The sun was sinking rapidly toward the western horizon, casting long, fading rays across the mountain peaks. Yangaya, Jitinga, and a comrade navigated the serpentine path that cut through the impenetrable jungle. The light shifted and dulled by the minute; they had to reach the Sailo punjee before nightfall swallowed the mountains completely.
Jitinga had worried that Yangaya, having lived abroad for so long, would struggle on this rugged terrain. He was wrong. Yangaya kept pace effortlessly, his face showing no sign of fatigue. He walked with the steady rhythm of a man returning home.
At the hideout, General Thu-Aya, Jaichoanga, Rema, and rebels from every region had already gathered. It felt almost like a party—a specifically Mizo rebel kind of party. Born from the tension of daily warfare, this ananda utsav (festival of joy) was a necessity, a release valve for men constantly living in the shadow of death. Here, they didn’t discuss trivialities; they exchanged war stories, debated strategy, and fortified their resolve for the battles ahead.
Everyone knew each other—except for Yangaya. Yet, even those who had never seen him recognized him instantly. They welcomed him with warm smiles, but Rema ignored the pleasantries. He walked straight to his old friend, the companion of his youth, and pulled him into a silent, crushing embrace. Overwhelmed, Rema couldn’t speak; tears simply rolled down his cheeks. Yangaya, usually stoic, felt his own defenses crumble under the weight of such sincere love. He composed himself quickly, pulling Rema down to sit beside him on the machan inside the house.
A single lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a dim, intimate glow over the room. Thu-Aya, Jaichoanga, Jitinga, and the others settled onto the machan, forming a circle. Outside, four men kept watch—two preparing dinner in a nearby hut, two patrolling the perimeter. It was a strategic necessity, invisible to the security forces but vital for their survival.
Rema pulled a bylo from his pocket and handed it to Yangaya. Yangaya accepted it with a grateful smile. Abroad, he had smoked cigarettes, but initially, he had craved the raw, earthy taste of the native tobacco. Lighting it, he inhaled deeply, and a memory from his college days in Shillong floated to the surface.
He remembered sitting in a tea shop when a Bengali classmate had asked, “Hello Mr., what brand of cigarette are you smoking?”
“This is our native brand,” Yangaya had replied. “We call it Bailoo. It’s made of a special tobacco that grows in plenty in our Mizo Hills.”
“What a nice smell! Will you offer me one?”
“Why not! Take more than one.”
He remembered how fascinated the boy had been by the rough, newspaper-rolled cheroot.
Jitinga, watching Rema and Yangaya enjoy their smoke, feigned outrage. “Hey! Is there only enough for you and your friend? Don’t we have cravings too? Give it here!”
He snatched the packet from Rema and passed bylos to everyone in the circle, pantomiming a desperate addiction. The room erupted in laughter. Even Rema laughed, though he looked a bit sheepish at being the butt of the joke.
As the laughter died down, General Thu-Aya called the meeting to order.
“First,” he began, looking at the newcomer, “I must speak of Yangaya. Though he has not been with us in the jungle until now, he is one of us. From this moment on, he is a true warrior of our armed struggle. Our path is his path.”
Yangaya nodded his assent, and Thu-Aya turned back to the group. “Now, let us review our past days.”
Jaichoanga spoke first, listing the victories of his platoon. “The ambush led by General Thu-Aya was our most significant success. Five military vans destroyed, weapons captured. The other engagements were smaller, but effective.”
Jitinga followed. “We are winning more than we are losing,” he said. “The security forces are angry and bewildered. In their frustration, they are lashing out at civilians. They surround punjees without cause, arresting everyone—old men, thirteen-year-old boys, even pregnant women—accusing them all of being M.N.F. volunteers. And worse,” his voice darkened, “from the commanders down to the foot soldiers, they are committing unspeakable atrocities against our women.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. The image of helpless sixteen-year-old girls falling prey to “beastly lust” ignited a cold fire in their veins. The desire for revenge was palpable, vibrating in the air like a plucked string.
Rema broke the silence. “We fight for freedom. And they? They claim to be enforcing ’law and order’ to protect the country’s integrity.”
“We feel the effects of this ‘due enforcement’ in our bones,” Jitinga spat. “In the name of law, they crush the limbs of our elders and wipe out our villages.”
General Thu-Aya spoke, his voice calm but hard as flint. “Their brutality is inevitable. When a nation rises for liberation, the oppressor will use any measure to suppress it. History proves this. The more we succeed, the more desperate they will become. But they will fail. No matter how small the country, a great enemy cannot suppress a people united in resistance. We must spread our struggle extensively.”
He paused to light a bylo, the smoke curling around his weathered face.
Yangaya had listened intently. Thu-Aya’s strategic mind impressed him, but he felt a piece of the puzzle was missing.
“General,” Yangaya asked, “what is the perception of our struggle outside the Mizo district? What does the world think of us?”
Thu-Aya exhaled a cloud of smoke and smiled grimly. “News travels, certainly. Those who value freedom sympathize with us. But our enemies propagate lies. They say we are puppets of missionaries, instigated by foreigners to destabilize the government. They paint us as ‘hill savages’ who wouldn’t know what to do with independence if we got it.”
“Can’t we counter this?” Yangaya pressed. “Send our own message out?”
“We can,” Thu-Aya nodded. “But propaganda without action is hollow. Look at Vietnam. The world supports them not because they tell sad stories, but because they fight an uncompromising war against a superpower. If we fight with honor and strength, our character will speak for itself. A freedom fighter cannot beg for mercy; he must demand respect through victory.”
The logic resonated deeply with everyone. We will prove who we are by how we fight, they thought. We are not puppets. We are self-reliant.
The discussion continued until nearly ten o’clock, when the men from the kitchen hut announced dinner.
“Let’s eat while it’s hot,” Rema said, eager to break the tension.
“Yes, yes,” Jitinga quipped, gesturing for the pots. “We must get hot to stay hot.”
They sat in a circle, eating rice and pork with their hands, savoring the warmth and the company.
“How is it?” Rema asked Yangaya.
“Good,” Yangaya replied softly. “We must be tolerant, Rema. And far-sighted, like Thu-Aya.”
“Hmm,” Rema mumbled through a mouthful of rice.
Jitinga slapped Rema on the back. “He is right! Experience clarifies the mind. But if we don’t eat, we can’t think. So shut up and eat!”
Laughter filled the room again. This was Jitinga’s gift—balancing the weight of war with the lightness of brotherhood.
The night wore on, filled with food, humor, and deep debate. They would talk until the early hours, solving problems and assigning duties. Before the first light of dawn touched the eastern sky, they would vanish from the Sailo punjee, scattering back to their posts to continue the war.