Early today,
photographer friend Nilayan Dutta posted on Facebook a long forgotten picture(from November 200) of us in the
jungles along the India-Myanmar border to meet a reclusive insurgent leader.
That photograph kindled a lot of old memories. Here’s the description of
sojourn where the journey itself was an adventure.
Then, looking
for some old photographs came across memories of some more unusual journeys in India's north-east. So sharing them with friends.
Have a GREAT
2013.
WHAT IS LIFE
AFTER ALL IF NOT AN ADVENTURE
Circa 2000:
From the moment it was planned, I knew the risks involved.
Reaching the United National Liberation Front guerrillas in
Manipur was tough for two reasons.
One, the sheer physical labour involved. Braving intense cold,
we had to walk, climb and wade through jungles for two days.
Then, the security forces. Our visit coincided with the UNLF's
36th foundation day, when government troops were on extra alert to prevent any
celebration.
Fortunately, we survived our adventure.
 |
| A decade ago in the jungles on the Indo-Myanmar border with UNLF chief Sanayaima, his colleagues and friends Rupachandra and Khelen. Memorable visit. Photographer Nilayan is sitting |
And when we reached the hideout somewhere deep in the forests
bordering Burma, we had a pleasant surprise -- UNLF chairman R K Meghen.
Better known as Sana Yaima, this is the first time the elusive
insurgent leader is coming out in the open.
Make your own way!
The planning was
done well in advance, after a lot of homework.
The first approach, through a friend
and newsman, was followed up by email.
 |
The mid- and late 1990s: Various exciting assignment:
Clockwise from top left: Travelling a goods train in North Cachar Hills with fellow journalists; On the fast-flowing Lohit river in Eastern Arunachal Pradesh; Trekking in the jungles of North-east and Myanmar to meet a rebel leader RK Meghen alias Sanayaima, now in jail.
|
Nearly a fortnight went for
logistics. But by the time I landed in Imphal, Manipur's capital, everything
had been arranged.
Our haversacks full of essentials for
the next few days, Photographer Nilayan Dutta and I waited for the morrow with
apprehension...
Day
1
YUMNAM Rupachandra, correspondent of The
Statesman, arrives with four others -- Khelen Thokchom, editor of Sangai
Express, a local English daily, two photographers, and an ANI
correspondent -- at 0600 hours IST. We set off in a Tata Sumo.
An
hour reaches us to a small town. After a bit of breakfast, we turn off the
highway, onto a dirt track. We arrive at a village and are told to unload our
rucksacks and wait.
Ten
minutes later, a man in a heavy jacket rides up on a bicycle. He could have
been one of the several onlookers gathered around us but for one thing: a small
Kenwood two-way radio around his neck.
He
is Inga, and chats animatedly with our local friends in Manipuri. Rupachandra
translates for our benefit: "An armed posse will escort us from this
point."
Half
an hour later, guerrillas arrive. In jungle fatigues, armed with AK-56s, the
band of 11 boys, all of them in their early 20s, march into the village in a
single file.
The
leader, also carrying a radio, is a lance corporal in the UNLF hierarchy. He
instructs his boys to pick up our luggage. I gather we are VIPs to them, so we
are exempted from carrying our own bags.
With
two 'scouts' in front, the procession begins. We march in single file. The pace,
as it happens in the beginning of any journey on foot, is brisk. Soon we begin
to sweat -- and off come our sweaters and heavy jackets.
After
an hour or so, the water bottles come out. So do biscuits and chocolates. We
city-types are beginning to tire and wonder what we have got ourselves into.
On
the way, villagers stare at us, as if watching an exotic species. They are used
to armed men walking through, but not 'civilians' like us.
After
two-and-a-half hours, we reach the village where we are to have lunch. All of
us lie down on the cool grass. Lunch is rice and dal. It has
never tasted so great anywhere before!
CHAIREN is checking the route ahead for enemy
movement.
"I
am not so much worried about the security forces. What I am concerned about is
our rivals attacking unexpectedly," he says.
Apparently,
other groups such as the Issac-Muivah faction of the National Socialist Council
of Nagaland -- bitter enemies of the UNLF -- control some areas en route.
We
begin walking again, this time silently. As dusk dissolves into darkness, the
fear in my mind accentuates. Everyone is quiet. What if there is an attack? Are
these guys capable of warding it off?
The
walk continues for the next four hours with little or no banter among us.
Around 2000 hours, we reach a riverbank.
Chairen
is constantly in touch with his base on radio. We wait. A vehicle is supposed
to pick us up here.
After
30 minutes a Shaktiman truck wades through the waist-deep water and comes to
our side. We clamber on to the open truck, grateful that we don't have to walk
anymore.
 |
The exciting 1990s and 2000s that took me and fellow photographers to mountains, rivers and jungles of the north-east. Clockwise from top left:
With then Outlook colleague Swapan Nayak at an NSCN camp; in the jungles of Manipur; On a ferry on the River Brahmaputra; at Walong with Swapan and at the Sela Pass with another Outlook photographer Jitendra Gupta |
But 10 minutes on, we are all wishing
that we had continued walking. The Shaktiman is lurching violently as it cuts
through the jungle. Branches hit us from both sides.
My
thoughts go back to the Tata Safari ad that says, 'Make your own way.' If the
makers of Shaktiman could see us now, I think they would just film our journey
and use it as promo!
An
hour later we reach a village, gorge the simple fare of rice, tinned fish and dal and
crash out on the wooden floor of a safe house.
Chairen's
men, showing no signs of exhaustion despite the long day, stand guard. It is
cold, but I drop off immediately into an exhausted slumber.
DAY 2
And tonight the password is 'Topi'
UP at 0530 hours IST. We brush our teeth. After a quick change of
clothes, we are off to another house to avoid the prying eyes of the villagers.
A meal is being prepared. All of us go down to the river for our
morning ablutions, shivering in the cold. The water is ice-cold but refreshing.
At 0830 hours we have our breakfast of rice and board our
"luxury coach". The Shaktiman is now stacked with hay to make us
comfortable!
Within 20 minutes, the semblance of road that existed vanishes.
We are now going through a river -- through a river, mind you, not by its side.
The driver is least bothered about the pebbles and rocks on the
riverbed or the steep inclines that he has to climb at times. All we can do is
marvel at his skill and the Shaktiman's power. The manufacturers have not
correctly gauged its capacity, I tell myself.
We halt after six torturous hours. Chairen hands us over to
another platoon, led by a tough but smiling corporal, Sajong.
How much longer, we ask.
"Oh, just another hour," he replies.
He
could not have been more wrong in gauging our strength -- or the lack of it. It
took us three-and-a-half hours to reach our destination.
But I am jumping the gun. Before we begin the steepest climb in
our journey, we walk/wade through 22 streams! Our shoes in our hands, the
trousers rolled up above the knee, we cross these, wincing every time we put
our feet in the bitingly cold water.
At a place called Rest Point, Sajong says it is only a 30-minute
climb now. It takes us another two hours.
As we puff our way up the mountain, darkness descends. The track
is too narrow. Our legs keep buckling under. My old knee injury starts aching.
Halfway up, Chinglen, staff officer of UNLF headquarters, meets
us with steaming coffee and biscuits. The break is welcome.
The guerrillas, for their part, are amused at our plight. For
them, climbing is as easy is as falling off to sleep.
AFTER a prolonged break, we arrive on the top. There is a fire
burning. The warmth is welcome and so are the moulded plastic chairs. This is a
transit camp, explains Chinglen.
Another round of coffee and we start talking. We are shown the
hut where we would be sleeping for the next two nights. I look around, trying
to soak in the ambience.
A diesel generator is on. Boys, young men and women in jungle
fatigues, all armed, are bustling about the hillock. There are several huts
scattered around. And guards at all strategic points.
As we apply Iodex to our aching feet, a senior man, flanked by tough-looking
guards, walks across to us. He introduces himself as acting chief of staff,
UNLF, and welcomes us formally. Then he gives us the biggest news we could have
hoped for.
"Our chairman will meet you tomorrow," he announces
without preamble.
Those of us who know how media-shy R K Meghen alias Sana Yaima
is are elated. The tough journey suddenly seems worth all the trouble. A
legend, who has avoided meeting the media so far, is ready to talk to us. It
would be scoop!
A quick dinner and we are all ready for bed. We sleep like logs.
Before we drop off, Chinglen gives us the password for the night, just in case
any of us ventures out of the hut. It is 'Topi'.
"Topi, topi," I mutter as sleep overpowers me.
Day 3
The man they call Sana Yaima
COLD and stiff, we wake up to mugs of hot tea. No sooner is breakfast
dispensed with, the man we are all waiting for walks across.
Tall and erect, his gait confident, Sana Yaima, dressed in
jungle fatigues and surrounded by armed men, stops in front of us.
"Hello. Welcome to our makeshift camp," are his first
words.
We introduce ourselves and sit around the fire. But for his
olive green fatigues, Meghen could easily be mistaken for an academician.
Soft-spoken, erudite and impeccably mannered, he assumed the
ancient Meitei name Sana Yaima in his avatar as an insurgent leader. He is far
removed from the image of a gun-totting, fiery revolutionary.
Sana Yaima is extremely articulate, his reasoning convincing,
his facts solid. A post-graduate in international relations from Calcutta's
Jadavpur University, he had graduated from the Scottish Church College in the
same city.
He
brings a scholar's approach to insurgency. Also sophistication. His cadres have
the best of weapons and equipment, which include laptop computers.
For a quarter of century, he had shunned the media. Now, after
over 36 years of its existence (of which he has been associated for 31 years),
the UNLF is ready to let the world know what it is all about.
Sana Yaima's upbringing and education in the late 1960s in
Calcutta, during the run-up to the Naxalite uprising, have had a lasting affect
on his outlook. I know that he is liberal, given to respect other ethnic groups
and their distinct identities.
No wonder, I say to myself, that he has been leading the UNLF for
the past 16 years, first in the capacity of general secretary between 1984 and
1998 and now as chairman. I try to recollect what I know of him.
IF I am not mistaken, he returned to Manipur in the early 1970s and
got married.
In 1975, having become an important member of the outfit's think
tank, he went underground. Since then, he has remained in the jungles, away
from family, meeting them occasionally in hiding.
Sana Yaima's wife and two children have taken his absence in
their stride. His wife, he is to tell us later, "keeps busy by teaching in
a school while both my sons are pursuing higher studies".
The elder is doing his doctorate in remote sensing application
in Manipur University and the younger is in Pune, studying computer science.
Twenty-five
years in the jungles have kept the 55-year-old leader fighting fit. For him,
this has become a way of life.
Except for making brief forays to Geneva to make a
representation on the UNLF's behalf to the UN Sub-Commission on Indigenous
People, and an occasional trip to South-East Asian countries, Sana Yaima has
stayed with his 1,000-strong army, which comprises 100-odd women.
And now, after preliminary pleasantries are over, Sana Yaima is
saying, "Let's have the interviews one by one."
And so it begins.
