I'd Rather Fly a Chopper Read online

  Animals Versus Pilots!

  HASHI HATHIS

  My first operational posting as a pilot officer was to Hashimara in West Bengal, along its border with Assam. Except for the runway, the entire base was covered in dense forest that stood out like a sore thumb among the acres of cultivated land for miles around. Jaldapara Sanctuary was about 50 km away, and this stretch must have been part of the ancient trail of elephant herds that once roamed freely. As a result, a regular feature was the appearance of elephants during seasons coinciding with certain harvests.

  If you were to ask any old-timer at Hashimara, he would swear by the fact that these massive but gentle giants stuck to the forests and had never damaged any worthwhile air force assets. However, in 1983, it was ordained differently. I remember the excitement of the just-formed ‘Thunderbolts’ aerobatic team and their daily practice over the base. The base commander, a veteran fighter pilot of the 1971 war fame, and his advisers decided that something had to be done about this pachyderm problem. While sightings were reported from the forests, one incident involved a uniformed guard who had fired a shot in the air to frighten a herd, which he could just about discern in the forests. An enraged matriarch had pulled down his makeshift chowkidar machan. He had, of course, run away as the herd approached.

  A count revealed seventeen elephants in the herd, including some young ones. The advice of old-timers was to let it go, but to no avail. The herd was tracked and disturbed to shoo them away, but the forests were too thick and it remained cohesive. A war room was activated and minds got together to ‘solve’ the problem. It was finally decided that a helicopter would be used to shoo them away. So, on the third day after the first sighting, my flight commander took me along for some fun flying. We located the herd in the middle of the thick forest. Every trick in the book, including low passes, mock dives and even direct hovering over them, was tried. I wasn’t even aware that a helicopter could be so manoeuvrable! At the end of an hour, the herd had dispersed and disappeared. Mighty satisfied, we returned as saviours. But the halo was short-lived.

  While earlier the herd was always sighted together, now reports came in of multiple small herds and solitary elephants from virtually all over the station. Desperate to find each other, they went on a rampage wherever challenged. Everything came to a stop for the next few days, including the Thunderbolts. Finally, the forest department at Jaldapara was consulted. Following their advice, the herd was not disturbed any further, some damage was tolerated and the herd was allowed to gather and leave after a few days. The pachyderms had done more damage in a few days than what they had managed to do in the last two decades. Incidentally, the elephants returned over the next two years that I was there. But now the commanders of Hashimara were wiser!

  TOOTSIE

  My first dog after joining the IAF, Tootsie, was a golden Lhasa apso from the King of Bhutan’s royal kennel. I was privileged to fly the king’s sisters and others over a few days. The king was not allowed in a single-engine helicopter. When His Highness asked if he could do anything for me, I requested for a pup. Like every mountain dog, Tootsie was extremely temperamental and forever in a fight with me as to who was the boss. I was a Dustin Hoffman fan, and therefore the name; as also the fact that you could never make out which side was the head and which the tail!

  It was a mistake to own a pet as a bachelor. With so many moves and detachments at faraway places like Guwahati and Aizawl, it was impossible to take Tootsie along in a service helicopter. However, in the winter of 1984, I was asked to move to Aizawl the next day. No one agreed to care for a loveable but temperamental pet. There was just no way I could find anyone to look after Tootsie. I did the unthinkable—packed him in a carton with holes and took him along in the chopper. At the intermediate halt for refuelling at Shillong, I managed to pull off a hoodwinking act with those present and took him out to do his job. Finally, we were at Aizawl with all its freedom. Our sahayak, or helper, became very fond of Tootsie, and he became the darling of all the army soldiers and officers who were with us.

  Tootsie also used to accompany us to the helipad, where he was free to roam around under watchful eyes. I did notice a lot of locals (Mizos) who would turn up to admire him, and the crowd kept getting bigger as the days passed. It was only after a few days that a local friend of mine, Zoramthanga, warned me about taking care of my pet. Perplexed, I asked him what was wrong. He in turn queried, ‘Have you seen any dog for miles around?’ I realized that this observation was true—there were no dogs around. Why? Because among some tribes, dog meat is a favourite! On the very next helicopter going back, I took Tootsie to the safety of Hashimara. The only dogs around in the hundreds of helipads in Mizoram and Nagaland were those kept as sentry dogs by the army and Border Security Force. They gave early warning of arriving locals or insurgents.

  THOISE TROUBLES

  My entire family adores dogs and swears by the loyalty of man’s best friend. However, I will relate two incidents that happened in Ladakh, which taught me to be slightly circumspect. As a young flight lieutenant, I used to be deployed for detachments at Thoise in the Nubra Valley, beyond the famed Khardung La Pass. Winters there were truly harsh with temperatures plummeting to as low as -25 degrees Celsius, and even lower when the wind-chill factor was considered. We used to stay in temporary sheds-cum-mud constructions. In fact, prefabricated huts with insulation had just arrived on the scene—the initial ones were reserved for senior functionaries. Like all such forward bases, the place had a large strength of local dogs (mastiffs and hybrids) that usually waited for scraps and slept in the sun by day. Our days used to end early. Dinner was finished one hour after sunset, with heavy drinkers taking a little more time. Do remember that one had to get up early to prepare the helicopters in sub-zero temperatures. First take-offs were at sunrise, with the sun still hidden in the mountains for another hour. Life was tough but very satisfying while actively supporting the battle for the Siachen Glacier. In the old days, there were quite a few heavy drinkers, but then we were blissfully ignorant; unlike today, where medical science and our doctors have more than caught up with the latest on alcohol-related issues.

  One morning in the winter of 1990, some airmen going towards the helicopters in the dark discovered a half-eaten body of a junior warrant officer. He had alcohol dependence syndrome (ADS) and had probably had one too many that night. While walking back alone, he saw a pack of about twenty dogs that magically congregated when humans went to sleep. In his stupor, he threw a stone at the pack, which was not really interested in him. We got to know this later from one of his friends who recounted that he had thrown stones at them earlier as well, going by his boasts at the bar. But that night, the pack attacked him and due to scarcity of food, ate half of his body. As far as I remember, it never happened again for decades.

  After almost twenty years, I was back at Leh airbase as the commander. Seeing a large number of stray dogs at the station, my lessons from the yesteryears served to motivate me to address the situation. I needed help from the adjoining engineer force (GREF), so I met the commanding officer. He consulted his camp and politely declined, saying that they had coexisted for years without any problem. Anyway, I did my bit to ensure aircraft operations in Leh were not compromised.

  The IAF’s IL-76, a large-bodied aeroplane, is colloquially called ‘IL-Baba’ in winters since it is the lifeline of Ladakh when all roads and passes close. We used to start a small vegetable shop on a no-profit-no-loss basis for the villagers around. The menu that night, or the next day, depended on whether IL-Baba came in or not. Villagers would make a beeline for the shop. One day, a GREF labourer’s family sent their thirteen-year-old daughter to stand in the line for some vegetables. Her house was barely 100 metres away but through a narrow ‘gali’ or lane. By the time she started back, darkness had fallen; there was snow all around and it was cold. No one heard any commotion in their homes because of noisy bukharis, charcoal or fuel-based heating devices, running at their full capacity. And anyway, dogs would fight among themselves every night.

  When the girl did not return till 9 p.m., a search was launched for her. At the air force gate, which closed much earlier, the crowd was told that no civilian was inside. After some searching, they discovered a pack of dogs that was still eating her. These were the same strays that infested the entire area every day. The next day, a sad commanding officer of the GREF came to me to apologize. In the next few days, they exterminated almost twenty dogs, not realizing that as long as food refuse or waste was available, they would thrive and multiply. One had to be careful at night in the harsh winters of Leh.

  BACHIYA AND A MAN-EATING TIGER

  I love the mountains and none compare to our own majestic Himalayas. There is an entire range of wooded hills beneath the highest mountains in the world—full of flora and fauna of great diversity. While at school in TAFS, I always volunteered for the autumn excursions to Corbett National Park or the Kumaon hills. This love remains till date. I have read everything ever written by Jim Corbett and consider him an icon of courage and compassion with regard to wild animals. Man-eating fears are quite natural for people just initiated into jungles. It takes awareness and knowledge to realize how rare man-eaters are and why some big cats turn into them.

  In 1986, I had gone on a long rafting camp on the Ganges while training for an expedition on River Zanskar. The camp was opposite Shivpuri village in Uttarakhand, through which the highway passed. On reaching Shivpuri, we used to ferry across by rafts to the campsite. Tigers and leopards were regular sightings from this side, especially if one had patience. It was heaven—hard work in the early mornings, rafting and practice up to Rishikesh till noon and then idyllic relaxation till sunset with a campfire before turning in early for the night.

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; One day, we had a visitor from Delhi—a Mr Menon working in the defence ministry, quite obviously on a leisure trip. He came across in the early evening but seemed to be crest-fallen and quite ashen-faced. While waiting for the raft at Shivpuri, he claimed to have clearly heard the villagers say that a tiger had lifted a bachcha, or child, the previous night. He had inquired again and the villagers had repeated, ‘Bagh bachcha utha le gaya.’ He had actually decided to go back, but no vehicle was available. We had no way to confirm this, and suddenly the thought of tiger sightings became a threat. That night, the campfire would not end since no one wanted to leave the group for the tents, which were a little further away. A luxury tent had been erected for Menon, but he insisted on sleeping in my tent. You can imagine the sleepless night; loud coughs and torch flashes ensued all through.

  The next morning, a headcount showed all in, including Menon. There was a big hurry to get across and speak to the people of the village. The mystery got resolved in a jiffy. A tiger had lifted a calf, or bachra (in local dialect ‘bachiya’). The ‘ch’ in bachcha and bachiya are distinctive to Hindi-speaking people. But Menon, who was from south India, picked up on what he feared most in his heart and heard ‘bachcha’. The result was a sleepless night for all of us, but the great relief afterwards more than made up for it. However, Menon left the same day.

  MOHANBARI MUSINGS

  The helicopter base at Dibrugarh, Upper Assam, is known to the IAF as Mohanbari, named after a small village adjoining the base. With its mighty Mi-17 helicopters, this base has been a pillar of support in war and peace in the Northeast, particularly in Assam and Arunachal Pradesh. The logo of the base is a snarling leopard amid forests and tea gardens. In 1942, huge forests were cleared to construct the base. It was initially called Lahoal Air Force Base. As with many airfields in the India’s Northeast, World War II operations saw the airfield very busy with cargo-carrying trips over the hump to Burma and China. After Independence, Mohanbari was instrumental in creating an air bridge to the most forward areas of the Northeast. Leopards still did the rounds and it was not unusual in the 1980s–90s to come across them. There is a popular belief that leopards love dog meat. There is an even more popular story of an officer named Gill, whose pet (Rani) was once chased by a leopard in the evening on a road between the officers’ houses. The only thing that saved the dog was Gill chasing right behind, yelling at the top of his voice! Old friends who were there at that time swear by this story. Till date, that road is known as Leopard Lane.

  When I was a CO there in early 2000, I used to go for my weekend runs along the ‘kutcha’ perimeter road. On at least eight occasions, I spotted pug marks and twice, a leopard. One evening, the station commander came around collecting all the children playing in the park for a free leopard sighting tour. A call had come in from a sentry regarding this. From a distance of about 150 metres, this noisy bunch watched two leopards (a mother and an almost fully grown cub) playing near the perimeter wall. The mother was sitting on the wall while the youngster was frolicking in the grass, oblivious to all the commotion. Suddenly, the commander grabbed the sentry’s rifle and fired an aimed shot. Thankfully, it hit the wall between the two animals. In a flash, they disappeared into the adjoining tea gardens. It was only later that realization dawned that had he hit either of them, he would have committed a crime. His excuse till date is that he aimed between them!

  MAJESTIC MITHUNS

  Mithuns, which are a cross between wild gaur and domestic cattle, are revered all over India’s Northeast. Among the many tribes of Arunachal Pradesh, such as the Mishmis and Apatanis, they are a symbol of wealth and well-being and a must as dowry to the bride’s side. They are actually semi-wild, as I found out to my dismay.

  I was on a squadron trek from Hayuliang on River Lohit to Chakla Gaon towards the Chinese border. It was an arduous six-day trek along a narrow track through steep mountains that were heavily forested. Only one person could be on this track with vertical downward slopes on one side and thickly vegetated upward slopes on the other. We had started as a six-member team, but by the fourth day, only two of us were left since the others had fallen sick and were left behind at Border Road Organization set-ups. The purpose of the trek was to identify potential areas to be cleared for helipads to support road-building efforts by air.

  The going was tough and we were looking forward to reaching our destination, which was another camp just one day away from Chakla Gaon. We had been warned of the presence of leeches, especially the havildar leech that was famous among army soldiers. They were so named because of the three sergeant-like yellow stripes that ran along their bodies when they were full of blood. As we turned a bend, I stopped abruptly as, right in front of me, about 15 feet away, was a mithun occupying the entire space. Panic subsided when we realized that the animal was absolutely ‘chilled out’, with no movement except for an occasional swish of the tail. It gave an aura of calmness, infinite patience and, of course, a sturdy resolve to have his way. After about ten minutes, we realized that the only ones that needed to give way was us. The slope towards the valley was too steep and dangerous, while the upwards slope was slippery with no solid branches to hold on to. Anyway, after some effort, we managed to crawl up on all fours and hang on to whatever vegetation we could. But the giant would not move. After an interminable half an hour, the beast finally moved. It ambled below us in slow motion, as if to rub in the insult even more. We got down after it passed. It was massive and may have weighed more than a tonne.

  On reaching our destination, the first cup of tea was heavenly, until something dropped out of my windcheater sleeve. It was a fully bloated havildar leech. On further examination, and a lot of salt and cigarette treatment later, we counted about twenty of them between the two of us. All of them had crawled in when we were clutching at the leaves on the upslope. Quite obviously, our mithun had the proverbial last laugh.

  SOMETHING FISHY

  In Latin, India means the country of the River Indus. The mighty Indus flows majestically through a wide valley where Leh is nestled. As a helicopter pilot, I had been associated with the river since 1987, when a rafting camp was held here. I had come from Jaisalmer in Rajasthan to a new kind of desert. Since then, I have flown various helicopters in Ladakh, but the beauty of the Indus remained unsurpassable. Swimming in the cold waters seems to truly cleanse one of all mental stress, if not ‘paap’.

  There is abundant fish in the river, especially mountain trout. However, the rainbow trout, a delicacy served in Leh restaurants, is not from the local river but from Manali in Himachal Pradesh. I got to know the reason a few decades later, when I commanded the airbase at Leh. No one fishes in the stretch of the Indus that flows through Leh valley. Not only is it a national park (Hemis), but the fish are also considered sacred by certain Buddhist sects. According to some locals, as part of religious rites, when a person from one of these sects dies, the body is cut up into many parts, prayed to and then offered to the river and its fishes. That is why no one eats these fishes. However, way downstream, around Kargil, there is considerable fishing of mountain trout.

  During the same rafting camp in 1987, we used to start driving east to Hemis before sunrise, raft down crossing abeam Leh, and finally stop at Nimu where the Indus and Zanskar meet. While driving back from Nimu to Leh, we invariably stopped at the famous Sikh shrine of Pathar Sahib for langar. Guru Nanak Dev, the founder of the Sikh religion, is said to have visited this spot. While meditating below a hill, a demon had tried to kill him by nudging a large boulder downhill. The stone, however, had stopped just short of Guru Nanak Dev. ‘Pathar’ means stone in Hindi, which is why the shrine is called Pathar Sahib. Through the decades, every soldier and regiment deployed in these areas pays obeisance here and offers seva.