For years, many have called for the history of the Northeast to be included in our school textbooks. In that context, attempts by bureaucrats like Sonam Chombay must be lauded. His book, In Between the Blurry Lines, is a step towards making sure Arunachal Pradesh’s history is not forgotten.
Written in an accessible, jargon-free style, this is not a dense academic tome but a reader-friendly account of defining moments that shaped the state. Chombay pieces together facts, supplements them with interviews, and, every now and then, weaves in authentic anecdotes from people he knows personally. This personal touch adds warmth to the historical narrative, making the book as much about lived experiences as it is about policy and events.
For me, this book matters because it ventures into a part of Arunachal’s history that few have tried to reconstruct. Much of it is scattered in archives or fading from oral tradition. Chombay’s effort is to bring these stories into the light before they vanish entirely.
Many now know of Bob Khathing — the man who integrated Tawang and the surrounding areas into India — but far fewer know about the equally remarkable officers of the Indian Frontier Administrative Service (IFAS). Formed in the early 1950s, the IFAS was a special cadre tasked with administering the sensitive border areas of the Northeast, particularly the North-East Frontier Agency (NEFA), which later became Arunachal Pradesh.
These officers were chosen not just for their administrative skills but for their ability to live in extreme conditions, work with minimal infrastructure, and build trust with local communities. Over time, as roads and governance improved, the IFAS was merged with the IAS in the late 1960s — ending a small, highly specialised corps trained for frontier life.
Chombay recounts the extraordinary lives of these officers. Yusuf Ali, posted in Bomdila, had studied Latin and Greek in England before serving in these remote mountains. Major S.M. Krishnatry and his wife Geeta trekked unescorted and unarmed to the Marabai-Tsari areas of the Tagin tribe in Upper Subansiri in the mid-1950s, building trust and fostering lasting peace.
Iswari Prasad Gupta, posted in the remote Dibang Valley, undertook a gruelling sixteen-day trek on foot through tough terrain before later serving as Arunachal’s Chief Secretary from 1976 to 1988.
Equally powerful is the story of Oshong and his 28 classmates in their school hostel near Pasighat during the devastating August 1950 earthquake, which measured 8.7 on the Richter scale. Chombay uses Oshong’s recollections to capture the terror, confusion, and resilience of children living through one of the world’s most powerful earthquakes.
The book also highlights turning points in governance. One such moment was the visit of the 13th Finance Commission, chaired by Dr. Y.V. Reddy.
Bad weather forced the team to abandon their helicopter and travel by road, exposing them to the state’s poor road conditions and the challenges of the monsoon. This first-hand experience led to a historic policy shift — increasing Arunachal’s share of central taxes from 32% to 50% — a decision that accelerated the state’s growth trajectory.
Another gem is Chombay’s account of Arunachal’s once-thriving air connectivity during the NEFA era. Few know that Kalinga Airlines, founded in 1947 by aviator and former Odisha Chief Minister Biju Patnaik, operated extensively here. In the 1960s and 70s, NEFA was well served by Otter, Caribou, and Douglas aircraft. Ziro, Daporijo, Walong, Aalo, Tuting, Vijaynagar, Alinye, Mechuka, and Pasighat were all connected.
In fact, it was often cheaper for a businessman to charter a plane from Dibrugarh to Aalo than to transport goods by road. By the 1980s, however, this golden age of small-town airstrips had faded, leaving behind only memories and abandoned runways.
The book also introduced me, in remarkable detail, to Kintup, the Sikkimese adventurer. Sent in the late 19th century to determine whether the Tsangpo River in Tibet flowed into the Brahmaputra, Kintup embarked on an extraordinary journey across some of the harshest terrain on earth. Betrayed by companions and even sold into slavery, he still managed to carry out his mission with resilience and cunning. I had never known the full extent of his exploits until reading Chombay’s account, which turns what might have been a historical footnote into a gripping adventure.
These human stories — of administrators, students, policymakers, pilots, and explorers — are the beating heart of In Between the Blurry Lines. They transform the book from a dry historical account into something far more vivid and memorable.
If there’s one area where the book could be improved, it’s in its maps. While serviceable, they lack the detail needed to fully visualise the places and events described. For a work so grounded in geography, sharper cartography would have made the experience even richer.
Yet, this is a small quibble. The real achievement here is that Chombay has created a bridge between the official record and the lived reality of Arunachal Pradesh. By blending historical facts with personal memories, he ensures that the contributions of pioneers — from frontier officers to visionary leaders — are preserved for the next generation.
In Between the Blurry Lines is more than a history book; it’s an act of memory-keeping. And in a time when the call to integrate the Northeast’s history into the national narrative is louder than ever, this work feels both timely and necessary.
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