Rosangi and Lalchungi walked side by side along the narrow, undulating path that led from the jhum fields to their punjee. Each carried a large, sturdy basket on her back—woven from cane and distinct from the flimsy baskets of the plains. Secured by a strap across the forehead, these baskets left their hands free to navigate the steep, rugged terrain.
The path eventually intersected with the main road, right below a high hillock where the military had set up camp. As they reached the junction, Rosangi stopped. The long trek had been exhausting.
“Let’s rest,” she suggested, pointing to a spring that cascaded down from the hillock to merge with the road. The water flowed with a soothing murmur, cool and inviting.
She slipped the strap from her forehead, set her basket down, and descended to the stream. Lalchungi followed suit. As she lowered her basket, her eyes darted upward.
“A sepoy is watching us from the hill,” she whispered.
“Don’t look at him,” Rosangi cautioned, cupping water to her lips. “Drink quickly, and we’ll leave.”
They drank in silence, pretending to be alone in the world. But the tension was palpable.
“It’s hard to predict these rascals,” Rosangi murmured, wiping her mouth. “They get restless when they see us.”
“Should I take a peek? See what the bastard is doing?”
“No. Let’s go.”
They climbed back onto the road, hoisting their baskets. But the soldier on the hillock wasn’t ready to let the show end. He had been enjoying the view—the movement of the Mizo girls by the stream was a pleasant diversion in his monotonous duty. Seeing them prepare to leave, he decided to have some fun.
“Hey! You there! What are you doing?”
“Oh no,” Rosangi sighed. “The son of a bitch saw us. Now he’ll detain us just to flex his power.” She turned, plastering a polite smile on her face. “Babu Sahab, we just stopped for water.”
She gestured to Lalchungi to move. “Let’s go.”
“Hey! Listen! Come here!” the shout echoed louder.
“He won’t let us go that easily,” Lalchungi muttered.
“Hmm. We have no choice.” Rosangi leaned in close. “Listen, when we talk to him, use a little… charm. Be flirtatious. If he melts, we can slip away.”
Lalchungi suppressed a giggle but nodded, a hint of a smile playing on her lips as they walked toward the soldier.
The sepoy loomed over them, trying to look imposing. “Why are you dirtying the water down there?”
“Oh, no, Babu Sahab,” Rosangi said softly. “We weren’t dirtying it. We were just thirsty.”
“Hmm. Where do you live?”
“A little far from here. We pass by every day for work in the jhum fields.”
Lalchungi remembered her role. She gazed up at the soldier with wide, admiring eyes, as if he were the most fascinating man she had ever seen. The soldier preened under her attention.
“And you?” he asked Lalchungi, his voice softening. “Where is your house?”
“We are from the same punjee, Babu Sahab,” she replied sweetly.
“You walk here every day?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” the soldier puffed out his chest. “If you need water, come to the camp next time. Don’t go to that stream. Understood?”
“Okay, Babu Sahab,” they chorused.
As they turned to leave, Rosangi paused and looked back over her shoulder, smiling coyly. “Babu Sahab, you should visit our house one day. We would be very happy.”
The soldier grinned, hook, line, and sinker. “Okay, okay. I will definitely come.”
They walked briskly away. Once they were out of earshot, Rosangi let out a breath. “The bastard let us go easily.”
“He thinks he has a chance,” Lalchungi laughed. “If he pushed too hard today, he’d ruin his luck. That’s why he let us go.”
“He definitely thinks that. The way you were looking at him… I thought you’d actually fallen in love!”
“I was just following orders!” Lalchungi teased. “I conveyed the ‘flirtatious attitude’ perfectly.”
“Maybe too perfectly! But you have a good brain. If you hadn’t played along, he might have chased us into the jungle. Just be careful… if the men find out you’re flirting with sepoys, there will be trouble.”
“Let them talk,” Lalchungi said fiercely. “I’ll lead these bastards into a trap so deep they’ll never climb out.”
“Just don’t bring trouble to the punjee.”
“Trouble? We live in trouble, Rosangi. Panic is our shadow. We have to take risks to survive.”
They reached the punjee and parted ways at the fork.
“Mangtha,” Lalchungi said.
“Mangtha,” Rosangi replied.
Rosangi climbed the slope to her house, her body aching for rest.
That night, Rema was late. The clock in the distant church struck eight… then nine. Rosangi paced, anxiety tightening her chest. Usually, Rema was punctual.
Finally, a knock. She threw the door open and slumped with relief. “I was suffocating with worry.”
“Work kept me,” Rema said, kicking off his boots and stretching out on the machan. After a silence, he spoke again. “We can’t stay here much longer, Rosangi.”
“Why?”
“The government is cracking down. They are arresting suspects and forcing villagers into guarded settlements along the main road. They’ll break our punjee soon.”
“We’ll have to live like prisoners?”
“If we stay, yes. We must leave before they force us.”
“We just run? We don’t resist?”
“We retreat to fight another day,” Rema said firmly. “We are consolidating our strength. But… we will leave them a parting gift.”
Rosangi thought of the sepoy. A cold anger replaced her anxiety. “We went to the camp today,” she said.
“Why?”
“They called us. A sepoy tried to have fun with us. We… played along. Hinted that if he came to the punjee, he wouldn’t be disappointed.”
Rema sat up. “Will he come?”
“He took the bait. If we cast it a little further, he’ll come running. If you and the men lie in wait…”
“Bring them,” Rema said, his eyes hard. “In two or three days.”
Over the next two days, Rosangi and Lalchungi visited the camp again. They charmed the first soldier and ensnared three of his friends, weaving a web of promises. We can’t control ourselves, they hinted. Our youthful passion is too much… you must come to us.
The soldiers, blinded by lust and arrogance, took the bait.
On the third evening, as twilight fell, four sepoys followed the girls down the winding path to the punjee. The air was thick with anticipation. The soldiers, practically drooling, imagined a night of easy pleasure with these simple hill girls.
Rosangi led them straight to her house. “Babu Sahab, please, rest. You have walked a long way.”
She offered them pork and local liquor.
“We didn’t come for food,” one soldier leered.
“Please,” Rosangi insisted. “It is our custom. Eat first.”
Lalchungi took a sip of liquor to encourage them. The soldiers, eager to get the pleasantries over with, drank deeply. Rosangi and Lalchungi played their parts perfectly—acting tipsy, stumbling into the men, feeding their egos and their glasses.
Soon, the liquor took hold. The soldiers were drunk, their inhibitions gone, their lust turning aggressive. They cornered Lalchungi, ready to devour her.
Suddenly, Rosangi slipped out the door.
The soldiers barely noticed—until the shadows on the veranda moved.
These were not shadows.
Rema and his men burst into the room. They pulled Lalchungi to safety in seconds. The four soldiers, drunk on liquor and “colorful passion,” barely had time to realize their mistake before the rebels fell upon them. It was brutal and swift.
That night, the punjee emptied. The twelve inhabitants, along with Rema’s unit, vanished into the darkness of the mountains. They had struck their blow. Now, before the inevitable, overwhelming retaliation could arrive, they melted into the jungle, leaving only silence behind.