Everlasting Army bonds
I was commanding my battalion in Nagaland in the late 1970s. Our operational responsibility covered the area inhabited by the Sema tribe. Semas (now renamed Sumis) are the warriors who led the underground armed movement for the independence of Nagaland. The late Isak Chishi Swu was a Sumi who, along with Thuingaleng Muivah, had led the separatist movement for many years under the banner of NSCN-IM, ‘IM’ denoting their names Isak and Muivah.
Visiting outlying villages and meeting locals were part of my routine. This came under fraternisation, or ‘winning hearts and minds’, as the term was later coined. Knowing their requirement, I always took along my nursing assistant carrying common medicines and the canteen stores vehicle. And, of course, there was always the protection party.
The villagers would line up in front of the medicine counter and the canteen vehicle. Bathing soaps, shampoos, mirrors and other toiletries were favourites and we carried an adequate supply of these. It was an education to see the orderly manner in which the village queued up.
Language was a problem and led to hilarious situations at times. Once a man looking for medicine said something and gestured towards his stomach. The nursing assistant raised the brows and the man repeated his actions. Not wanting to delay others, the NA took a pain alleviating tablet and, as per drill, pushed it down his gullet. The man returned with an interpreter who explained that while the man was feeling fine, it was his wife who had a stomach ache.
One day I was visiting the village of an SS Brigadier of the Naga underground army who later surrendered (Indian Army uses SS before their ranks denoting ‘self-styled’). As such people wielded influence in the villages, I decided to meet him. While the rest of the village lined up at the two counters, I went to his bamboo house. It was a typical Naga village scene with bristly pigs snorting around and hens clucking. His abode was well-historiated with human and animal skulls hanging outside on tall bamboos. We sat on rough stools hewn out of tree trunks. He was a reluctant communicator. When I mentioned the futility of continuing the armed fight against the Union, he responded only with silence. I sought his help in maintaining peace in the area and spreading the message of goodwill. He remained distant.
Then he noticed my nameplate. “Kadyan?” he exclaimed. I nodded. “We had an officer by this name when I was serving with my battalion, 2 Assam, before I deserted and joined the freedom movement.” “Was it in the 1950s?” I asked. “Yes,” he said with sudden interest. “Well, he was my elder brother, MS Kadyan.” His eyes lit up animatedly as he rose and saluted me. “Sir, he was our Adjutant. I was a sepoy driver and drove him many times. Please send my salute to him.” He pumped my hand with fervent vigour.
Later, after I had addressed the villagers, he took the stage and publicly assured me of the loyalty of his entire area. Dusk was closing in and we wanted to leave; darkness increased the risk of ambush. But he would hear none of it. He asked my protection party to stand down and head for his house to enjoy the rice beer or madhu served in bamboo tumblers. He brushed aside my protest saying, “Aaj main aapka driver aur escort hoon.” (Today, I am your driver and your escort).
The bonds formed in the Army are everlasting.
