The GOC, the Crystal Glass and the “Naala” Water

 

The GOC, the Crystal Glass and the “Naala” Water

Some army memories are forged in battles and exercises. Others are born around a bukhari, a steaming plate of momos and, occasionally, an innocent question that leaves everyone holding their breath.

They say in the Army, prepare for the worst and hope for the best. But there are occasions when even the best preparation cannot save you from an unexpected answer.

One such episode goes back to 1993–94, when I was posted as the Officer Commanding an EME workshop at Chungthang in North Sikkim, providing technical support to a Mountain Brigade headquartered at Lachen.

Chungthang was then a small, remote hamlet, about 95 kilometres from Gangtok, tucked away in the mountains at the confluence of the Lachen Chu and Lachung Chu, which together form the Teesta. The road beyond Chungthang climbed towards Chatten, Thangu and the high-altitude frontier. In those days, a convoy travelling from Gangtok could take most of the day, and the evening light was often the signal to stop rather than risk the treacherous mountain roads at night.

Our EME workshop was co-located with an ASC Composite Platoon commanded by Captain Tewari. Officer accommodation consisted of a few modest basha huts. Captain Tewari and I, along with our officers, shared these humble quarters. We had also improvised an Officers' Mess Detachment.

And then there was Raju.

Raju was a daily-wage employee of the ASC platoon whom we had persuaded to become our cook. He was a one-man army. Cook, waiter, cleaner and occasional troubleshooter—he wore all these hats with effortless confidence.

His speciality was momos and chowmein. In Chungthang, that was no small achievement.

There was another luxury we had managed to create with ingenuity rather than money. Fresh water was drawn from the Teesta near the confluence through an improvised pipeline. We filtered it through the candle-type water purifiers commonly available in those days. It was our drinking water—and, as far as we were concerned, perfectly safe.

Life in Chungthang had its own rhythm.

Convoys leaving Gangtok usually waited for reasonable visibility in the morning and reached Chungthang around last light. The standard protocol was to halt there for the night. Although the Transit Camp had accommodation for officers, many of the transient officers preferred our little Mess Detachment.

Perhaps it was the warmth of our bukharis. Perhaps it was the rum and bread. Or perhaps it was simply Raju's momos.

Whatever the reason, the word spread.

Officers arriving from Gangtok would appear at our door, unload their sleeping bags and settle themselves beside the bukhari. Soon the place would be alive with conversation, laughter and stories from the road. We looked forward to these visitors. In an otherwise isolated posting, they brought news from the outside world—and we provided them a hot meal and some warmth.

Our Commanding Officer had also managed, with the ingenuity that was so characteristic of field Army life, to get a reasonably comfortable log hut constructed as a guest room. It had fresh linen, a small attached toilet and, most importantly, a Western commode.

In those days, in a remote field location, that was nothing short of five-star accommodation.

Then came the news that the GOC would be travelling through our sector.

We had heard that he was visiting the strategically important Chungthang–Chatten–Thangu–Gayagaon axis. For us, a visit by senior officers was routine enough. But a GOC was an entirely different proposition.

And then fate intervened.

The GOC's return journey was delayed, and it was decided that he would make a night halt at our location.

My 5 Bravo magneto telephone buzzed.

It was the Brigade Commander.

“GOC is halting at your location tonight.”

There was a brief silence after I put the receiver down.

Our casual little Officers' Mess suddenly became the centre of the universe.

The guest room was cleaned again. Fresh linen appeared. The bukhari was primed. The toilet was inspected. Raju was briefed about the importance of the occasion and instructed to ensure that everything was ready—including his famous momos.

We were prepared.

Or so we thought.

The GOC arrived in the evening. After the formalities, he settled into the guest room. The atmosphere gradually became relaxed. We were chatting informally when Raju, now transformed from cook into impeccably attentive waiter, appeared in the foyer.

He was carrying a tray.

On it was a crystal glass of water.

The crystal glasses were among our prized possessions, acquired from Dulabari and carefully reserved for the Mess Bar. They represented, in our little corner of Sikkim, a touch of sophistication.

Raju placed the glass before the GOC.

The GOC picked it up and took his first sip.

Then he looked at Raju.

“Kancha, paani kahan se laate ho?”

Raju did not blink.

He did not hesitate.

He did not consult me.

He simply replied, with complete innocence:

“Naale se, saab.”

The effect was instantaneous.

The GOC spurted the water out of his mouth.

There was a stunned silence.

For a fleeting moment, I wondered whether my career in the Army had just reached an unexpected turning point.

The GOC looked at me.

I quickly explained that the water indeed came from the Teesta, but through our improvised pipeline, and was filtered through candle-type purifiers. It was the same arrangement used by units in the area and was considered safe for drinking.

The irritation on his face slowly disappeared.

The crisis was over.

Raju, meanwhile, remained completely unperturbed. To him, “naala” was simply a perfectly accurate description of where the water came from.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Raju's momos did their usual magic, the bukhari kept the biting Sikkim cold at bay, and the GOC's night halt became another story in the long and colourful history of field postings.

Looking back after all these years, what amuses me most is not the GOC's reaction.

It is the absolute innocence with which Raju answered the question.

We had spent hours preparing the guest room, polishing glasses, arranging linen, checking the bukhari and ensuring that everything was “GOC-ready”.

Yet the one thing that could have gone wrong was never part of our checklist.

The source of the water.

The Army teaches you to anticipate the unexpected. But occasionally, it also teaches you that no amount of preparation can compete with a cook who answers a perfectly simple question with complete honesty.

And so, three decades later, whenever I think of those cold evenings in Chungthang, I don't remember the inspections, the convoys or even the mountains first.

I remember a crystal glass, a sip of water and one unforgettable reply:

“Naale se, saab.”