After a breakfast of greasy aloo parathas, I venture in the direction of the railway station to explore the city. The degree of filth is shocking, particularly by the standards of the northeast, which is cleaner than mainland India on average. Open gutters overflow onto the street. Mounds of garbage line the side of the street, as gaunt cycle rickshawallahs heave past me. It’s almost as if the city’s municipal workers are on strike, in what seems to be an undeclared state of civic breakdown. The sign on my room’s wall could well apply to Dimapur, the city itself.
A large pool of stagnant water—black as crude oil— lies right opposite the station, the abode of mosquitoes that hover close to its surface. Vendors sell cheap track pants, fruits, bangles and other fashion accessories along its shore. A flyover passes above me, and as I look up, I see a couple of Naga policemen looking down and observing me, making my position as an obvious outsider clear to me.
I pat my pockets to check for my Inner Line Permit (ILP), a British-era pass that mainlanders seeking to enter Nagaland must obtain (I had obtained mine for fifty rupees from Nagaland House in Shillong). But my pockets are filled with useless receipts and other assorted bits of paper I’ve been accumulating as souvenirs from my journey. I rummage through them in search of the ILP, an act that I’m sure makes me seem even more suspicious to the watching policemen. I heave a sigh of relief when I finally find the tiny slip scrunched up in a corner.
In this dismal setting, it is easy to forget that this crumbling town happens to be the most important railhead of the Brahmaputra Valley, particularly vital for the economies of Nagaland and Manipur—as is its illustrious history. The city, after all, once rescued India from a disastrous fate. During the Second World War, Dimapur was instrumental in repelling the Japanese advance into India, possibly saving Indian people from the mass killings, torture, rape and enslavement that typically accompanied Japanese occupation. (Though Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, whose Indian National Army fought alongside the Japanese in their Burma campaign, would probably have disagreed with this assessment.)
During the climactic Battle of Kohima—a fiercely fought battle termed the Stalingrad of the East—it was through Dimapur that reinforcements and supplies for the Allies were routed. Even today, goods headed for Manipur and Nagaland, including cereals from the Food Corporation of India, first arrive in Dimapur by freight train. After being unloaded, the goods are transported by trucks along National Highway 39. NH39 is the lifeline of Nagaland and Manipur, the only road connecting Dimapur in the plains to Moreh in Manipur on the Indo-Myanmar border, cutting through the forested Naga Hills.
But the war is not over still in these mist-draped hills overlooking Dimapur. They are the site of Asia’s longest running insurgency, a nearly seven decade long affair that still shows no signs of abating. Both Nagaland and Manipur continue to be subject to the notorious Armed Forces Special Provision Act (AFSPA) which gives sweeping powers of search and detention to the security forces. What this means for me is that NH39, the highway that snakes through these conflict-torn hills, can safely be called India’s most unsafe highway, the hills surrounding it being the turf of a great variety of insurgent groups.
They’re a motley crew, hailing from different tribes and professing various ideologies. Some like the NSCN-IM seek their own separate nation—Nagalim— which includes territory from Naga-dominated areas of Assam, Myanmar, Manipur and Arunachal Pradesh. Others like the Kangleipak Communist Party want to bring about a Marxist revolution. And so on. But their ultimate goal, like all aspiring rulers, is control of territory and revenue from the lucrative arms and drug smuggling along the Indo-Myanmar border, which means that inter-tribal conflict is often a major cause of violence.
My aim, so to say, in Dimapur is to understand how this state of affairs affects truck drivers and goods transport, by traveling with them from here to Imphal. It’s only a distance of two hundred kilometres, but the resulting effect is of traveling from India to almost-India.
Walking down the streets of Dimapur, I spot an incredible variety of exotic products in the shops. There are unusual brands of soft drinks, the names of many of which I can’t read. There’s even Korean seaweed, which the shopkeeper tells me is supposed to be nutritious. Evidently, Nagaland and Manipur have a steady stream of East Asian goods smuggled through the porous Indo-Myanmar border. Interestingly, it’s also something that’s beginning to reflect in the public posturing of some of the insurgent groups.
To take on the might of the Indian state, some groups recently combined forces to form an organization called the United National Liberation Front of Western South East Asia. It’s a mouthful, but the crucial point to note is the insurgents’ identification with South East Asia, evident in their clumsy attempt to change the nomenclature of the region from North East India to the even more convoluted Western South East Asia.
But while the goods in Dimapur might be South East Asian, the people are still Indian. The commercial opportunities in this trading town make it a magnet for migrants. Along with the native Dimasa Kachari people, Biharis, Nepalis, Jains, Marwaris, Bengalis and many others rub shoulders in its mean streets. How do they talk to each other? I soon find out from a Bihari paanwallah that it’s in a curious creole tongue called Nagamese—the love child of Assamese, Bengali and Hindi. Why, that’s the first time I’ve even heard of it. Truly, India never fails to surprise in the language department.
While its exact origins are uncertain, Nagamese is centuries old. When the British ‘discovered’ Nagaland in 1832, they expected people to communicate with each other in Assamese, but instead encountered people already conversing in an early form of Nagamese. The twenty-one Naga tribes who spoke mutually unintelligible languages had seemingly evolved a ‘restructured variety of Assamese’ to communicate both among themselves and with the Assamese revenue collectors and merchants.
The use of Nagamese increased during colonial rule, with rising Naga–Assamese interaction. But it was only after Nagaland was granted statehood in 1963 that its use exploded. Inter-tribal warfare had always been a traditional feature of Naga society. But now, with the arrival of central government funds and personnel, Nagas of all ethnic groups were ‘free to leave their traditional well-fortified villages without fear and join the huge multi-ethnic workforce that participated in the massive development works that ensued, forcing Nagamese to expand’.
However, while most people call the language Nagamese, the Nagas themselves resent the name since it associates them with the Assamese. Linguists prefer to call it Naga Pidgin. Not that I can make any sense of it, even when I eavesdrop on street conversations with the full intention of decoding them.
I stroll around near the railway station and soon come upon the train tracks. I had expected to see trains as well, but strangely, I find the vegetable market of Dimapur laid out before me. It’s a crowded place full of things being bought, sold, and bargained for. I venture onto the tracks, instinctively on the lookout for minefields of excrement, like a true-blue Mumbaikar. Mercifully, I find none. Also, since Dimapur is where the railway line terminates, I am assured there will be no trains hurtling in our direction.
As I inspect the wares, it becomes clear to me that this is a vegetable market with a difference. One vendor is peddling great green frogs from a bucket—alive and strung up along a long coir rope. The frogs are a restless bunch. Some of them jerk about, making pitifully inadequate attempts to escape the bucket, as if they can already glimpse the frying pan awaiting them, only to be dragged down by the weight of the rest.
Other vendors have yellow silkworms spread out on tarpaulin sheets. Elegant Naga ladies in dainty frocks carrying cloth bags inspect them and pick them out according to criteria that are presently unknown to me. Apparently, they make for a wonderful late afternoon snack. At Rs 350 a kilo, they’re certainly not for a pittance.
Most of the vendors are Munda women from Jharkhand. They tell me they don’t eat the frogs and silkworms themselves. ‘It’s only for busin
ess. We do know how to prepare it though.’ There are also some Naga men selling hunks of unidentifiable meat from out of buckets, but I’m afraid to get a closer glimpse because of the bloodiness of it all. It is only when I spot a familiar set of paws peeping out of the mouth of a Naga lady’s bag do I decipher the bucket’s contents. It’s dog meat.
Evidently, being cute in Nagaland does not guarantee you survival. Doggos, you can fool everyone else with those puppy eyes, but not the indiscriminating Nagas, an enlightened people who’ve realized that the only thing one achieves by adhering to food taboos is limiting one’s own sources of nutrition.
After exploring the market to my heart’s content, I turn back to the road that runs parallel to the tracks. A short walk later, I enter through the broken remains of an iron gate that opens to a vast yard. There’s an endless goods train in front of me, the colour of rust. In front of the train bogies are rows of trucks as far as the eye can see, with many people milling around them— drivers, traders, commuters, labourers.
As I venture closer, I see the labourers carry bulky jute sacks on their heads, moving in and out of the bogies with stopwatch frequency. Sweat pours down their faces, crumpled in exhaustion and concentration, as they balance themselves on the inclined ramp that constitutes the improvised path from the bogie to the truck.
I find out that a group of local Marwari traders has booked the train. A couple of them are supervising the loading, noting down details in coarse, discoloured notebooks. They tell me the sacks contain potatoes meant to be transported to Imphal. One truck is assigned per bogie, carrying twenty tonnes each. Far exceeding the truck’s designated capacity of nine tonnes, I note down. The traders don’t even attempt to hide this fact, just as one doesn’t bother to conceal an insignificant detail. Again and again, I discover routine overloading as a common thread that ties together the transportation industry in India across state borders.
Bihari workers do most of the hard labour, clad in lungis or baggy shorts, their clothes and bodies covered in fine, golden potato dust that envelops the insides of the bogies as well. They work in pairs to drag the heavy gunny sacks, using a pair of tongs to hitch them to shoulder level, and then haul them on their heads— cushioned by gamchhas—to the waiting trucks.
They earn two-and-a-half rupees per sack, 6 per cent of which goes to a broker, a measly amount for what is clearly punishing work. Loose potatoes that have fallen out of holes in the sacks are collected in a plastic bag and whisked away, or handed over, depending on whether or not a supervisor is around. Faint echoes of the Lord’s song being played on loudspeakers with accompanying guitar can be heard amid the loading and unloading. I turn around and spot the spire of a church in the distance.
I chat with some of the truck drivers, trying to figure out how I can get to Kohima. To my alarm, they tell me that truckers ferrying essential goods such as foodgrain and fuel are compulsorily escorted by paramilitary vehicles in 200-strong convoys to safeguard them from insurgents who extract unofficial ‘taxes’.
I don’t know what to do. I mean, successfully infiltrating a military convoy is certainly not a part of my skill set. Mercifully, I learn that some drivers are also known to travel outside the convoy, in small groups united by language and geography. I suppose I’ll have to take my chances with them, I think to myself, and resolve to find a ride to Kohima. Surely, it can’t be impossible.
I am told the best place to find a truck to Kohima is the Numaligarh Refinery Limited (NRL) petrol pump on the outskirts of Dimapur, the cheapest fueling station for long-distance vehicles. So I head there in a rickety auto, passing deserted shopping arcades and slammed shutters along the way.
It soon becomes clear to me that Nagaland comes to a virtual standstill on Sundays. Unlike the rest of India, where Sundays are reserved for family outings, Sunday in Nagaland is Sabbath or the Lord’s Day—the traditional Christian day for family, prayer and rest. The Baptist Christians of Nagaland, who constitute three-quarters of its population, evidently follow this practice to the letter. So widespread is its observance that even political parties are careful not to organise rallies on Sunday, cleverly opting for door-to-door campaigning instead.
The roads of Dimapur are littered with potholes— so many craters that it is impossible to dodge them all. And since it has rained this morning, they’re filled with water the consistency of chocolate, making it difficult for drivers to gauge their depth. I see an old woman dressed in a ragged sari earnestly engaged in emptying the water from one of the potholes using a tumbler. The hole is inevitably refilled by the splashing of passing cars, after which she dips the tumbler again. And so on. I’m both horrified and bewildered. What in the world did I just see? Is that an actual job she’s paid for?
The auto rattles out of the city. We’re now on a narrow tree-lined highway headed towards the Naga Hills, in the shade of which lies our destination. When we finally reach the petrol pump, I’m relieved to see trucks parked haphazardly on its premises, and get down to make enquiries. It is lunchtime and most of the trucks are missing their masters. Finally, I see a couple of men idling inside a truck.
One of them jumps out of the truck upon seeing me approach. He is a compact middle-aged man with a receding hairline dressed in summer clothes—a brown baniyan and a blue-white checked lungi. Let’s call him Avirup Roy, a Bengali from Dharmanagar, a small town in Tripura. After explaining my project to him, I ask him where I could possibly find a truck to Kohima.
‘You should usually be able to find trucks from here,’ he says. ‘But there is a bandh on the highway today. Some andarwalas with guns have set two trucks on fire at the Mao border. So no one’s going today.’
He delivers this blow in a sing-song accent. My worst fears are confirmed.
‘Who are these andarwalas?’
‘Can’t say. There are so many of them. Don’t know who it is today. I reckon it must be the Mao Nagas,’ he says. ‘But before continuing this conversation, I would request you one thing. Please do not print my real name. If the andarwalas find out I’m talking to people, that’ll be the end of me.’
I promise him I won’t.
‘Risky kaam hai. Thappad toh mandir ka ghanti jaise bajata hai (Our work is risky. The insurgents slap us around like temple bells),’ he continues, his tone becoming more frank. ‘Andarwala apne mann ka malik hai. Kisi ko bakshta nahi hai (They’re the lords of their area, they do as they please).’
He tells me that the andarwalas set up unofficial checkpoints on the highway. It is foolhardy for the drivers to try and evade them, since unlike the police, they usually have smaller vehicles at hand, using which they can easily overtake the truckers. If they catch up to you, they will assault you and take away all your cash. They usually don’t carry the guns openly but have them stashed away in their cars.
Roy tells me the amount of tax the insurgents extort depends on the goods the truckers are ferrying. They demand more if the load is cement or iron— compared to potatoes and other ration—in proportion to the value of the goods transported. Roy shells out an average of Rs 8,000 every trip to the insurgents and the police combined.
‘Anyway, there is no real difference between the policemen and the insurgents. It’s the kind of situation where in the same house, one brother will be a policeman and the other an andarwala,’ he says, only half-joking. And they work together in a climate of connivance. ‘Chor-chor chachere bhai hote hain (Two thieves always behave like first cousins),’ he says, but with no humour this time.
It was only last year that insurgents ‘hijacked’ Roy’s Mahindra four-wheeler tempo on NH39. It was the only asset he possessed. He had invested his entire life’s capital in it—all of his savings from driving trucks for twenty-five years. Yes, he lost his livelihood but the worst part for him is he still doesn’t know who did it. The police never solved the case. All Roy knows is that masked men brandished guns and asked him to flee if he cared for his life. He did as he was told. He has not seen his vehicle since.
‘My life was ruined after the hijacking,’ he says. He had bought the Mahindra only a year before it was taken from him and had managed to recoup only a bare fraction of his investment.
When he went to register a case, the policemen demanded a bribe of Rs 25,000 just to file an FIR. In all, he says he has spent over two lakh rupees in paying off various people—the policemen, the dalal who filed a case with the insurance company, as well as the officers of the insurance company who came to conduct a fact-finding survey. After all this effort, he has only been able to recover a little over two lakhs from the insurance company, a net loss. He had borrowed over six lakhs from the bank to finance the vehicle. He’s now defaulting on his monthly EMI of twelve thousand rupees to the bank because of the loss of livelihood. ‘But the bank doesn’t give two hoots about the hijacking,’ he says.
As a result, he was compelled to start all over again as a helper on a truck, back to square one after twenty-five years of experience, thanks to the generosity of a former ustad who offered to let him accompany him on his truck. I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the ustad, who has just finished eating lunch in the truck. He’s evidently savouring his solitude, puffing at his beedi, looking out the other window, clearly not in a mood to communicate. I don’t interrupt his reverie with unsolicited questions.
Truck de India! Page 13
