BackKeeping vigil on the Thar’s shifting sands
For the jawans posted on the far outposts of Rajasthan, the harsh elements and boredom are often trickier foes than Pakistani intruders
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There’s desert scrubland for miles in all directions. It makes for jawan Somnath Som’s daily viewing, as he stands at the border outpost BP 609 in Rajasthan, behind a barbed wire fence that is electrified by night. There are mornings when the job involves releasing an electrocuted desert fox whose nocturnal stroll across from Pakistan was brought to an unpleasant end.
“Yeh to humara honeymoon chal raha hai—asli jung to hum garmi ke mausam main ladte hai (This is our honeymoon period, the real war is fought in the summer)," Som says.
It makes for some activity at the outpost on the India-Pakistan border, about 21km from the village of Tanot. The rest of the time, it’s the endless battle against the elements in the sweltering cauldron that is the Thar Desert. It’s enough of a draw for a bunch of bikers—the right mix of patriotism and adventure.
Contemplating the right time to quit a job was never easier. A friend calls up to check if he could borrow my trusted steed—the Royal Enfield; the next moment, I arrive at my date of resignation and begin to figure out the right gear for a ride that was sure to leave me with an iron butt by the end of it.
Starting from Mumbai sometime late last year, we tried to get across Gujarat before our supply of rum ran out, and after riding a thousand-odd kilometres, we made a quick touristy halt at Jaisalmer. As we got our fix at a government-authorized shop that evening, the next day’s ride to the border was all that was on my mind.
For most visitors, the experience of visiting this area, about 120km from Jaisalmer, is restricted to the legend of Tanot Mata. During the India-Pakistan wars of 1965 and 1971, Tanot faced heavy bombardment, but the shells that landed around the temple didn’t go off.
Ever since, pilgrims make their way here to pay their obeisance to the miracle of Tanot Mata. In fact, some of those shells are still on display alongside other war memorabilia at the refurbished temple complex, where a Border Security Force jawan doubles up as a pujari, applying tilak to the forehead while handing out prasad to the devotees.
A little past the temple on the left is a check post that leads to BP 609, which can only be accessed with prior permission from the authorities at Jaisalmer. A final outpost checks the permit we had obtained, after which it’s one of the most surreal experiences of life in the desert and at the border.
After riding down half a kilometre of a pockmarked road, the bend to the right leads to a tarred road that glistens in the sandy environs. The desert spills over onto the road in certain places, and trails of sand snake their way across like rush hour pedestrians.
What looks like hills in the distance are really dunes that high, and the only human presence are the stray bunkers atop them—built during the war, they lie abandoned now.
The camels and asses here are as wild as they get, startled at the thump of the spluttering Enfield, and gazing intently to ensure they weren’t being approached, before getting back to the chow. So desolate are these environs that it seemed as if a herd of cows that had strayed into the region had taken to the wild too, spooked into a stampeding frenzy like they’d seen a ghost as we rolled by. The sun came pelting down on the helmets, as the wind did its bit to alleviate the suffering.
The last few kilometres of the approach finally show signs of habitation again, and as we lined up our bikes at the barricade, the “No Photography" sign stood out prominently in a few places. This was an outpost that had the odd visitor each day to keep jawans like Som company.
The rest of the time, he pretty much had to get along with the scorpions and snakes that lorded over the desolate expanse. It makes anti-venom as essential as bullets in these parts.
What makes it harder for guys like Som, who was previously posted in the Poonch sector of Jammu, is the lack of “action" these days.
“In Jammu and Kashmir, if you didn’t fire a few rounds a day, you felt like there was something missing. At least there was something to do there—it kept me occupied," he says.
Back in the day, smugglers in the guise of traders frequented these parts, carrying gold and opium in the secret pockets of their vest. But ever since the fence came up in the late 1990s, it was now a surreptitious operation.
The fence runs some 3,000-odd kilometres from Gujarat to Jammu—with a break only in the marshy sections of the Rann of Kutch—with the odd gate in places such as the one at BP 609. Each day, the jawans use a camel to tow a mesh that creases out the sand in the 30m channel between the fence and the watchtower, in order to spot any intruding footsteps in the sand.
As we continued our conversation with Som, a few sneaky sandgrouse had boldly made this patch their own—their footprints led right up to and over the border.
Ironically, in all these years, Pakistan never put up its own fence.
“Why would they? They have no one to keep out. They are always looking for ways to get in," Som says with a laugh.
A milestone that reads “India", about 150m from the fence, marks the zero line and the start of the neighbour’s territory. It’s the same milestone that was uprooted by the Pakistanis during the war, and transported about 12km in the direction of Tanot to claim the territory as theirs, before the Indian Army drove them out, according to Som.
These days, though, soldiers hold on to their guns in anticipation of times like those. Over time, they’ve come to realize that this is a different fight.
Summer temperatures hit close to 50 degrees Celsius, while winds carrying sand howl by at over 100 km/hour. To battle the loneliness, these men look forward to that hour-long trudge back to their base, where they can have a quick chat with their mates and folks at home and get some rest, before coming back for the forsaken night shift.
A couple of kilometres away, on the other side of the fence, stands a one-storied structure, which is the Pakistan outpost at Bilal. A lot of messages are passed through this post, which holds about 12 to 13 soldiers.
“But you will never see them—most of them sit comfortably indoors," Som says. “They don’t really need to guard their border like us."
Som lends us his binoculars—a lone, armed man stands on the roof with the Pakistani flag fluttering above him. Perhaps he too is waiting for action, or simply to get off duty so he can talk to his loved ones back home.
Shail Desai is a Mumbai-based writer who dreams of the mountains and lives for long road journeys.
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