PONDERINGS OF A PONGO

On the Wings of Fancy

Over half a century may have passed, but I can still feel the burn in my calves from that final, brutal ascent—four days of slugging through leech-infested, insurgent-lurking bamboo jungles of the Lushai Hills, only to stagger through the “welcome arch” (if one can call it that!!) of my battalion at the helipad contour of Champhai. This was the highest ridge, where the PPV (Protected Progressive Village) of Champhai spread itself out like a precarious chessboard of civilization amidst untamed wilderness.

The helipad remains etched in my memory, as does the lone jeep track snaking down to the Inspection Bungalow (IB), meandering through the Burmese Open Market—a sensory overload of colors, scents, and bizarre barter. There, one could trade for Burmese bamboo parasols, sarongs, cigars, hats, and, if feeling particularly adventurous, smoked bandicoots and edible maggots. A true gourmet’s paradise!

The IB itself was a veritable menagerie. It housed our Officers’ Mess along with the residences of the Commanding Officer, Second-in-Command, Adjutant, and the Doctor. Or in classic Army parlance, a mini zoo featuring the Tiger (CO), the Lamb (Second in Command), the Lion (Adjutant), and a Sheep (Medical Officer) — each playing their assigned roles with remarkable conviction.

Further down, the track led to the DZ (dropping zone) contour, where our lifeline quite literally fell from the skies. Every so often, a Dakota of World War vintage would thunder past, releasing its bounty—rations, ordnance, “para-chuting” liquor, and the piece de resistance: MoH (Meat on Hoof) —live goats, valiantly bleating as they floated down, blissfully unaware of their impending fate.

Champhai had but one four-wheeled marvel — a Willys Jeep — whose journey was nothing short of legendary. Dismantled at Lyallpur’s Motor Transport Park at the foothills, it was painstakingly piggybacked piece by piece through the merciless bamboo jungles, braving leeches and lurking insurgents, only to be heroically reassembled at Champhai. This lone mechanical beast would then chariot our Tiger through the Burmese Bazaar, drawing wide-eyed stares from villagers who had likely never seen a vehicle materialize like a jigsaw puzzle before.

As for me, a newly-minted young officer barely out of adolescence and already shouldering the weight of a single star (which, I assure you, felt heavier than it looked), the world was shifting. My thoughts, convictions, and perceptions were morphing at an alarming pace.

I had, after all, been adopted by the YMA (Young Mizo Association) of Vanzau PPV, two days ahead of Champhai. As a fresh-faced ‘talangwal’ (young man), they christened me ‘Kapthan Zua’ — Captain Wild Rose. By then, I was already well-versed in rolling and licked-sealing crude cigarettes made from locally grown tobacco, wrapped in the onion-paper pages of mini books generously distributed by well-meaning pastors. During YMA meets, while honouring the special seat on a wooden soap box, the rolled up cigars were invariably offered respectfully by a ‘noola’ (a young village beauty), lit and tested with a drag.

Before getting sucked into the jungles, I had managed to catch my first-ever James Bond movie, ‘Dr. No’, at Silchar with our Officer Commanding Rear Echelon.

That was my initiation into the world of Double O Seven (007) — where suave spies sipped martinis, seduced enviable blondes and brunettes, and coolly stared down gun barrels. A few scenes left an impression.

One night, ensconced in my Intelligence Cell office, bathed in the ghostly glow of a Petromax lamp, surrounded by drawing boards, tools, and stationery, my mind took flight. Why crawl when you can soar on the wings of fancy?

And thus, the outcome—

‘The Gentleman & His Lady’— Indian Ink nib work (1970).

Because, amidst deprivation, duty, and the madness of dirty insurgency operations, a Pongo’s right to dream is the only luxury that truly keeps him going.