Two culturesIt's not a city under siege. That's what I thought when reached Imphal. An Army vehicle escorted by bullet-proof Jongas with nozzles jutting out, and a column of soldiers in camouflage. These were the only symbols of armed presence I encountered on my way to the city. It wasn't like Punjab in the grip of militancy, where there was a CRPF post every few hundred yards. For me, the olive green was reassuring. I guess it is for anybody brought up amidst it.But soon, I didn't need its assurance. Manipuris, believe me, have this knack of making you feel at home. So a few hours on, I was at the National Festival of Dance. There was a heavy police presence, but of the non-obtrusive kind. My escort, a journalist, suggested we go for a drive around the city. It was just 9 pm, but it seemed like midnight, with almost all the shops closed.A couple of women sitting in a wooden shack caught my eye. They were Meira Paibis, or torchbearers, my companion explained. I had heard about them. Weren'tthey the ones who had launched a movement against arrack? ``Yes, but the ones here are different,'' he said. ``They keep a vigil against the Army.'' Oh, was all I could muster. We approached the group of middle-aged women sitting on a piece of sack-cloth, trying to light the torch that would keep them warm. ``The night is dark,'' they told me. ``We come here with fire to light it, and chase away the Army.'' But why the Army? Thasna Devi, a veteran, explained: ``We don't want them to arrest our boys, and molest our girls.'' That was not the Army I knew. Before coming here, I had read some human rights reports about the atrocities perpetrated by soldiers, but that was in the distant past. I thought our Army was above all this, I mumbled loudly, seeking affirmation from my companion. But no, he was equally against it. He was not the only one. In the next few days, no one I met had a kind word to say about the Army or the Armed Forces Special Powers Act which, they claimed, gave it a licence to do as itpleased. K.H. Chonjohn Singh, a member of the Manipur Human Rights Commission, who had sought to get it repealed in '87, said it was more draconian than a similar ordinance promulgated by the British as it allowed even a havaldar to kill. The Army, I was told, was behind the disappearance of Sanamcha, a class X student. Faced with this diatribe, I didn't have the guts to tell anyone that my father, grandfather, brother were all part of this Army.My next contact with soldiers was on way to Loktak. There they stood, three slightly dishevelled jawans frisking bus passengers. Isn't militancy on the wane, I asked them. ``No, we keep catching militants and the government keeps getting them released,'' was the weary reply. One of them, a Haryanvi, fumed: ``We don't know their language, they don't know ours. It's a thankless job.'' My friend wanted me to click their photograph. ``We'll send it to the human rights people,'' he said. I clicked one, but for myself.Finally, after a long day talking to people aboutdams and alienation, I confessed to my Army background. My friends were profuse with their assurances. No, not all armymen are like that, they told me. It was with a light heart that I stepped into the well-manicured cemetery for British soldiers who were killed here during the Second World War. It was with a smile that I posed for pictures beside tombstones. Talking about this and that, we started reading the inscriptions. ``Very touching,'' my friend murmured. I was too happy to feel anything till a simple one-liner opened the floodgate of tears. It read: ``A soldier to the world, he was the whole world for us. Mom, Dad."
