,
Scattered on a meadow of lush greeneries,
I found a village of Mishmi hutments.
It felt good to see the jocund company,
Of lazing stock of colourful folks.
In bamboo pipes the males smoked *kani
While the women tended to their tiny tots.
They smiled at me and I waved at them.
*“Hanu Boa”, the greeting exchange,
Faded behind as I ambled down,
To cross a stream flowing by a stony henge.
The rickety bridge of bamboo and canes,
Protested with its cracks and creaks.
Lying there since olden times
Worn by age it ranted in its squeaks.
Where the stream dashed on a rock,
The foamy spittle sprang up in the air,
Luring colourful butterflies to flock,
Dancing to tunes, those only they could hear.
I trudged along; it was all up the hill,
To reach the track on the other side,
I rested myself in order to heal,
My aching legs further needed to stride.
The porter, Rimpo in my tow,
Assured me that it wasn't far off,
In some paces of walking slow,
We could reach our final stop.
So soon we resumed on the trail,
The sun bid us goodbye behind the hills,
From nowhere this misty veil,
Descended down like white, feathery frills.
I moved ahead through the foggy whiteness,
Tearing apart the obscuring screen,
Then all of a sudden flew open the drapes,
Stunning me to behold an amazing scene.
Like on an artiste's canvas blue,
Painted there was a hill top in green,
Wearing a cloudy crown of pristine hue,
Dazzled a hamlet in its coloured sheen.
The pallet of crayons teeming with life,
Beckoned me with its aura tempting,
I hurried in haste to the abode picturesque,
Sitting on Delai, the village Chemling.
* Kani is opium in Mishmi language”
“Hanu Boa” is a Mishmi form of greeting meaning how you are!”
Note: The name of the places and people have been changed in the blog for security reasons.
This is the third part of a multi-part series on Udayaditya's travel through the northeast. Read the first part here. and the second part here.
Having served in the Indian Army, Udayaditya has travelled far and wide across the country and has been particularly fascinated by the diverse ethnicity, customs, and culture prevalent in various regions. He is the author of Rhythms in Solitude – Love, Nature and Life through Poetry, a collection of soulful poems published by Kaveri Books, Delhi, the poignant short story “A Beautiful Life” in the anthology Twilight’s Children – Chronicles of Uncommon Lives and the e-book, By the River Dibang and stories from the North East, both published by Readomania.
You can read his work on Amazon or on Readomania
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