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kilometers South of Churachandpur, which itselfwas barely a two hour drive from Imphal. TheOld Tiddim Road, made famous in the SecondWorld War, snaked down as a bold ribbon fromChurachandpur to Tiddim and Falam in Burma.Behang was prominently marked by a flag on thisroad, just on the border of India and Burma.Behang VillageOld Tiddim RoadEver so politely, Nogen Singh said, “Yes Sir. It isless than fifty kilometers as the crow flies, but twobridges on that road are broken. It will take youtwo days to walk there.”He did not add, “Unless you can fly like a crow.”So much for my map reading skills, I thought.“So what should I do, Tamoh? This is such aserious matter!” I said.“Well, Sir, call Kuki here and ask him,” was thesimple solution suggested by Nogen Singh.“If we call him here, he will deny the allegation.How will we check with the villagers?” Icountered.“Sir, call him and ask him,” said Nogen Singh.“Abstruse concepts of loyalty to the nation meanlittle or nothing in remote areas. But the peopleknow that right is right and wrong is wrong. Sir,the people are fiercely loyal to the village andtribe, and no one would lie.”“Kuki is a respected elder,” explained NogenSingh, “He has his position to think of. Socialhierarchy is often determined by traditionand kinship, rather than economic status orGovernment orders. The village elders, theGaon Burhas, command unquestioning respect.And if Kuki has done something wrong, he willadmit it. He is a man of honour.”Highly skeptical, I agreed to call Kuki to Imphal.In order to avoid alerting him, I directed all civintpost in-charges to come to Imphal for the payescort at the end of the month and to bring theirpistols for a maintenance check. This instructionwas necessary because many of the posts were inremote locations. Some were connected throughinfrequent bus services, and others required longtrudges to the nearest road, from where onecould hope to hitch a ride on a passing truck.Normally, the posts sent information throughmessages in cipher over wireless on a daily basis.Written reports, however, could be sent just oncea month, when one of the personnel of each postwould come to the SIB headquarters to deliverdak and collect the pay of all his colleagues inthe post. The post in-charge did not always makethe monthly trip.When all the post in-charges came at the end ofthat month, I had them and Nogen Singh gatherfor a meeting in my room. After discussing otherissues, I asked each officer to hand his weaponto me for inspection. In anticipation of theinspection, most officers had oiled their pistols,but some weapons were clearly in need ofderusting.With an air of studied indifference, I turned toKuki and asked him to show me his pistol. Kukiseemed as much a relic of the Second World Waras the Old Tiddim Road. His weathered face andslit like eyes showed the years and years of beingout in the glare of the Sun. But his gaze was clearas he reached behind and drew his pistol, whichwas tucked in his belt in the small of his back. Heejected the loaded magazine and in copybookfashion, handed the pistol to me, butt-first. Therewas no vestige of bluing left on the pistol, but ithad that peculiar patina that steel acquires when50The Indian Police Journal, October - December, 2012, Special Issue