PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 3

In High Places

Yet another memory—over half a century old—resurrected from an unassuming negative film roll. A rare experience, indeed! The first and last opportunity for a Pongo (Poor Bloody Infantry) subaltern to ride, even if it was just a glorified donkey in the mountains!

# A Mission, A Mule and Military Mayhem

The year was 1972. I was the picket commander of one of those forlorn outposts in the Panken Tso sector, NEFA (North East Frontier Agency), gazing over the McMahon Line. Freshly back from a Long-Range Patrol (LRP) for seven days along the Sino-Indian border, I was greeted by a message that made my heart sink faster than a stone in a mountain stream.

I had been detailed (read: sentenced) as the presiding officer for the Army Certificate Examination (ACE) and Map Reading Tests (MR) of the Animal Transport (AT) Company — a delightful bunch stationed eight hours away on foot.

“Leave at dawn. Return by dusk.”

I could already feel the blisters forming. The terrain wasn’t just challenging; it was actively hostile — ridges that seemed to grow taller just to spite you, streams designed to freeze your toes, and tracks that were, at best, mythical.

During the evening ‘Sab Achha’ (All OK) report, my Sector Commander, a man of great experience and even greater sadistic humour, left me with pearls of wisdom:

He cautioned me on high altitude vicissitudes and emphasized the importance of reaching my destination on time: “Ravi, dhire dhire chalna, lekin time par pehunch jana!” (Sic) (Translation: Ravi, walk slowly, but reach on time). “Moreover, I do not want to leave the border picket without an officer. So be back earliest tomorrow itself.” Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! He also threw in a “Mein thonu dassiasi” (I ‘tolded’ you so) disclaimer, ensuring that if anything went wrong, it would definitely be my fault. It was certain that I was left on my own to face the brunt.

Realizing that despair was pointless, I channeled my inner philosopher: “Que sera, sera… whatever will be, will be…”

To prepare for the upcoming torture, I retrieved my emergency rations — pulled out the crate of Ghoda Rum (Himalayan special) — from under my cot, poured myself a medically inadvisable stiff dose, and promptly hit the sleeping bag.

# A Noble Steed & A Saluting Chauffeur

As directed, my man Friday (my buddy Jagtar Singh) brought my mug of tea before dawn could break, and with a sadistic pleasure got busy stuffing my ‘carrier manpack’ with essentials and nonessentials for me to lug along. At dawn, as I donned my five layers of high-altitude clothing, tied my snow boots, and secured the ‘patties’ to dissuade the ever-vigilant leeches at lower altitudes from intruding through my clothing on to my sacred parts to roost, I heard a commotion outside my ‘sangarh’ (a temporary contraption made of stones, PBS Rolls, and CGI sheets – my lair). I went out to investigate. I was met with an unexpected miracle — a mule. Not just any mule — an Army Riding Mule with an official ‘Driver’.

To my utter surprise, the Presiding Officer’s ‘Transport’ had arrived with its ‘Driver’ to transport me to the exam site, which would otherwise have been an eight-hour trudging to and ten hours trudging and scrambling fro. The AT Driver’s name was UP L/Nk (Unpaid Lance Naik) Dorrai Chamy, from whom I received the smartest salute I had in years. Interestingly, the mule driver was also a candidate for the exam! And that summed up his fervour in looking after me as if I were a General Officer. I thought, left to Dorrai Chamy, he would even unmask the shining stars already fixed on to the forehead of his charger, to which I didn’t show any inclination. My buddy was already decked up and happy to take-off to the destination of his Saheb where for the first time he would be witnessing the importance of his charge. He also hung his ‘carrier manpack ‘ alongside mine to the saddle hooks of the mule much to the protesting shirks and snorting of the poor equine.

With an air of VIP treatment, which my infantry soul wasn’t accustomed to, we took off. The mule, to my utter delight, was a four-legged genius — navigating narrow ledges, zigzagging up heights, and splashing through streams with more confidence than a commando on steroids.

We reached the AT Company examination site well before time, where I was unexpectedly treated like a visiting dignitary.

# Exams, Expressions & Exquisite Hospitality

The AT Company Commander, a Major, welcomed me with hot tea, pakoras, and cold beer. Why? Because rank is temporary, but a presiding officer’s goodwill is eternal.

Lunch was a five-star surprise—beer, meat, liver, eggs- the kind of spread usually reserved for Generals and Gods.

Throughout the exam, my dear mule driver, Dorrai Chamy, put on a full-fledged Kathakali performance — wild hand gestures, desperate eye movements, and theatrical expressions — all trying to subtly remind me of our deep and sacred bond, his hopes for a passing grade.

The exam was over by 3 PM, and the results were signed by me, packed, sealed and handed over to the AT Company to be dispatched to Divisional Headquarters for final approval. Then came the antithesis – I found the exam site deserted.

# The Great Disappearance & The March of Doom

Then came Act II of my personal tragedy — my ride had vanished into thin air. No officer commanding AT Company. No Dorrai Chamy. No transport. Not even a damn donkey to negotiate with.

I, of course, knew that a humble Infantry subaltern had no official claim to such luxuries. Asking for a ride was beneath my dignity.

So, I consulted my trusty buddy, who, thanks to our lunch hosts, was several pegs deep into his own philosophical awakening. Grinning ear to ear, he slurred:

“Jane do saab ji. Yeh ‘M****C****’,’B****C****’ idha hi hai. Asi chaliye — thurke. Ki pharak painda?”

(Let it go, Sir. This M****C****, B****C**** are what they’re. Let’s just get moving — what difference does it make?)

With military precision, we removed our cap balaclavas, slapped them against our thighs as a mark of protest, muttered a few highly creative expletives, and began our heroic night march back, lugging our ‘carrier manpack ‘. I once again, hummed:

“Que sera, sera… whatever will be, will be…”

After a 10-hour death march partly through thick fog, sleet and pitch darkness, we stumbled into our picket at midnight — soaked, exhausted, and cursing the entire chain of command.

# Mission Complete: Drink & Drop

The Sector Commander, in true military fashion, growled his approval at my ‘Sab Achha’ report and sounded annoyed for his sleep spoiled.

I, in turn, did what any seasoned infantry officer – a ‘Pongo’ – would do; Crawled under my cot, fished out my Himalayan Ghoda Rum, poured four fingers (why stop at two?) and downed them neat, in one glorious shot, to repeat till my ire to the environment evaporated.

I hit the sack like a fallen warrior. Then smile erupted on my lips thinking of the lines of Njaana Paana (Song of Wisdom) by saint poet Poonthanam, which my mother used to hum quite often during my childhood.

“Maalika mukaleriya mannante, tholil

Maaraappu kettunnathum bhavaan.”

(God Almighty can very well bring the King living ‘in high places’ down and reduce him to a beggar heaving a bundle of rags on his back)

I smiled again, for as for me, when I came down from ‘high places to ‘terra firma’, it was an over-stuffed ‘carrier manpack’ on my back.

And with that smile…. Sushupti (deep, dreamless sleep) took over.

# Moral of the Story

When life gives you a mule, enjoy the ride.

When life takes the mule away, swear profusely and march on.

And when the march is over… let the spirits take over!