By Nisith Dey

Let me tell you folks a story from the days of the 1962 war with China—specifically from IAF Station Jorhat in Assam. Now, I wasn’t around back then (not even a plan on the horizon), so this isn’t my personal tale. It’s what my father experienced, and over the years, passed down to me—part memory, part madness, all real.

At the very start of the war, the Indian Air Force acted quickly to secure what mattered most—their families. Special IAF transport aircraft were deployed, not for troops or supplies, but to airlift the families of Air Force personnel to safer locations—West Bengal, Bihar, Uttar Pradesh and such. You know it’s serious when the luggage gets loaded before the lunch is even digested.

According to my father, the scene at the airbase was unforgettable. It didn’t look like a farewell, it looked like a smashan ghat with uniforms. Wives held onto their husbands as if they were being sent off to a different planet. Children were crying, men were choking up, and everyone seemed convinced this might be their last meeting. It was a mix of patriotic pride and pure panic. Basically, Bollywood without the music.

Once the families had taken off—literally—the mood turned serious. All personnel were ordered to stay ready for immediate evacuation. Everyone was assigned tasks. My father, being a clerk, went to war in the way clerks do—by bundling up files. And not just any files. These were the sacred government documents: attendance registers, leave applications, and probably three separate forms for one broken chair. Because if Jorhat fell, by God, the files would survive.

He remembered seeing truckloads of army soldiers passing through Jorhat. The trucks were packed, the energy was electric, and the men were shouting “Bharat Mata ki Jai!” like they meant it. There was a mix of tension and unshakable optimism in the air. To the civilians watching from the sidelines, these young men were heroes already.

Jorhat was also functioning as a field hospital for the wounded. My father, though a civilian employee, was soon treated like part of the uniformed crowd—thanks to the war, even ration privileges were suddenly extended to those who previously only had access to pen and paper. It was one of those strange wartime equalizers: danger doesn’t care whether you wear a uniform or a name badge.

To get his meals, my father had to walk past the army hospital. And that’s where things got loud.

He told me, quite matter-of-factly, that he had never heard such high-quality gaalis in his life. The wounded jawans, lying on stretchers, were not shy about sharing their views on leadership—especially Pandit Nehru, who was apparently the target of more curses than any opposing soldier. My father, an otherwise polite man, admitted that he learned some new vocabulary that week.

And to be fair, you couldn’t blame the jawans. Many were sent to the front with limited cartridges, and when those ran out, they were left to fight using their old .303 rifles like cricket bats. Worse, sometimes the rifles jammed mid-battle, leaving them to whack the enemy with the barrel and hope for the best. They were brave, they were determined—but they weren’t exactly set up for success.

And then came the twist that could only happen in India.

As the threat of Chinese capture loomed large, the authorities began planning a full evacuation of Jorhat. Everyone was to be relocated—families already gone, personnel on standby, even the files neatly packed. But in all this frantic planning, someone forgot one crucial group:

The patients at the Jorhat Mental Asylum.

Yes, in the chaos of war prep, they were left behind. So for a few bizarre days, the streets of Jorhat were populated by the mentally ill, roaming free, chatting with trees, arguing with lamp posts, and offering military strategy to parked bicycles.

One man was reportedly seen giving a stirring speech to a herd of goats. Another kept marching down the main road shouting “Chalo Dilli!” to a group of pigeons. My father said it best: “For a while, it felt like the whole city had gone mad. Except this time, the mad people were in charge.”

It was funny, yes—but also haunting. In a time when everyone was preparing to run, these poor souls were simply left behind, wandering in a town that had almost emptied out.

And that, my friends, is the story of Jorhat during the 1962 war—not from a soldier’s rifle, but from a clerk’s typewriter. A story of chaos, courage, absurdity, and a uniquely Indian version of wartime reality.

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