Of Convoys and Road Journeys - Zualteii Poonte

 

It's late at night or in the very early hours of the morning that it happens. When the hubbub of the world is stilled, and all is silent as people rest tired bodies and lose themselves to dreams and deep slumber. It's not even something that I experience very often, being a sound sleeper. But once in a while, something awakens me and in the brief moments of wakefulness, I hear it. The distant rumble of a truck, the thrum of its engine or the long low honk of a truck horn as it wends its way along some road somewhere. Memories steal in, now mere fragments with the onslaught of time but vivid in their tenacity.

Long queues of trucks parked along a winding road in darkness. Military trucks, Bedford lorries, the odd jeep or two, an Assam State Transport bus¹ with its distinctive rhino symbol. As the trucks grind to a tired halt, my mind replays the sound I recall so well even these decades upon decades later – a sibilant hiss as compressed air from miles of driving over rough mountain terrain is released from the brakes. The handyman jumping smartly down from the elevated truck cabin to deftly place a wooden wedge against a rear wheel so the truck does not roll away. Passengers moving about quietly, stretching legs and backs after being cooped up inside the vehicles for hours, some making for nearby bushes in urgent answer to nature’s call.

Military escort parties then shepherded all vehicles moving around the territory laden with essential supplies and passengers, both military and civil. Convoy Commanders, usually young army captains, assigned to provide safe passage against insurgent ambushes, empowered to make stops and starts for the thirty to forty strong vehicle convoy and authorised to take any necessary action in the event of trouble.  With nighttime journeys obviously unthinkable, the convoy Commander would call for a night halt at day’s end and military personnel would unload provisions of water and rice bags and cook evening meals on kerosene stoves by the roadside. Most passengers carried their own tiffins, as they called them, while the army men would share their food with those with nothing to eat. Since I was a little too young to remember details, an older cousin with a sharper memory tells me that my grandmother would carry boiled eggs, potatoes and rice that she had laboriously prepared in advance to feed her little family enroute the long journey. Once the meals were eaten and cleared, passengers would get back to their respective vehicles for an uneasy, restless night’s sleep in cargo holds sheathed with thick waterproof tarpaulin. The next morning, after quick obligatory revisits to the nearby bushes, the truck engines would throb back to life and the convoy would be on the move once again. Another convoy traveller tells me that there was no washing of faces or brushing of teeth, unless there was a little stream nearby, no morning tea or meal, none of which particularly bothered poverty-hardened survivors of a famine which had directly caused the rambuai².

But it’s not just convoy memories that nocturnal motor sounds evoke. For years the only passage for Mizos to the rest of the world was via the Silchar³ route, now part of the Indian National Highway 54. A tortuously winding road snaking through the mountains with a steep fall on one side and cliff slopes overgrown with vegetation on the other, just barely wide enough for two heavy vehicles to pass each other. Landslides were common occurrences particularly during the rainy season, causing time-consuming delays and forcing travellers to sometimes spend several days in covering the slightly less than 200-kilometre distance between Aizawl and Silchar.

Having travelled up and down this highway several times in my early years, first for survival and refuge, and later for schooling in Shillong, Haflong⁴ and Darjeeling, I remember how fresh and bracing the mountain air felt especially when returning home from the scorching plains of Silchar. But the physical passage through it was often difficult and challenging. At times when the road was impassable due to landslides and rockfalls, travellers had to make do with spending nights either snatching naps in the buses, cars or jeeps, or taking grateful shelter in one of the little villages along the way, the inhabitants of which were used to unexpected overnight guests.

The shadow of rebel ambushes and attacks along travel routes persisted long after the rigid convoy travel restrictions for civilians were eased off. On one occasion, this time at the height of summer in June 1980, I was part of a college excursion tour visiting various cities in the country – Calcutta, Bombay (as they were then known) and Delhi where the first thing we did, after freshening up from the long train journey from Gauhati, was to visit Pu Laldenga, leader of the MNF, at the insistence of the boys in our tour party. He was then living in Delhi for peace negotiations with the Central Government, and as we all crowded into their sitting room, the boys hung on to his every word in hushed reverence as he spoke persuasively about politics in low, confidential tones, while most of the girls dozed off in exhaustion.

By the end of the tour, we finally headed home, piling onto our hired Mizoram State Transport Bus at Silchar, relieved to leave behind the heat of the plains and breathe in refreshing cool air. We happily sang songs (as Mizos tend to do when riding long distance in vehicles) – patriotic Mizo songs, Christian songs, and the bus sailed past the small border towns of Vairengte and Bilkhawthlir without incident. At the outskirts of the next town, Kolasib, we were stopped to be told that MNF rebels had ambushed an Indian Army bus, killing four and injuring others, literally minutes after we had driven past. One of the boys remarked that the rebels had probably already been in position, hiding and waiting in the bushes by the road, and seen and heard us singing as we moved past. It was an unsettling thought.

I recall that it was also on this occasion that the bus was stopped once more, this time because there had been an accident, of which there were regrettably many, given the treacherous terrain. A truck had driven off the road and a rescue effort was underway for the victims. As we got off the bus to stretch our legs, a team of rescue volunteers were just climbing out of the ravine with one of the bodies – a smallish figure, a woman we were told, slackened in death, and respectfully laid by the roadside, shrouded in a Mizo puan⁵. Mizos are reverential with their dead, with a “mitthi puan” traditionally brought by mourners to drape over the mortal remains of the departed soul by way of paying their last respects. In case of accidents in isolated places such as road accidents, at least one or two women who happen to be nearby quickly remove their puan to cover the body. Or when YMA⁶ rescue teams set out in search of missing persons, many volunteers carry along a puan in case the missing is found dead.

It's been many years since but I remember all too well the sound and feel of sitting in a vehicle lumbering along the mountain roads, swaying and lurching past kilometre after kilometre of thick jungles and little highway hamlets. The steady hum of the engine gently lulling passengers into exhausted sleep, woven into which were the frequent honks of the motor as it navigated the many twists and turns through the winding road, while manoeuvring past the many goods trucks coming from Silchar, heavy-laden with provisions for the Mizo populace.

In retrospect, I suppose having spent so much of my early life on those long road journeys, I will always retain a great deal of nostalgia for sights and sounds that remind me of those days, no matter how traumatic or exhausting. And nighttime sounds will continue to wake me from time to time, bringing in whispers of those long gone, long done, long ago yesterdays.

 

 

¹Assam State Transport: Mizoram was earlier part of the state of Assam and called the Mizo Hills District before becoming the Union Territory of Mizoram in 1972 and achieving full statehood in 1987

²rambuai - the Mizo Uprising/ Revolt (known as the buai or rambuai in Mizo) led by the Mizo National Front (MNF) which broke out on March the 6^th 1966 with a declaration of independence from the Indian government, a direct consequence of the Mautam famine of 1960 when the Indian govt. did little to help the Mizo people

³Silchar - a small town in Assam 

⁴Haflong – a small town and hill station in Assam

⁵puan – traditional attire for Mizo women, a sarong-like cloth wrapped around the waist and covering the legs

⁶YMA – Young Mizo Association, the largest secular, non-government group in the state

 

Zorami - Malsawmi Jacob

A Burned Out Stub
(Chapter 29)

“Dinpui, Dinpui, min lo nghak rawh!  Min kalsan suh!  Wait for me.  Don’t leave me!” Sanga mumbles. 

A startled Zorami puts down the book she has been reading and gazes at her sleeping husband. 

    She sits up and shakes him awake. “U Sang, what is it?  Who are you calling?”  

He sits up and rubs his eyes.  She puts a hand on his shoulder and asks, “What is troubling you?”

     “A sad dream.” 

“Who is Dinpuii?”

After a long silence he tells her. 

Dinpuii is the girl he loved.  He can’t forget her, though he has tried. 

Zorami feels like she’s hurling down into a black abyss.  

And then she feels nothing.  No anger, no grief, no emotion at all.  Only a heavy deadness.  “No wonder there’s no spark of romance in our life together.  He’s only a burned out stub, poor guy!” she thinks.

At last, in a flat, lifeless voice she manages to ask, “Where is she now?”

“Dead.”  

Dinpuii and Sanga were in the same class in college.  They both took up Honours in Political Science in first year BA.  Dinpuii was the best student in the class and the favourite of all the teachers.  She was passionate about the subject, passionate about studies.  She was brilliant and talented, the college champion in debate.  And she was beautiful.

Unlike most pretty girls, she was quite unconscious of her good looks.  Tall, slender and straight, with big expressive eyes, hair tied in a simple pony tail, she wore a blue and white checked shirt with a plain dark-blue puan when Sanga saw her for the first time.  From his seat in a corner, he noticed her entering the classroom through the door at the front.  Her large, lively eyes quickly glanced round the room and settled on his face for a moment.  She sat down on the second row with two other girls. After the class started, he heard her pleasant contralto voice answering the teacher’s questions.  By the end of the period, he was utterly and desperately in love.

They became good friends in a few days.  Sanga was surprised at her rather un-girlish interests.  Her favourite topics for discussions were matters relating to the socio-economic and political condition of Mizoram.  She liked hockey and sometimes joined the boys at the games, though girls normally did not touch the hockey-stick those days.  She played the guitar fairly well; better than he did at any rate.  And she immensely enjoyed debating.

During off periods, they would go for walks around the college campus.  And talk.  Her animated face would glow as she talked of her dreams for Mizoram.  Schools in every village.  Colleges in all the regions.  Hospitals within easy reach of all.  Factories to produce all essentials like cloth, paper and other things.  Her dreams seemed endless.  She would conclude with, “All these will be possible when we become independent.”

Sanga disagreed with her on the point of independence.  “Independence is like a fruit in heaven.  It’s not possible to get it in our present situation.  We became part of India when the country became free from the British, and now India will never agree to let us separate,” he would say.  They often argued on the subject.

One day after classes, Dinpuii walked back to the rented house she shared with a friend.  When she reached the front door and was about to open it, a man’s voice called her name and she looked back. The man, hobbling up with crutches, caught up with her and spoke loudly.  “Dinpui, don’t you recognise me?  Remember we both gave our names to join MNF on the same evening?” he said.

     “Awi, it’s Ralkapa!” she exclaimed.

As she said this, she saw two men in army uniform, not very far behind.  They would have heard the conversation, whether they understood all they said or not.  In any case, they would have realized that she and Ralkapa knew each other.  She understood what that meant.  Ralkapa’s horrid deeds were well known.  She had to escape, and fast.  There was no time to inform anyone, not even Sanga. 

  

The army men did not move forward to arrest her.  Perhaps they were planning to do it later.  As soon as Ralkapa went away, she fled to the house of a friend.  She hid there until this friend located some MNF soldiers who helped her escape to their underground shelter.  Her letter, narrating all these, was hand-delivered to Sanga by a stranger some weeks after Dinpuii’s disappearance.

Soon, stories of a girl called Lalpuii among the MNF filtered out.  She was the only female in what the cadres named Blue Valley Camp.  There were no proper medical facilities there, but they said Lalpuii tended wounded Mizo soldiers with loving care.  They nicknamed her Florence Nightingale. 

The Indian Army discovered Blue Valley Camp and raided it.  Some were killed, some were captured alive.  Others disappeared.  Those who escaped regrouped later, but Lalpuii was not among them.

About a month after the raid, a badly mutilated corpse of a woman was found near an army encampment in the same area.  Though no one actually identified the body, it was generally believed to be that of Dinpuii. 

Sanga could not eat or sleep properly for weeks and months.  And then exhaustion took over, and he gradually resumed life.  But he lived with a gaping hole in his heart. 

“Why did you marry me then?” Zorami asked at length, still numb with pain.

     “There was no point in going on that way.  I was hoping that being married would help me forget her a little.  I’m so sorry to hurt you like this.”

     “Why did you pick me?  From your description I’m just her opposite in looks, nature and everything.  Why didn’t you go for someone more like her?”

     “That’s impossible.  I’ve never seen anyone even remotely like her in any way.  Besides, I grew to like you once my uncle pointed you out, and there was truly no one else I was willing to marry.”

After Dinpuii’s disappearance, and especially after the corpse was found, Sanga had lost all interest in life.  He felt he was only a living body without a soul.  He wished he could give up that life too. But he had his mother to consider.  He mechanically went about his routine.  He attended classes, wrote the exams when the time came, and finally graduated and got a job in the State Bank.  Once he settled at his post, his family wanted him to get married.  His uncle kept suggesting some girl or other, but Sanga remained uninterested. 

Finally, when he was nearing thirty three, his uncle talked about Zorami.  Her family had come back to Aizawl after she finished her post-graduation in English, and she had started working in a college.  He agreed to consider her.  When he got to know her, he thought he loved her and that’s why he had proposed.  But he could not bring himself to forget his first love as he had hoped.

Zorami left the bed and went off to the sitting room.  She knew attempting to sleep would be futile. 

Sanga stayed on in bed, closed his eyes and tried to sleep again.  But his heart was burning.  Dinpuii had appeared in his dream, smiled at him and walked away.  He ran after her but he couldn’t catch up, she was too fast.  That was why he had cried out.  “Dinpui, how can I forget you?  You are the most beautiful person I’ve seen, beautiful in mind and heart,” he whispered to his pillow.

Zorami sat on the sofa, drawing up her feet, head on her knees.   

    

     “One can’t compete with the dead,” she thought. 

She recalled lines from Yeats’ poem:

     Does the imagination dwell the most

     Upon a woman won or woman lost?

     “Woman lost is much more precious,” she told herself.

     “Two broken lives brought together.  Can they ever become whole?” she wondered. 

Broken?  She was lacerated, ripped apart.  A fiend in human body did it in revolting lust.  When the thirteen year old did not come back from the tuikhur where she had gone to fetch water, her worried mother took a couple of neighbours with her and went in search of her daughter.  They found her unconscious, her dress torn and soaked with urine and blood, in the bushes.  In the hospital, after she regained consciousness, a nurse stitched her up.  Without anaesthesia.  How she screamed!  The needle pierced her again and again. Stinging pain upon pain.

And the dirt, the dirt!  How she wanted to wash herself clean, to be immersed in a flowing river!  But there was no such river within reach.  All she could get was a few mugs of water for a bath.  She loathed her defiled body like a rotten carcass.  In sleep, she dreamt of a brook running down a hill. She ran to it, hoping for a dip in its clear, clean water.  But when she reached there, she saw only muddy, filthy water. 

Within a day, the buoyant, rather boisterous young girl had turned into a weepy, terrified wreck. When she was sent back to school after being discharged from the hospital, she went without fuss, without spirit.  She walked with head bent, looking at the ground.  She avoided everyone and kept to herself, hardly talking even to Kimi.  She struggled to keep up with the lessons though earlier she used to be considered the best student in the class.  As soon as school was over, she walked straight back home and stayed inside for the rest of the day. 

As dusk fell, she was seized with terror and broke out in cold sweat.  She sat by the fireplace, her head buried in her knees, and trembled violently.  Her mother tried to soothe her, but only succeeded in making her cry uncontrollably. 

As time passed, the wounds on her body healed, leaving scars.  But her wounded psyche festered. 

Two broken lives.

~~~

What an incredible privilege to blog an extract from a soon to be released book that's also due to be a historical first, being the first ever full-fledged novel written in English by a Mizo writer.

Malsawmi Jacob, established poet and writer, takes on the most traumatic period in Mizo history, the Insurgency years of the sixties, to tell the story of a young Mizo girl, Zorami. Coming of age, after an uneventful, idyllic childhood, at the same time that the political unrest and struggle for independence gathers momentum and breaks out to devastating effect, Zorami's life and experiences reflect those of her beloved people, land and culture. Written in Mrs. Malsawmi Jacob's distinctive restrained, understated, always beautifully lucid style that breaks into poetry in moments of passion, the novel, titled Zorami after its protagonist, is expected to be released in May 2015.

Put Away – Zualteii Poonte

(For Zokunga [Pu Muma], 1925 – 1966)

The dreaded rapping on the door after dark
Just a little talk with him outside we want
The wanted gets up, steps out the house
Be back soon, you all go to sleep
But he never does.
Sometimes if they're lucky
they find the body a short distance down the road.
More often deep in the jungle they find it
in a shallow grave
sometimes marked, sometimes not.

My mother's brother's body was never found,
He disappeared without trace,
wiped off the face of the earth,
not a limb, not a nail, not a hair left to claim.
Almost half a century on,
still no one to come forward and say
Here, those are pearls that were his eyes.¹

Nothing for the left behind,
parents, brothers, sisters, wife,
his brood of nine young children.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Just the incomprehensible, unceasing uncertainty
of questions never answered.

            ~~~


The title is a literal translation of the MNF terminology “dah tha/ dah that,” an insidious euphemism meaning killed/murdered/exterminated.

¹There were unverified reports later that my uncle had been shot dead at Tlawng river by insurgents who were later killed in turn by soldiers of the Indian Army.


Since one of my original intentions for this blog was to provide material for research scholars, I add here a short bio of my uncle written by a cousin who happens to be the son of my mother's other brother. I also believe it's time Zokunga's story was told for all the world to know.


Addendum: My grandfather Zalawra married my grandmother Lalnemi at 3 in the evening on May the 14th, 1923 at Aijal Chapel or what is now called Mission Veng Church.

Their first child, Zokunga was born on the 19th February, 1925 at Mission Veng.  Like other children, he attended school and went on to matriculate. After serving in a clerical position at the Assam Rifles for some time, he started work at the District Council office and reached the position of UDC. At the District Council, he worked for a considerable period of time with Pu Laldenga with whom he was good friends.  They formed the Liars’ Club where they would amuse themselves by telling good, clean jokes.  Around this time, irregularities with the Council money were discovered and Zokunga was suspended from work.  By the time the Insurgency started however, he had already been reinstated at work.

When the Insurgency movement started in March 1966, people in general were equally afraid of the Indian army soldiers and MNF volunteers.  Under curfew restrictions, people lived in fear  as living conditions became more difficult and the repressive mood of the Insurgency grew stronger. On the 10th of July, 1966, Zokunga went to South Hlimen to pay his condolences to someone who had died, and he never returned.  He was abducted on the way by insurgents who believed him to be an informer. On hearing the news, his wife Lianchhungi set out to look for her husband but word apparently spread quickly:  “His wife is also coming this way, make sure she’s kidnapped too.”  From Mel thum, she fled back home.  Zokunga was never seen again, and on April the 16th, 1967, it was confirmed that he had been “dah that.” On the same day, close friends and family had a thlan thut (memorial service) in his name at his own house.

Also around this time, my mother’s younger sister Lallianpuii’s husband Lalsailova Sailo, previously employed by the Royal Air Force and Indian Air Force, and later at an oil company in Calcutta, would regularly visit his wife and children in Aizawl. While staying at his mother-in-law’s house at Dinthar Veng, he was summoned out of the house  by MNF volunteers who accused him of being a spy for the Indian government. He too was “dah that” and his body never recovered to this day. 

Translated from the article “Ka Pu Lungkham” by Zokailiana Khiangte published in the book Thih Hnua Thusawi: Zalawra leh Lalnemi, Hriatrengna Lungphun, 2013.