The steamer set sail for my next bound to the destination. While for most of the passengers it was a very usual affair as it was evident from their nonchalant manner of gossiping about daily life, for me it was the first of its kind.
The earlier experience of a boat ride I had was in Sundarbans. That had its own peculiarity and ambience. The boats which were smaller, (locally called “Bhutbhuti”) powered by small engines mostly navigated through narrow canals and seldom sailed on wider rivers, keeping their course not much far from the shore, making their way from one island to another in the swamps. The gusts of saline sea breeze, the slippery alluvium soil on the banks, the mangrove plantations, and the sombreness of the environment had created a sense of eerie feeling in my infantile psyche as far as I could remember. A lot has been spoken about the delta and its rivers in my book “Once upon a time in Sundarban”.
But this voyage was different. I stood on the deck and cast my eyes as far as they could travel. There was no end to the gentle alluring waves of the river all around. A calm sense of retrospection descended down upon me. Since when who knows this mighty son of Lord Brahma, the creator was flowing down the Himalayas to meet with Padma miles away in Bangladesh and then merge with the vast ocean dissolving the quintessence of the eternal life. It has been a cradle of civilizations since time immemorial and flowed witness to the only constant in the universal existence, changing times.
From somewhere in the middle of the river, swept by gentle winds of the Himalayas, the expanse of the pristine waters melting with the azure on either side on the horizon made me notionally accept that the perpetual flow of life represented by this vast channel of water was actually stagnant against the frame of time. Everything around me seemed to have been captured in an artiste’s canvass and remained poised still in perfect harmony with the system of the universal creation.
I was broken from my trance by my companion soldier who offered me some tea that was being carried in a thermos. At this place, the river got the opportunity to spread itself fully after being restricted by the ridges and escarpments of the Tibetan plateau and the Arunachal highlands. The stretch of the river system we were crossing was primarily the lower channel of the Siang and I was told by the locals that at a north-eastern place farther down the course, the turbulent Lohit River joined with it, increasing the volume and width of the river. Then as the river maintained its westward journey traversing the heart of Assam it was joined by many tributaries viz. Kameng, Subansiri, Manas, etc flowing down the Himalayas and widening it to such magnanimity that there were inhabitable islands and hillocks right in the middle of the river.
The ride was very smooth as there was not much water volume during the pre-winters. However, I would have the opportunity to witness the flexing, rippling masculinity of the river during the monsoon and encounter crossing many turbulent streams including the tempestuous Lohit flowing at its fiercest form in days to come.
After a journey of two and half hours, we alighted on the far bank at a place called Sadiya. A major town in upper Assam it used to be the trading hub for items being supplied to the Lohit and Dibang districts of Arunachal Pradesh, the eastern-most corner of our country. The riverbank was crowded with vendors and hawkers in their makeshift bamboo stalls or with their wheeled ware carts. The bank was a heady concoction of colour, sound, and activities. The sellers were yelling at commuters to check out their products that mostly comprised of bamboo and wooden artifacts, cheap junk jewellery like bangles and necklaces, dried fishes, and various local delicacies. People were checking out stuff as they waited to be ferried to the other side. I observed that most of the food stalls were being run by people from Bihar. As I enquired I was told that Biharis formed a major part of the population in these places of upper Assam and they mainly worked as boatmen and agricultural labourers. They had remained settled there for many years and warmly accepted by the Assamese people. We had a sumptuous meal of Rice and spicy fish curry in one of these stalls and readied for our onward journey.
I stood near our gypsy and soaked in the flavour of the environs as our driver prepared the vehicle for the trip ahead. Suddenly I spotted that a troupe of Assamese men and women had started a performance of Bihu dance on the river banks few yards away from my location. That was my first exposure to this form of art and I couldn’t but get mesmerised by the music and the dance. The men wearing short Dhoti and white Kurta sported red coloured Gamossa (a type of cotton wiping cloth used after bathing prevalently in Assam and Bengal, where it is called Gamcha) tied across their waste and head. They played an instrument called Dhol alike Mridanga accompanied by flute and the womenfolk wearing red-bordered white saree with red blouses danced in a peculiar gyrating rhythm in their body. The tune got me hooked to them and I had to admit that I felt intoxicated by the sensuous manner in which the female anatomy swayed, swerved, and twisted lusciously, keeping in sync with the beats of the drums. I was later told that the Tamul (fermented betel nut) that many performers chewed on gave them the invigorating energy and spirit to perform in such an intense manner.
As I watched engrossingly two young pretty dancers started dancing revolving around me. Soon a crowd had formed up with jovial cheers and the beating of the instruments also had mounted to a crescendo. I understood these people knew that I was a young Officer and the women dancers fancifully tried to catch my attention probably in expectation of some donation. They were a local troupe and probably survived by performing like this. It would be a lie to refuse that as a twenty-seven-year-old youngster I wasn’t enjoying the company of these pretty dancers around me but the sense of duty and decorum of the service prevailed naturally over my youthful fascination. As the two dancers gestured me to join them I hinted at my soldiers who jumped into my rescue. They asked the troupe and the crowd to move away. It was better to get moving rather than being the cynosure of all eyes in the area. It was risky too, being in a crowd in an insurgency area. I offered a fifty rupees note to one of the girls and mounted the Gypsy to resume our journey. Our next bound would be Paya, a small town on the border with Arunachal Pradesh.
The vehicle travelled over the meandering road running across the riverine tracts. We crossed many dry river beds and small rivers over the bridges built by the Border Roads Organization. In these remote areas, the road infra was completely under the responsibility of this organization which had their units named as Border Road Task Forces. We halted briefly at Paya for a cup of tea and then progressed on our journey to Tezu, the District Headquarters of Lohit Valley, and my final destination.
After Paya, the terrain and the surrounding started to change gradually. The road traversed through continuous ups and downs, indicating the approaching foothills. The open plains slowly gave way to tropical deciduous forests on either side of the road. Sal, Teak, bamboo groves, and Deodars loomed large over our way creating a shadowy canopy overhead. The population also became sparse with narrow tracks leading to tribal hamlets inside the jungles suggesting at the presence of human settlements in the area. The air had become cooler and I was enjoying every bit of this sense of solitude only contradicted by humming sounds of the crickets and the woodlice.
I spotted armed patrols of Army men walking at stretches astride the road. My driver informed me that these jungles were often used by terrorists as hiding places and hence the area needed to be kept sanitized. That was the stark reality of a soldier’s life in the backdrop of the romance, the picturesque locales would ruefully evoke.
On one of such pickets, a couple of soldiers waved their hands to stop us. The guys seemed to be known to our driver. As they exchanged pleasantries I noticed they were from the Madras Regiment. Once they were told that I was the new Captain who was going to join the Assam Rifle Unit they greeted me and requested to have a cup of tea with them. One could not refuse a plea like this from our beloved soldiers who dared all hardships in the call of their duty, such is the camaraderie imbibed in the armed forces. So we all took a break and I had brief chat with Havildar Selvam and his aide. Seeing the jungles around I asked if there were wild animals inside. Selvam said that they had seen bears, elephants, wild boars, and deer in plenty. Though villagers mentioned tigers they had not been fortunate enough to see one. Then he went on to narrate how once he encountered a python and was lucky enough to escape.
During patrolling one day it had started raining and Selvam took refuge under a culvert on the road. It was dark and he realized he had sat on something softer than the grounds. Without paying much attention, thinking the object to be bags of sands which were often left behind like that by the road construction labourers he waited for the rain to subside. After few minutes he felt a slithering sensation under him. He sprang out of the culvert and flashed his torchlight to find to his utter astonishment that he had actually been sitting upon a huge coiled-up python. Disturbed by his weight the creature broke off its slumber and moved out and made its way inside the jungles. In sheer panic, Selvam had noticed that the snake was about ten feet long and measured good about three feet in diameter. Since then he treaded very cautiously in the forested lands and always advised his juniors to do the same.
Standing there in midst of the wilderness I actually could relate with Selvam’s experience and knew that such an encounter would not be very uncommon if one was not prudent enough. It reminded me of the Border Roads Milestone that I had seen a few kilometres back where it was written in bold – “Don’t be a Gama in the land of Lama”. Though I had felt amused seeing the quote, I then realized how sincere a caution had been thrown in the air with superficial hilarity.
The daylight was fading and the shadows in the jungles lengthened. It grew dark earlier in the northeast compared to other parts of the country. We had another forty-five minutes of drive to our headquarter. As we were about to commence our journey our driver pointed towards the left side of the road and said “Here comes Gulab Singh.” I beheld an elephant with a mahout on top emerged out of the jungle and stood blocking our way.
“So the name of the mahout is Gulab Singh?” I asked my men.
They laughed at my question and one of them replied that Gulab Singh was the name of the elephant. I felt a bit irritated being joked on my very first day of familiarisation. But by that time the mahout had got down from the back of the jumbo and greeted me with a “Jai Hind” and introduced himself as Raju Oraon.
He then nudged the elephant on his side and commanded him to salute. Bewildered I watched the animal raised its trunk and performed a gesture of salutation by touching his forehead with it. The jawans explained that this bull elephant was enlisted with the Assam Rifles and his job was to pull vehicles out of river beds when one would get stuck due to flash floods. Also if any fast-flowing stream was needed to be crossed for any operational requirement Gulab Singh would be the saviour. I had later come to know that Assam Rifles was the only security force in the world that had an elephant enlisted as a troop in its ranks. Gulab Singh was treated as a soldier and his salary was used for his grooming and diet. And I would be fortunate enough to witness Gulab Singh’s sheer strength while pulling a truck out of a fiercely flowing flash flood with the helpless passengers inside it. I patted my fellow comrade on his trunk and slowly Raju led him away from the road.
We drove for another hour. En route, we crossed two river beds with very shallow streams of water that our vehicle splashed over without much difficulty. The troops informed that these rivers called Digaru and Pagal Nullah were prone to dangerous flash floods. When it rained in the higher reaches of the mountains the torrent would come gushing down and the seemingly slender streams would become turbulent channels of furious deluge in minutes breaking embankments and blowing away anything that would come on their way. How dangerous actually a flash flood could be none would know better than me in days to come.
Another fifteen minutes later our vehicle started to climb a slope on the road. And very soon I was greeted by a huge lofty gateway painted in green and maroon.
“Welcome to the Battalion of Assam Rifles - The sentinels of the North East.”
As we drove past the gate after getting the entry registered with the smart sentries who saluted suavely I realized I was in a citadel that would be my abode for the next three years.
This is the second part of a multi-part series on Udayaditya's travel through the northeast. Read the first part here. and the third 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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