A farewell to Doma

Jack T. Chakhesang [dropcap]W[/dropcap]hen I was a much younger man, I had the luck to learn and understand a few new things in life. One of these was that crops are exclusive to particular locations the world over. Other crops are to be found everywhere like say, for instance, the potato. However, human emotions are to be found anywhere and everywhere be it in remote Siberia, the mountains of Alaska, the vast fuzzy Pantanales region of Brazil, the lonely Terra del Fuego or even the scattered South Pacific Islands—just to cite a few. Love and hate, anger and patience or tolerance as well as intolerance, smiles and laughter, war and peace and all other human emotions are prevalent in the most civilized communities and even the single hut in a remote corner of any land. Sorrow and happiness, and of course, loyalty and betrayal are part and parcel of life.At this culturally festive period in our land joining up with religious celebrations of Christmas followed by New Year’s Day, and the season of so many weddings plus not a few birthdays of kids and elders, I recall some endearing moments around this time of year also. Most soldiers write about their war, or operations, experiences. Rightly so. However, most of the time they all live in peace time. Our soldiers face up to the gravest of dangers so readily whether it be on the wintry heights of Sikkim or the steaming sands of Rajasthan and are able to take every hardship in their stride. It is their high sense of humour and, above all, their mental conditioning which helps them to react to dangerous situations on the premise that they could have been worse, which in concert stands them in good stead. It is not easy to erase bad memories but we can forever treasure some fine moments. The story of Doma here is one such moment. The last time I saw Doma was in mid-December 1975. Almost four decades have gone by and we all have moved on but some memories still abound. Our Battalion had completed its tenure in the high altitudes of Sikkim and it wouldn’t be long before we were posted to a peace station somewhere on the Western Sector. We handed over our posts to a Gorkha Battalion after much wrangling over the number of stores, POL (petroleum, oil and lubricants) and equipments that were to remain there in situ. However, the transition was reasonably smooth. There have been cases when nothing but ill will generated on such occasions. While most of our equipments were transported in trucks which the ASC (Army Service Corps) was so generous in providing so few, the Rifle Companies had to march about 50 kms down to our rear location. It was literally a downhill march. Right after morning muster we went to the Mandir and the Pandit performed the necessary rituals beseeching the goddess Kali (the deity of my Regiment) for our safe journey as the Colonel poured ghee over the sacred fire. Half an hour later, with me in the lead and Second Lieutenant A.K. Gun closely following, we entered the operational area of a neighbouring unit. It was a Battalion of the Brigade of the Guards. Waiting for us was a Major. Behind him stood an Officers Mess waiter and a few feet away, a lone soldier in ceremonial dress was playing the bagpipe. It was a slow, soft, sentimental martial tune. We saluted and the Major saluted back. He said, “Well Jack, it is a tradition in the Army that on such occasions, we wish you a safe journey. And it is also a ritual that we drink a toast to it.” He signaled and the waiter stepped forth with wine glasses which the Major filled with a flourish. Second Lieutenant A.K. Gun, the JCOs and I held glasses as the jawans crowded around. The Major said, “To -th Battalion, the Kumaon Regiment.” “To –th Battalion, Brigade of the Guards,” I responded and looking towards my men, I said, “Ram! Ram!” and as they responded we gulped down the toast. I still remember it was an excellent imported wine. The ritual was a heady experience. It was my first and only one in the Army. I was always learning something new as a soldier. The Companies with me stretched a kilometre long in double file. I took a short cut. Two Companies went ahead with the rest of the Officers to participate in a mock withdrawal operation along the main road. Actually, the entire Battalion is supposed to participate and on paper it did. As per the text books, withdrawals are supposed to be much disciplined. On the ground, practical considerations dictate otherwise. When the main body joined up, we had reached the location where lunch had been arranged. Major Viru (later Major General V.S. Budhwar, GOC who commanded the Division in Ladakh during the Kargil War, or Kargil Conflict, from May-July 1999) had suggested this almost mid-way to our rear location. The Quarter Master had set up an impressive langar and as the aroma peculiar to food cooked outdoors drifted enticingly, as Adjutant, I ordered a roll call. The Colonel seemed pleased with the lunch arrangements but he never said a word—as usual. He tried very hard to maintain his taciturn attitude. Towards sunset when we were some distance from Doma’s hamlet, I explained to Major Viru that I wished to say goodbye to a friend. He looked at me with understanding and said, gently, “Okay, Jack. You have half an hour.” The sun had already set, my batman and I lagged behind and no one noticed it. When we were alone, I left my sten carbine and 9mm Browning pistol with him and climbed the few yards to Doma’s abode. There was glass of Chhang (Tibetan version of Naga Ruhi) and wind blown dry Yak meat laid out on the table set for me. I wanted our parting to be as painless as possible. I said, “Doma, we’re going. I have come for your good wishes for the days ahead.” She did not spoil things by saying “Please remember me.” Or, “I’ll never forget you.” She said simply, “Yes. I understand. And you have my best wishes for always.” And I did not spoil things by saying “I’ll come back.” For I felt somehow that this would be our last meeting. Little did I dream then that I was to tell her story some day. And that when friends heard about it, they were to offer generous donations of cash and kind. They wanted me to present Doma with some of the best items of Naga handloom and handicrafts. They were filled with regret when I declined their offers. So, in the comfortable silence I ate and drank. It was a while before I noticed that she was looking sad. Could it be because I was going away? Perhaps. Yet there was a quality about that sadness which made me sure she was grieving for me and not merely because I was going away. Why? What was it? “Doma, what’s the matter?” I asked finally. “I was afraid you would ask that,” she said and her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. They implored me not to probe any further. Yet she looked inconsolably sad. It was time to go. I stood up and joined hands in a namaste but she clasped them with both hands and looking right into my eyes, she said, “Saa’b, the oracle says that you are in for hard times very, very soon. So the wheel turns. But you are not to lose heart. Never give up hope. The difficult years will be few and they will only be a period of learning for you. The wheel keeps turning and accordingly come the good days and the bad days. Like flowers and fruits so is a mortal’s life seasoned by the rainy days and the sunny days. The wheel turns on and after that I see you are headed for better things in life.” “Wherever you go,” she continued, “go always with that gentle and innocent nature of yours. I shall pray for you so.” I went out the door too choked with emotion to say anything. She came out alongside her hands on my arm. I turned to face her and there in the magic of the twilight, reminiscent of our first evening together but infinitely more profound, she solemnly quoted a proverb in Nepali. I am not fluent in Nepali and the years may have impaired my memory. But what she said was something like this: Jo haath ma lekheko chha, Tyo khoshi inu sakhin chha; Tara bhavile jo nidhar ma lekheko chha, Tyo meti indaina. Translated literally, the proverb means: “Whatever be in thy hand, Could be snatched away; But whatever fate hath written on thy forehead Canst ne’er be erased. (Doma’s story first appeared in the erstwhile “Ura Mail” weekly published from Dimapur in 1981. It was revised into a chapter in the novel “Goodbye, My Regiment” published by Lancers Books, New Delhi, 1985).