PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 2

A Temple in the Land of Konyaks

Back in 1980, I found myself thrust into the world of staff duties at a charming 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 promptly forgot they had ever assigned them. Thus, I became the proud (if reluctant) foster parent of many an orphaned task — because in the Army, everything, even unsolicited babysitting, is training!

One such stray responsibility that landed squarely on my unsuspecting lap was the grand renovation of a temple in Mon, 200 km away — a remote tribal hamlet in the land of the Konyaks. I tried every trick in the book to dodge it, but divine dispensations had other plans.

The temple itself had humble beginnings — a gummat (a makeshift dome-like shrine) built by an elite infantry unit a decade earlier at the peak of insurgency. The resident deity, Sri Durga Ma, had evidently done her job well, leading the battalion to both victory and survival. Who were we mere mortals to question her celestial architecture?

Now, Mon was no ordinary location. Nestled in the turbulent Naga Hills, it was home to the fierce Konyak tribes — fearsome headhunters of the past, legendary warriors, and equally formidable insurgents.

We visited Lungwa village, perched on the Burmese border, to seek the blessings of the Ang (the tribal king) before embarking on our task. Lungwa boasted of morongs (long, thatched communal dwellings) sprawled across India and Burma (Myanmar), with international border pillars casually popping through their living rooms.

The morong of the incumbent Ang stretched nearly 100 meters, designed to accommodate his harem of 30 wives, each allotted her own separate cabin. I had the rare opportunity of an audience with the Ang himself. His royal morong portico was a macabre display, decked with the skulls of his enemies — gruesome trophies from the headhunting days of yore. For good measure, skulls of mithun (wild buffalo) were spiked and fixed to add to the aesthetics. Above, the classic A-shaped canopy gleamed with scores of metal-tipped spears, their staffs wrapped in long red furs, lending an air of formidable grandeur.

As we waited for the Ang to emerge, two royal bodyguards carried in a throne, setting it upon an elevated pedestal. On closer inspection, I realized it was the pilot’s seat from the cockpit of a wrecked Dakota aircraft — a relic salvaged from the Burma Campaign of the Second World War! Of course, the throne had undergone some local modifications, adorned with spears, red furs, and other tribal embellishments.

Then, with great ceremony, the Ang appeared, flanked by his guards. His age was indiscernible — time seemed to have carved stories into his face. His earlobes sagged, stretched under the weight of peculiar adornments — flattened and rolled steel torchlight covers, inserted like tribal jewelry. His long hair was knotted above his head, secured with yet another torchlight casing, adding to his imposing presence. Two incredibly large wild boar tusks fixed on either side of his head like a Roman coronet completed his regal appearance. Draped in a traditional red Naga shawl, he exuded quiet, benign authority.

He summoned us closer, and we paid our respects. Speaking in the Konyak dialect, his words were translated into Hindi by an interpreter. We responded in Hindi, and our mission was dutifully relayed back to him. He blessed us with a simple farewell, and just like that, our appointment was over.

A curious crowd had gathered at a respectable distance. The women, clad only in beaded garlands, bared teeth darkened with wild dyes, while the men, donning little more than loincloths, all carried their traditional dah (machete) as naturally as city folk carry smartphones. Strangely, there wasn’t a single dog in sight — a mystery I dared not solve!

An experience of a lifetime on the sideline. Now, back to the ‘Mission Impossible’:

Perched atop a flattened hill, the humble gummat (temple) stood alongside a company of local militia and Mon’s very own helipad. The so-called renovation (let’s be honest, it was a full-blown construction) was an adventure of epic proportions. My team of seven men and I had to accomplish this task 200 km away from the resources of my organization. My only tangible asset? A bountiful donation of ₹500/- from my commander and his profound blessings.

The trials, tribulations, and miraculous assistance that flowed in—from the locals, Marwadi traders from the mainland, other organizations, and the local administration — that made the mission successful is a tale for another time.

Miraculously, against all odds — divine or otherwise — the Sri Durga Ma Temple was completed in a record three months’ time and was ceremoniously thrown open to devotees and locals of all faiths on the auspicious occasion of Durga Puja – A feat possible only by Ma Durga’s decree. My team and I, of course, were merely summoned foot soldiers — a tool in Her celestial blueprint.

Having now been drafted into God’s personal workforce, I found myself dreaming — both asleep and awake — of this temple. Stranded in the wilderness, with nothing but divine inspiration and an overactive imagination, I envisioned a temple from my childhood in rustic Kerala. Unable to resist, I put ink to paper.

Four and a half decades later, that sketch, like the consecrated temple in an unfriendly land, has stood the test of time.

And that, dear reader, is how a reluctant infantry officer — a Pongo —became an accidental architect of the divine!

PS: Illustration — A temple scene in my homeland (Indian ink, 1980) and the Sri Durga Ma Temple under construction, the Morong, along with the force of mortals behind the mission.