‘Where do you think you are going?’ Jiten asked Pokenmong, who only smiled and began to comb his hair.

  ‘Same place as you are,’ he answered and without waiting for any rejoinder marched ahead in a determined manner. Jiten had lately noticed a certain cockiness in the boy and decided to speak to him in private regarding his behaviour.

  That day, as they awaited the arrival and passage of the goods train, a long line of vehicles began to form behind the closed gate of the crossing. There were at least fifty trucks laden with men and materials and they were all white soldiers, some singing and some talking loudly in a strange language. Unable to contain his curiosity, Pokenmong slid past the barrier and approached the first vehicle. Jiten, intent on the signal post did not notice what the boy had done. Waving the green flag from his observation tower, he waited for the long train to go out of his sight and began to shout for Pokenmong to open the barrier gate on his side. But the boy was nowhere in sight even after Jiten opened his side of the gate. Cursing the boy under his breath he walked over and opened the barrier. The long line of vehicles with the foreign soldiers whirred past him and in one of the trucks he saw Pokenmong’s grinning face trying to say something to him. But the truck was travelling too fast and he did not hear anything. The only thing he remembered was the happy face of his domestic servant now moving on to another sphere. That was the last he saw or heard about this boy, who had once called him ‘Baba’, until the morning when Babul came home shouting and waving a newspaper, ‘Baba, Baba, see what is written here.’ Jiten read the name but could not connect it to the smiling face that had whizzed past the crossing on that day when he had felt as if he had indeed lost a son.

  The ‘foreign’ soldiers were Americans who had come to set up camp in the perimeter of the barely functional airfield to oversee the final evacuation of men and materials from the last allied command-post of the Indo-Burma campaign. Through gestures and a smattering of a few English words, Pokenmong had managed a ride with them. He had no idea what he was going to do when they reached the destination. All that he knew was that he had to find out what these ‘white’ people were like, if they were at all like ordinary people or were a species apart from anything he knew. As his initial curiosity wore off, it started getting dark and he did not know the way back to Jiten’s house. He hung around for some time and hid behind some barrels to settle for the night. One of the night patrols heard a sound and shone his light on the frightened boy who crouched and turned himself into a ball, whimpering. He dragged the boy from his hiding place and brought him inside the camp. Sensing that he might be hungry the soldier made him a corned-beef sandwich and throwing a blanket at him went out. At first the boy was reluctant to try the strange-looking meal in his hand but being terribly hungry, he took a small tentative bite and found that he liked it! He finished it in no time and was soon fast asleep, wrapped in the smelly blanket.

  The next morning, he told the first soldier he met that he wanted to work for the ‘sahibs’. He was taken to the camp commander who asked him, ‘What is your name?’

  He replied, ‘My name Pokenmong. I Naga.’

  ‘What do you want?’ To this he could not say anything. Again he was asked, ‘What do you want?’ The commander was getting exasperated and his first instinct was to boot him out of the camp. But he saw that the strange boy was trying to say something. So he asked again, ‘What do you want?’

  Pokenmong looked at the white man and began to march, shouting, ‘left, right, left, right’. The commander burst out laughing and instructed his adjutant to assign to him whatever menial work needed to be done in the camp. Pokenmong did whatever he was assigned to do: stacking empty cartons, sweeping the paths, peeling potatoes, washing dishes, wiping tables. He did not require to be told twice; it was as if he was trying to prove to them that he was needed by them. It was the same tactic that he had used when he was working in the other households. When he left a place, it was because he wanted to and not because he was turned out. Seeing these white men had opened a whole new world to the homeless boy and he wanted to stay with them to learn more. When evening came no one thought of turning him out of the camp. Instead, the cook took him behind the kitchen and gave him a plate full of beef stew and bread. Later on, Pokenmong washed the pots and pans while the cook sprawled in a chair and smoked.

  Within a few days, the commander forgot that he had actually wanted the boy out of the camp at all; he seemed so indispensable. Any errand to be done, it was, ‘Call Pok-what?’ They found it difficult to pronounce the full name and made it into Porky. Shoes needed to be polished, call Porky; vests needed to be washed, tell Porky. The camp rang out with come here Porky, go there Porky, run Porky and where are you Porky? Within a month, Pokenmong picked up the basic words and even some of the choice words which he often used without really understanding the meanings, to the delight of the camp for whom he had become something of a mascot. Pokenmong responded to his new name quite readily, but something was bothering him. He began to think: why should he do all the work all over the camp? And should he not ask for wages? But before he did that, he had to be ‘needed’ at one single place all the time, and must have a regular kind of assignment.

  So he started to hang around the commander’s hut; sweeping the surroundings immaculately, then picking up bricks from all over the camp to lay a neat little foot-path for the commander from his hut to the field office, some hundred meters away. This done, he began to scour the adjoining fields looking for plants and planted them around the hut. The commander was impressed by the boy’s initiative and decided to make him an assistant to his orderly. Pokenmong’s plan was working and soon if any one wanted his services, they had to ask the commander’s orderly first. He was a fast learner and by watching the other man constantly, he learnt to tidy up the hut, polish the commander’s shoes just the way he liked them and was always at his door anticipating the big man’s commands. Instead of being at the beck and call of every one in the camp, he became the commander’s Man Friday and how he enjoyed his changed status! He even thought of asking to be paid a regular wage.

  A year had already gone by since that day when Pokenmong decided to hitch his fortune to the strangers in those huge trucks. Since then, he had learnt more of their language and their mannerisms. He learnt to say hi, good morning, goodnight, but good afternoon was always his weak point. Another thing which fascinated him was the machine the commander spoke to in his hut; every day after he went to his office, Pokenmong would look all over the thing to find out who or what was hiding inside the strange-looking instrument.

  On Sundays, the commander would be gone for most part of the day and it was then that Pokenmong would venture outside the camp area and investigate what lay beyond. During one such outing, he stumbled on a small village of about twenty-odd houses where some farmers lived with their families. The villagers were suspicious at first, but when they learnt that the boy worked for the ‘sahibs’ in the airfield, they became very curious. They plied him with all kinds of questions: what the strange-looking men ate, how they treated him, were they really human beings? Pokenmong laughed at the questions and told them that the sahibs were ‘just like us’ and were in fact very good to him. He told them that he was the assistant to the ‘burra sahib’ and that he could enter his hut any time he wanted! The villagers were amazed at this boy’s good fortune to be living and eating with the ‘gora sahibs’. He was immediately taken to the gaonburah’s house where he was once again quizzed by the elders. The villagers were living in anxiety given the proximity of the white men’s camp; they did not know that the Great War was over. They were so jittery that whenever they heard the planes they all ran into the nearby jungles. Pokenmong assured them that they need not do that any more as the planes were merely transporting men and materials from the area and that very soon the whole camp would be gone. They listened to him attentively and requested him to come the next Sunday too with more news. The gaonburah’s wife cooked a delicious meal and after what seemed like ages, Pokenmong had rice, daal and meat curry, which for a moment reminded him of Jiten’s household. But he soon dismissed the thought and he began to think of what would happen to him after the white soldiers left the country. He realized that he had to plan for his own survival once again.

  During the whole of the ensuing week, Pokenmong was distracted by his worry about the future and went about the camp like one who did not know where he was. The commander noticed this and called him one evening into his tent and began to question him as best as he could; though the young man had become fairly conversant with English, he lacked the vocabulary for any serious talk. The commander asked him,

  ‘What is wrong, Porky? You sick?’

  ‘No sahib, no sick here,’ pointing to his body, ‘but sick here,’ holding his head.

  ‘Why Porky, why?’

  ‘You go, all go, and Porky no go. Porky go where? Porky no house, no village, no mommy, no daddy. You my daddy, after Jiten baba. But Jiten baba angry, Porky run away. Porky mad, mad.’ And he began to whimper like a wounded animal.

  The white man was perplexed at this turn of events. He had hardly thought of Porky as capable of thinking about the future. Sure he liked the boy and admitted that it was very convenient to have him around the camp but beyond that, he did not spare a moment’s thought to the future of the boy who had become a fixture in his camp. Try as he would, he could not find words to console the distraught boy, so he merely patted him and said, ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, Porky. Goodnight.’ Porky had learnt that ‘goodnight’ was a signal for dismissal and so with bowed head he went out of the tent towards his own quarters that he shared with the other menial staff.

  He waited for a summons from the commander every evening, but in vain. So on Saturday night, he went to the commander’s hut and knocked on the door. There was a gruff ‘Come in’ and when he saw Porky, he looked surprised. But he simply motioned for him to sit on a stool and continued writing. Porky waited and after what seemed like hours, the commander turned to him and began to speak, ‘Look Porky, we are all going back to America in three days’ time but we cannot take you with us. That’s it boy, Porky no can go with sahib, do you understand?’ Porky nodded, all the time looking at the white man as though at an apparition. The commander continued, ‘See, I have written here that whatever we leave behind will be yours: clothes, shoes, utensils, furniture, food, tents, tires and even a jeep in running condition. Do you understand? But Porky no go with Americans.’ Porky nodded again, this time with a new brightness in his eyes. The commander then called the boy towards him and gave him a bundle of notes, Indian currency which had become useless to them. By now Porky was definitely excited and he tried to execute a salute as he often saw the soldiers do. The white man seemed pleased that he had pacified Porky and somewhat eased his own conscience. Pokenmong’s career as a camp-hanger was thus terminated by the piece of paper that he held in his hand; it made him the inheritor of the abandoned camp in an almost defunct airfield.

  So the remnants of the foreign fighting forces loaded their pride and glory in war-weary aircraft and left the desolate camp to a bewildered youth with a sheet of paper carrying the insignia of the conquerors telling him that he was now lord and master of the vacant space and the debris that littered it. Pokenmong moped around the camp for two whole days, did not keep his appointment with the villagers and stared at the paper, trying to make out what the scribbling meant. He ignored the left-over gifts, the food rotted, and suddenly the camp was swamped by hordes of ants, rats and raucous crows which materialized out of nowhere. In the evenings, jackals who had previously been kept at bay by the soldiers’ guns, emboldened by the silence in the camp, roamed freely.

  On the third day, Pokenmong woke up with a new resolve: he would go to see the gaonburah and try to strike a deal with the villagers; he would sell them all the things left by the Americans. But in order to convince them, he had to put up a very strong case why they should buy the property from him, the new owner. So he began to inspect the camp and commit to memory the more valuable items. He counted the number of beds, chairs, tables and kitchen utensils. Next came the footwear, usable blankets, shirts, sweaters; even odd things like photo-frames, mirrors, magazines and bags and suitcases of various sizes and shapes. All these, he knew, would be of instant interest to the villagers. Next, he thought about the jeep; he knew there was a man in the village who was handyman to a truck driver in the town and might be interested in the vehicle.

  While he was mentally totting up this inventory, he began to doubt if the simple villagers would be interested in a pile of used goods left by some strangers. They might even reject the entire idea. The more he thought about this possibility, the more disturbed he became. But he was not willing to give up yet; he had to find a way to make some capital out of his stint with the Americans. He asked himself, what does an ordinary farmer value most? And the answer came to him instinctively: the land! He remembered now how his father used to talk and dream about owning more land to cultivate, and he understood that it was this frustration which had made him so ill-tempered. He believed that no farmer would scoff at an offer of land, to be had so easily. So he decided to play this card: he would sell the entire air-field and as a bonus, would give them everything else in it, including the jeep. It would be the biggest attraction for the villagers! He was jubilant; he believed that he had found the best argument to convince them. He lost no time and after a bath and a meal put together from some tins, he made for the village. It did not bother him that it was almost evening.

  When he reached the village, the menfolk had just returned from their fields. After the preliminary pleasantries, he made for the gaonburah’s cottage where he unfurled the precious document given to him by the commander and explained to the assembled farmers what he had in mind. At first the villagers were non-committal; some even went to the extent of doubting the veracity of Pokenmong’s claim about what was written in the piece of paper. But the gaonburah’s son who was studying in class VII in the town happened to be there and he was asked to read and translate the writing. Though he was not yet proficient in English, he did not want embarrass himself and looked for the word ‘airfield’ which would lend credence to his translation. To his delight and Pokenmong’s relief, he found the word in three places in the document and assured the farmers that Pokenmong was telling the truth.

  So the villagers went into a serious huddle and after long deliberation, decided to buy the airfield collectively and divide it later. They were not enthusiastic about the other stuff but Pokenmong said that they could have it anyway and left it at that. They argued late into the night regarding the cost of the land; the gaonburah said Pokenmong was asking an exorbitant amount; he replied that they were getting a good bargain, what with the land being adjacent to their village and not very far from the main road. They negotiated through the impromptu dinner prepared by the gaonburah’s wife and endless cups of black tea. Towards the wee hours of the morning when the first cock crowed, the gaonburah quoted a sum to which, after some show of hesitation, Pokenmong agreed. Inwardly he too, was crowing because he was getting Rs 500 for a piece of land which did not really belong to him and which he believed he would never see again. The entire group then slept for a few hours and at daybreak the others went to their own homes while the gaonburah counted out the money from the village fund. Pokenmong was served a hearty breakfast of flattened rice with jaggery and a steaming cup of tea with milk and sugar. He pocketed the money and went out of the house into the unknown once again.

  Trouble started when the villagers began to divide the land and started digging up the field. For a week or so their activities went unnoticed but one day an official-looking man appeared at the gaonburah’s house and began asking questions. He was shown the piece of paper written by the camp commander and told that they had bought the airfield from a boy called Pokenmong. He asked, ‘Where is he?’ No one had the answer; they had not bothered to ask him where he was from or where he was going. When the official read the document he began to laugh and told the villagers that they were really and truly a bunch of idiots because the airfield had never belonged to this person who sold had it. All that the villagers could do was hang their heads in shame and regret and curse the boy who had sold them an airfield.

  The Letter

  There was an uneasy quiet in the village: the underground extortionists had come and gone and along with them the hard-earned cash the villagers had earned by digging the first alignment for a motorable road to their village. It was a work that had been assigned to them by the Border Roads Organization, after much lobbying and often acrimonious negotiations. The BRO had at first refused to out-source work to the villagers saying that they had enough manpower to dig the alignment by themselves. The villagers had countered by saying that since the road was being constructed through their land, as landowners they had to be involved in demarcating the route which, otherwise, might encroach on the territory of the neighbouring village, and which in turn might lead to unnecessary complications. The contract was eventually awarded to them and they completed the work two days ahead of time. All those engaged in the work had different plans about spending the cash. A few of them wanted to put tin roofs on their houses; some had already entered into negotiations to buy pairs of bulls to plough their fields. One man had actually taken some planks from a neighbour on credit to repair his floor and was going to pay him off after he received his wages from the BRO.

 

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