Rangchwanga and his men lay prone in the dense jungle near Thingdawl, eyes fixed on the road. The sight of the military van was too much to resist. Rangchwanga squeezed the trigger, his gun erupting with a loud boom-boom, sending bullets tearing into the vehicle. His comrades immediately joined in.
But the retaliation was swift.
From the other side, a relentless tak-tak-tak of automatic fire shredded the foliage around them.
“Oh my god,” one rebel muttered, pressing himself into the dirt. “I think I poked a hornet’s nest.”
“Huh,” another grunted. “Government bullets are cheap. They’re firing like they want to riddle the entire mountain with holes.”
The tak-tak-tak echoed across the vast hills, punctuated only by the occasional heavy boom from the rebels’ older rifles. The resistance only seemed to agitate the enemy further. The soldiers split into three groups, flanking the rebels and pouring fire into their hideout from multiple angles.
Suddenly, the firing stopped. A shout echoed from the road below: “March ahead! Surround them on three sides!”
“Oh no,” a comrade whispered, panic rising. “The bastards are closing in.”
“Fire at them!” Rangchwanga roared.
The rebels unleashed a fresh volley. The sudden roar of gunfire stopped the soldiers in their tracks, forcing them to dive for cover and spray bullets blindly into the jungle.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Rangchwanga ordered a retreat. While the soldiers wasted ammunition shaking the mountain with suppressive fire, the rebels slipped away, rolling backward into the inaccessible depths of the forest.
Long after the rebels had vanished, the military officers ordered a combing operation. “They must be caught,” the command came down.
One unit, driven by adrenaline and strict orders, pushed too far. They plunged deep into the jungle, losing their bearings in the dense, silent wilderness. Separated from the main force, their mission shifted from hunting rebels to simple survival. As the terrible darkness of night engulfed the forest, despair set in. Every rustle of leaves sounded like a Mizo attack or a stalking predator. Terrified and lost, the jawans huddled together in the dark, waiting for a dawn that felt an eternity away.
Before the sun had even fully risen, the jawans decided they couldn’t stay put. They had to find the road. They moved cautiously through the grey morning mist until they stumbled upon a small clearing.
There, sleeping soundly in the open, were six or seven men.
The soldiers froze. It was them. The rebels.
A sudden surge of hope replaced their fear. If they could capture these men, they wouldn’t just be the lost unit—they would be heroes. Visions of glory, perhaps even a Param Vir Chakra, flashed before them. Why should they be deprived of victory when fate had delivered it to their feet?
Silently, they formed a circle.
Rangchwanga and his men, exhausted after five hours of fighting and trekking, had collapsed in what they thought was a safe haven. Fatigue had claimed them so completely that they didn’t hear the enemy approach. They woke with a start to find themselves surrounded, guns pointed at their heads.
It was a terrible accident of fate. The unit that had lost its way had stumbled upon the very men they had failed to catch.
As the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, casting a reddish glow across the forest, the jawans marched their prisoners out. They still didn’t know the way, but eventually, the sound of a distant vehicle guided them to a hillock overlooking the main road. They descended in triumph, flagging down a convoy to transport their prize back to camp.
Meanwhile, near Bairengti, another rebel group led by Sema faced a similar reality. They had attacked a convoy, but the counter-attack had been overwhelming. The security forces, stung by repeated ambushes, had reinforced their positions with heavy weaponry. Fighting them head-on was suicide—like walking into the mouth of a cannon.
Sema and his men broke off the engagement and retreated northeast through the jungle. For two days they marched, their bodies going numb, their stomachs twisting with hunger.
They reached a hillock overlooking the Rukni River. The water flowed gently, murmuring as it wound its way down to the plains. The men scrambled down to drink, splashing water on their tired faces. Refreshed but still starving, they sat on the hillock, listening to the birds and the river—a peaceful contrast to their desperate situation.
“We’ve come a long way,” one man said heavily. “We’re cut off from the main force.”
“The military is everywhere,” another added. “They’ve set up camps every few miles. If we aren’t careful, we’re finished.”
“To avoid capture, we have to stay away from the main road,” Sema decided. “We’ll go through the deep jungle. It will take longer, but it’s safer.”
“But what about rations?” a comrade asked, clutching his stomach. “We are starving.”
That was the critical question. Without contact with the main force, they had no supply line. They were on their own.
Sema looked down at the river. On the other side, where the hills gave way to the Cachar plains, lay a small village called Tulartal. It was the last settlement on the border, cut off from modern transport—even a jeep had to stop seven miles away.
“Let’s go to that village,” Sema said, pointing. “We’ll ask for food.”
“Will they give it to us?”
“If they don’t, we come back. If they try to stop us… well, we have our guns.”
They crossed the river and entered Tulartal.
The sight of seven armed men marching in a line sent a shockwave through the village. Thanks to government propaganda, the villagers knew all about the “dangerous” Mizo rebels.
“The Mizos are here! Run!”
Panic erupted. Men, women, and children fled north without looking back, spreading the terror to the neighboring Bagewala basti. Within moments, the village was a ghost town.
Sema hadn’t expected this. “Well,” he said, looking at the abandoned huts. “Since they’ve left the door open, let’s see if we can find anything to eat.”
They searched the thatched houses one by one. But they found nothing.
“Damn,” a tired rebel swore. “Their condition is worse than ours. These people must survive on air.”
Realizing it was pointless—and dangerous—to linger, they turned back. As they retreated toward the jungle, they spotted a few cows and calves grazing in a field, blissfully unaware of the politics of war.
“We won’t go back empty-handed,” Sema muttered. They grabbed two or three calves and dragged them into the forest. Dinner, at least, was secured.
At the Hawaithang beat office, the babu was relaxing in his chair when a procession of terrified villagers arrived.
“What is this?” he asked, annoyed. “A strike? A demand for wages?”
“Babu!” an elder cried. “The Mizos are attacking!”
“Mizos?” The babu sat up straight.
“Yes! They are looting Tulartal. Burning houses! Firing guns!”
“How many?”
“Many, Babu! Dozens! They came from the river!”
Panic seized the officer. If Tulartal was under attack, his office was next. He scrambled to the phone.
“Hello? Sir? The Mizos are attacking Tulartal Bagewala basti! They are burning houses! Killing people!”
The bureaucratic machine groaned into action. Eventually, a massive security force arrived to “crush” the invasion.
It turned out to be much ado about nothing. There were no burnt houses. No dead bodies. No looted gold. The only casualties, a later census revealed, were a few missing cows.
Nevertheless, taking no chances, the security forces established a permanent camp in Bagewala. They dug trenches and built a fifty-foot watchtower. There, a vigilant guard stands duty day and night, staring into the distance. So far, he hasn’t seen a single rebel hair—only the breeze and the beautiful, indifferent scenery.