Shillong 1993: Wiretapping Media Football Fraud

My Bhagyakul room desk in Shillong during my late mother's visit in 1998. On top of the left Sonodyne Uranus bass-reflex speaker sits the heavy brass globe Best Correspondent Trophy

It was the winter of 1993, and the newsroom back in Guwahati was desperate for proof. The local media football tournament was underway, but rumours were swirling that a prominent rival newspaper group was cheating. They hadn’t fielded journalists at all. Instead, they had secretly hired professional players working inside various state government departments to sweep the tournament.

As the Shillong Bureau Chief for The North East Observer, I was handed the assignment to cross-check the facts. I was quite young during those days, still in my early 20s, and running our nice bureau office located at Lower Lachumiere. Becoming the sole representative for the newspaper in Shillong suddenly handed me an immense amount of local importance. Unlike my previous tenures, I now held formal invitations and direct connections with major regional entities: the Governor’s House, senior government departments, the telecom circle, the postal department, armed forces, and local Members of Parliament. Having my name formally listed in the state DIPR directory and the police media directory was simply great, and it was envied by many in the local press circuit at the time.

My systematic approach to separating factual truth from rumours on local news beat was deeply shaped by working alongside the veteran minds of that era. Among them was the eminent writer Gean Willington Lyngdoh (Bah-Gean), whose precision and laborious pre-internet archive research in the early 1990s set the standard for regional reporting, an ethos I later honoured in 2011 in my 2011 obituary  for Bah-Gean.

During these rounds, my official Government of India Press Bearing Authority Card under the Ministry of Communications proved to be a hundred times greater than any press card issued by a newspaper. The national emblem on it carried an almost comical amount of weight. Whenever I needed to bypass gatekeepers, evade strict security checks, or secure immediate interviews with top government officers and ministers, I would confidently flash that card. Sometimes, if the area was remote or highly bureaucratic, I would casually tell security I was from the "Telecommunication Department" rather than a local news beat. It was highly realistic, completely effective, and a lot of fun.

The official Press Bearing Authority Card issued by the Ministry of Communications, Government of India, in March 1995, which bypassed high-level security checkpoints

But this specific technical investigation happened at my residence. I loved electronics, and I had a slim, red Aiwa two-in-one stereo radio cassette recorder. To catch the fraud, I needed a physical audio recording. In those days, standard phone-recording gear wasn't available to consumers. I had to improvise a custom interface loop right at my desk.

I peeled back the main incoming telephone drop wire entering my room. I took a parallel connection from the copper core, but because a landline telephone line carries a very high AC voltage when it rings, damp hands can easily receive a significant electric shock. One had to be incredibly careful when putting the jack plug on the recorder to ensure no incoming calls hit the line at that exact moment. To protect my equipment and attenuate the line current, I connected a 10-ohm resistor in series with the copper line before soldering it cleanly to a standard 3.5mm jack plug. I plugged that jack straight into the microphone port of my red Aiwa player, dropped in a blank cassette, and hit the record button.

I dialled the manager of the rival newspaper group and began reading out the specific names of the footballers on the pitch, asking if they were employed in his organisation. He answered immediately, confirming that none of them were his colleagues or worked for their publication. As I kept asking more follow-up questions on the same call, he continued to state clearly that none of the names I mentioned were employed there.

Towards the very end of the call, someone in his room must have realised what was happening and prompted him. Suddenly, his tone shifted, he said, "Yes, they were all employed in our newspaper," and ended the call abruptly. But it was too late, the real, undeniable proof was already out and captured on my tape.

That night, I called my senior desk editor in Guwahati. I patched the audio output of my Aiwa player directly back into the telephone line handset loop. The entire newsroom listened to the playback over the line. The tape was undeniable, hard evidence. The next morning, I shipped the cassette to Guwahati via the 5:00 PM press courier vehicle. The front-page investigative exposure we printed the next day completely threw the tournament into a tailspin.

The slim red Aiwa two-in-one stereo radio cassette recorder used to execute the 1993 telephone drop-wire recording hack, pictured alongside a two-month-old German Spitz puppy

The Best Correspondent Trophy and Desktop Jealousy

Months later, the newspaper hosted its grand annual function in Guwahati with great pomp and show. The Chief Minister of Assam, Hiteswer Saikia and many prominent regional scribes packed the auditorium. It was never meant to be a Pulitzer or a Nobel prize, but for a young regional bureau chief, what happened next was unforgettable.

Suddenly, my name was announced. I was called to the stage to receive the Best Correspondent Trophy, a heavy brass globe featuring an eagle flying with its wings spread wide.

Being naturally shy and embarrassed by the public spotlight, I walked off the stage, found a senior colleague from the Meghalaya Police Public Relations cell who was attending, and handed him my trophy. I told him I would simply collect it from his office when I returned to Shillong.

Because there were many prominent guests from Shillong who had driven down to Guwahati in their cars for the grand function, I had plenty of options for the return journey. It turned into a truly memorable ride. I returned back to Shillong alongside the absolute leaders of the regional press: Manas Chowdhury, Editor of The Shillong Times, who was driving his white Maruti-Suzuki Gypsy, along with Bedabrata Lahkar, Special Representative and Shillong Bureau Chief for The Assam Tribune, and Subrata Bhattacharya, United News of India (UNI) Shillong Bureau Chief.

The next morning, however, the corporate news desk back in Guwahati displayed its internal jealousy. The paper's official report of the function published photographs but deliberately altered the text, claiming I had merely received a "consolation prize." It was a petty, incorrect edit driven by desk politics, but riding with the giants of Shillong journalism, I knew where the real respect lay. I chose not to argue over it. I simply let it go.

19:45 HRS: Hostile Visitors at Laitumkhrah

Investigative journalism in those days came with real physical risks. My parents and the family had already formally relocated to Calcutta, and I lived all alone at Bhagyakul, Laitumkhrah, looking at life in a new way through my work. I lived in a single room containing my bed, study desk, bookshelves, and a small, secret handmade vanity bar, which strategically helped me avoid drinking at press clubs or public events, ensuring I never looked like a cheap scribe despite my very low earnings. I was quite stylish during those days, and many acknowledged it.

My kitchen was a separate, temporary tin-shed structure located a little far from the room, but it was beautifully organised with a custom light-blue sun-mica folding wall table and matching linoleum floor sheets. To make sure I didn't miss news alerts while cooking, I had run a parallel telephone extension to the kitchen.

That evening, I returned home to Bhagyakul from our Lower Lachumiere bureau office. Around 7:45 PM, a heavy knock rattled my door.

Two large men in their mid-30s stood outside, smelling heavily of alcohol. One of them, who had streaks of slight grey hair, aggressively asked: "Are you Sandeep Acharya, journalist of The North East Observer?”

I welcomed them inside and sat at my study desk with my papers. The man pulled the latest edition of our paper from his coat, slammed it down, and demanded to know if I wrote the football report. They were employees of the state agriculture department, and their sporting racket had been completely exposed.

Handling the Ambush

As they grew hostile and demanded the names of our other reporters, I remained completely calm and used the active communication lines in my room to execute a few quick defensive moves:

My custom-built wall intercom interface, engineered from an old landline telephone handset, a matte black rexine-wrapped chassis, and dual status LEDs. This live circuit allowed my neighbour in Chowdhury Mansion to monitor the 1993 confrontation in real time.

The Intercom Bug: I had built a custom wire intercom connected to my neighbour and elderly dear friend who lived right next door. He owned a beautiful, big concrete double-story building with a compound, gardens, wooden floors, teak wood windows, and a tin-sheet roof with a small third-floor terrace. His father was a well-known advocate, and they lived there as a large joint family. I had formally written about this landmark as "Chowdhury Mansion" in my Shillong: Then and Now memoir. While that older post mentions an early crude two-way phone layout, this newer intercom was 100 times more refined, featuring functional red and green status LEDs. The receiver of this wall intercom was resting slightly off its hook. As the men shouted, the LEDs on the box flared to full glow. The microphone was live, and my friend in Chowdhury Mansion was listening to the entire interrogation in real time.

The Ringback Distraction: To break their aggressive posture, I leaned over my telephone instrument, a standard DOT push-button dial pad landline, and typed 161, the automated line-testing code. Within seconds, the exchange automatically bounced a loud, ringing call straight back to my phone. I picked it up, pretended to talk to a senior police official about an important report, and hung up. The men visibly hesitated.

 The Live Wire-Transfer: I immediately picked up the landline again and dialled my close friend, J. K. Kaul, the senior All India Radio Shillong news correspondent. When he answered, I tactfully held the receiver low so the hostile voices in the room flooded his earpiece. He instantly understood the danger: "Shandy, is all well with you? Are u in trouble?"

I hung up, turned to the men, and gave them a fake address of a fictional freelance contributor to clear them out of my room. They left with a warning: "If this address is wrong, we are coming back."

The Escape

The second they cleared the gate, I moved with calculated precision. I used to have my room lit by a self-made lamp stand with a shade that I could move from my study table to my bedside. I switched that main lamp completely off. Instead, I turned on two dim green lights, which were actual light enclosures from Tata S-model 1210 trucks that I had procured and custom-fitted to my ceiling. I chose not to put the blind curtain over the glass-paned door, I just left the transparent netted curtain in place. This setup was a psychological manoeuvre designed to create the illusion that I was still casually moving around the room.

I locked the door from the outside, gripped my physical DOT landline telephone instrument, paired the main telephone line with the intercom grid, and sprinted over to Chowdhury Mansion. I connected my phone line directly inside my neighbour's house.

From the high, vantage point of his concrete double-story balcony, I sat in the dark and watched. At exactly 9:45 PM, a convoy of 7 to 8 jeeps alongside motorcycles roared into the locality, making slow, rowdy rounds directly inside Bhagyakul colony. When they stopped and spilled out into my compound, I recognised many of those faces, they were a crowd brought in from the Malki area to physically hunt me down.

But my green lights kept them guessing, and the trap was entirely empty. From the safety of Chowdhury Mansion, I stayed completely hidden inside my neighbour's house for the next three days, coordinating security arrangements with my AIR colleague J. K. Kaul. When I finally stepped back into my room on the third day, my house owner smiled and told me: "Many people came looking for you, but I told them you are an incredibly busy journalist and no one ever knows when you come or go."

They never returned.

Thirty-three years later, The North East Observer newspaper does not exist anymore, the red Aiwa player was given away to my late elder brother’s close colleague back in 1999, and the media landscapes have completely changed. But the lesson from that 1993 football exposure remains exactly the same: when local adversaries or rowdy convoys take rounds inside Bhagyakul colony trying to use bullying tactics to invade your space, an organised mind, a quick technical instinct, and having your physical records in order will always protect you.

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Shillong: Then and Now

Recollections & Tales from Days Gone By

Bright sunshine in the day, cool evenings, and those sudden September rains, that’s how the season greets Shillong. I may be in Delhi now, but memories of those days remain vivid. The kens grass, tall reeds that bloom every autumn, was already swaying in the breeze. Migratory birds had arrived, perched lazily on trees. Markets looked festive, vendors showing off their wares, and shoppers squeezing through the glowing streets. It felt as if nature itself was whispering a secret, waiting to be decoded. Festival season has been knocking – Pujas, Diwali, Christmas, and the New Year.

Left: An undated photo of Shillong residents on a joyful ride to Sohra (Cherrapunji), their smiles echoing the carefree charm of those days. Right: A quiet moment of a couple on the steps of their Shillong home.

With this mood in the air, I thought it best to give my rooms a good cleanup. My desk, especially, was a battlefield, stacks of papers, scribbled notepads, books, an audio mixer interface, microphones, headphones, pens, pencils. In the middle of this clutter, I stumbled upon an old clipping from The Hindu. It was about the infamous missing Indore couple who came to Meghalaya for their honeymoon. A case that had gripped headlines across the country.

The husband, Raja Raghuvanshi, was found dead in a gorge in Sohra (Cherrapunji). His wife, Sonam, at first went missing. Later, she was accused of plotting his murder with hired killers. For the first time in many years, Meghalaya Police earned nationwide applause for cracking a case.

That such a conspiracy was hatched just eleven days after marriage is unthinkable. If Sonam was already in love with someone else, she should have simply said no. Perhaps Raja would still be alive today. Sohra’s mists, valleys, pine forests and waterfalls seemed to echo this loss.

Shillong and its neighbouring hills had caught the attention of European settlers long ago. The British found the climate and landscapes so familiar that they named it the “Scotland of the East.”

Today, the capital of Meghalaya has climbed to the top of India’s travel charts. Skyscanner’s Travel Trends Report 2025 says Shillong is now the country’s most-searched destination,  ahead of Goa, Manali, Kerala, and the rest.

But a question nags the mind. Why did sections of mainstream media describe Meghalaya as crime-prone, as if murders and disappearances of visitors were common here? And why did state ministers, politicians, activists, and civil groups respond so sharply, demanding apologies? In the past, they were never this sensitive. To understand this reaction, we need to step back and see the background.

Meghalaya’s tourism industry had been growing since the early 2000s. But after 2017, the pace quickened. The government pushed hard to promote the state, through All India Radio (now Akashvani), television, and exhibitions in India and abroad. The efforts paid off. Homestays, food courts, and small ventures mushroomed. Tourism began boosting the local economy in ways never seen before.

I was born in Shillong, grew up there, studied for my Master’s, and later worked as a journalist with leading local and regional English dailies and magazines. With that experience, I feel I can speak with some authority on why these questions matter.

The truth is, Meghalaya was always known as a tourist spot, even back in the 1980s. But unlike Darjeeling, Kalimpong, Goa, Kerala, or Ooty, it was never really projected or marketed. Shillong, bluntly put, never created much buzz on India’s tourist map.

Between the late 1970s and early 1990s, whenever I went on vacation to other Indian cities, telling people I was from Shillong often created confusion. Most had never heard of it. Many thought I said “Ceylon”,  the famous Radio Sri Lanka that belted out Bollywood songs on shortwave. Sometimes, no matter how much I explained, they still nodded knowingly and said, “Ah, Ceylon, Binaca Geetmala!”

Shillong has long had a sizeable non-tribal population, especially in what was known as the “European Ward.” Families brought by the British settled here permanently and seemed to live in harmony with their Khasi hosts. Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, and followers of traditional faiths coexisted in this small town with surprising ease.

The colonial era set the stage for Shillong’s mixed character. People from Assam, Bengal, Bihar, Punjab, Rajasthan, and even Nepal came as government servants, teachers, traders, doctors, washermen, transporters, and army men. English became the preferred language, along with Khasi and Hindi.

Top (1940s) Kelvin Cinema, Jail Road, Shillong's vintage charm with Willys Jeep, Landmaster, and a timeless street scene. Bottom (1970s) A rush at Kelvin's ticket counter, bellbottoms, long collars, and tense faces in the crowd. A blockbuster must have been playing. 

Even before television and satellite dishes arrived, Shillong was ahead in fashion. Hollywood films at Kelvin and Anjali cinemas set the tone. After watching a film, many young men would hurry to the tailor, quietly describing the cut they had seen on screen. Tailors in Shillong had a remarkable awareness of global fashion, without ever leaving town.

Kelvin and Singhania Talkies often screened Bengali classics in their morning or matinee shows, drawing a steady crowd. For Bollywood, people flocked to Biju, Dreamland, and Anjali cinema halls.

Meghalaya Governor Madhukar Dighe felicitating Laitumkhrah’s freedom fighter Mrs. Snehalata Deb, remembered for her fearless act of removing a sitting judge from his chair and occupying it herself. Also seen are her son Sukhan Deb and others. A moment from the early 1990s now part of Shillong’s history.

Festivals lit up the town. During Durga Puja and Diwali, we hopped from Harisabha to the Namghar in Laban, then to Rilbong, Jail Road Mandab, Matri Mandir at Polo, and many more. By evening, we circled back to Laitumkhrah, visited the Bihari committee’s puja near the bus stop, then dropped into Lal Villa and Ramakrishna Mission. After dinner, woollens on, we returned to Lal Villa for the cultural shows that went on past 2 am. Our Khasi friends were always there too, adding to the laughter. Lal Villa was the highlight, especially for its lively cultural nights.

Christmas and New Year carried the same warmth. The non-tribals joined the celebrations wholeheartedly, and the feelings were always mutual. I still remember when my Khasi friends wanted me to spend the night at their homes. They would actually come to my parents, politely ask for permission, and only then drag me along. Thinking of those days, it feels as if it all happened just yesterday.

But then, this peace between the two communities was suddenly shattered by a freak incident on October 22, 1979. It could have been contained early, but it wasn't. A Kali idol from Lal Villa, near Laitumkhrah Police Beat House, was being taken for immersion when a Khasi boy allegedly stepped over it, causing damage. What began as a scuffle soon spiraled into clashes, idols were vandalised, and Shillong was suddenly in turmoil.

The police first detained two Khasi men. After protests, they picked up two Bengalis as well, but soon released everyone. What could have ended there spread like wildfire. The government imposed an indefinite curfew as houses of Bengalis were set ablaze, attacks and stone pelting broke out, and lives were lost. From our locality we could see homes burning on the hill slopes and sometimes faint cries for help. The violence grew so grave that the Centre imposed President’s Rule and issued shoot-at-sight orders.

A letter from my father, with the Laitumkhrah post office stamp.

During those cold and uncertain days, my mother and I stayed alone in our large Laitumkhrah house. My siblings were away, and my father was stuck in Calcutta on work, unable to return because of the violence. From there, he sent us an inland letter, half of which was addressed to me. I still have it, and I’m sharing it in this blog. Dated 24 December 1979, it read:

"My dear Potu, How do you find the curfew-bound Shillong in the winter evenings? The air must be surcharged with the thick smoke of hatred, isn’t it? Here I have been trying to do something, but until the efforts bear fruit, it’s no use telling you. Even in this respect too my work is being disturbed by the happenings in Meghalaya and Assam. Often I spend hours together thinking of you. Bad, indeed, but I can’t help it either…”

In the midst of all this, we kids tried to make the best of the situation. We had set up a small badminton court in our compound with electric bulbs for evening play. We had no idea that stepping out into the compound during curfew hours was technically illegal.

One evening, as we played, a CRPF patrol stopped at our gate. Four of us continued, determined not to let the shuttlecock drop. Finally, when it did fall, one of the men barked, “Kya khel rahe ho ghar ke bahar? (What are you playing outside the house?) Curfew ke waqt bahar nikalna dandaniya aparadh hai!” (Being out of the house during curfew hours is a serious offence) Another added, “Ek-do danda padne se samajh aa jayega…” (One-two cane beating will then make you understand) Hearing this, one of them slowly stepped into the compound. We didn’t wait for the next move. All four of us sprinted in different directions, hiding in spots where we could see them, but they couldn’t see us. Needless to say, the game ended abruptly that evening.

As curfew hours slowly eased and people could step out for essentials, my father finally returned from Calcutta. One afternoon, some elders from the locality called a meeting. They wanted my father to attend. I knew if I asked him directly, he would refuse. So I asked my mother to pass on the request, adding that my friends’ fathers would also be there. With much reluctance, he went.

At the meeting, the elders announced a strange plan. They wanted an “economic boycott” of fish. Bengalis were asked not to buy fish from Khasi sellers as a form of protest. Punitive action was threatened against anyone caught violating this rule. My father was the only one to oppose the move outright. He argued that such measures would only worsen the tension. He suggested more constructive steps to bring peace back to Shillong. His words were not well received. Frustrated, he stood up and walked out before the meeting ended.

Later that evening, a middle-aged Bengali man from our locality was spotted carrying fish the typical Shillong way, dangling from a bamboo strip held between his fingers. He was forced to throw it in the dustbin. A few others met the same fate in the days that followed.

That evening, when I came home through the back door, I overheard my father narrating the whole episode to my mother. As I stepped into the kitchen, I was startled to see two varieties of fresh fish laid out on the table. “How did you manage this? Didn’t anyone stop you?” I asked. My mother, without a trace of worry, replied, “Who listens to such foolish people?” Her calmness matched my father’s conviction.

The 1979 violence was not accidental but orchestrated. Politicians seeking power used the Khasi Students Union to stoke unrest, unleashing violence on Bengalis. Professionals, teachers, and government employees fled overnight, their homes burned, families pushed into relief camps. Nearly 20,000 left Shillong for cities across India. The state gave no protection, and the police looked away. For many, it marked the end of their Shillong story.

From 1980, the state government and the local Dorbar stopped giving permission for the Lal Villa Durga Puja. Between 1980 and 1986, many prominent people tried to revive the old celebration and its cultural programmes, which had once brought all communities together. But it never returned. Instead, relations grew more polarised. For non-tribals, even walking down a lonely street could mean trouble. A shoulder push from a group of boys could quickly turn into a fight, leaving the lone walker bruised. Tensions simmered, and non-tribals were often at the receiving end.

The 1980s saw even darker violence. On December 22, 1980, a bus heading to Shillong was stopped at Laitlyngkot. Khasi passengers were asked to step down, while five Bengali boys remained onboard. The bus was then taken to a bridge, where the boys were dragged out, brutally assaulted with machetes and firewood, and killed. Their bodies were pushed into the stream below.

Even then, some of us held on to old friendships. Many Khasi families in Laitumkhrah privately regretted the new anti non-tribal mood. But few spoke out openly, fearing the KSU and the lumpen groups. I continued visiting my Khasi friends. At Danny’s place, hours would pass in the company of his Gerard record changer stacked with vinyl LPs. We would listen to western classics until sundown, or sometimes switch to the 13-metre band to catch Radio Australia. If it got too late, his mother, Auntie Shylla, would fuss over my safety and insist I return home quickly.

1986 – With my family and our pet Dicky in our Shillong home.

The Jones sisters always made sure we were at their parties. Barith would be sent to fetch us if needed. One late evening, after a party, Danny, Lambok and I were heading back when I saw my dad at Laitumkhrah Police Point, out looking for me. At the same time, Auntie Shylla, worried about Danny, bumped into him. We panicked and quickly spun a tale about attending Leonard’s wedding. Both seemed relieved, and we escaped a scolding.

Bavlang’s home in Laban was another favourite spot. He had a big Akai two-in-one system, sleek and powerful, that filled the house with music. He taught me few guitar chords there, swapped strumming patterns, and wasted many happy hours. His father was friendly too. I remember him taking both of us to the Shillong Club one New Year’s Eve. For us, it was a real treat.

A rare vintage photograph of Shillong’s Rajbari, featuring Maharaja Bodhchandra Singh of Manipur with his associates, taken in the late 1940s.

But in June 1987, trouble returned. A fresh round of communal tension broke out, this time targeting the Nepalese, who had been living in Shillong for generations. To my dismay, even some classmates joined in blocking students from attending classes. Curfew returned, educational institutions shut down, and the violence carried on for months. Arson, stone pelting, even crude petrol bombs marked that ugly period. Reports said around 2,700 Nepalese were displaced from Meghalaya.

The Nepalis had been in Shillong since colonial times. Many came with the Sylhet Light Infantry and the 8th Gorkha Rifles. In fact, the Gorkha Patshala School, founded in 1876, was one of the oldest in Shillong, set up for the children of army men.

That year, as fear spread, vehicles with tinted glass and “A/F” (Applied For) plates began moving suspiciously around our neighbourhood. To be safe, our elders set up two watch-points – one at Chaudhury Mansion, and the other at the lower end of the locality. I even set up a “hotline” between the two, stringing up a crude phone line over 300 metres. It actually worked, and reports of every vehicle or stranger were instantly passed on. Looking back, it was a serious matter, but for us youngsters, it felt more like an adventure.

By October, my parents left for Calcutta. I stayed back in Shillong, waiting for our university exams to be rescheduled. The city was tense, but life had to go on.

Curfew was lifted for a few hours in the afternoon so people could buy essentials. If I missed that window, I would slip through shortcuts across jungles to avoid the main roads, just to reach Shillong Manipur Rajbari. Inside that vast fortified compound, life felt safe and carefree.

Entrance to the Manipur Rajbari, lined with pine trees.

We played table tennis under the open sky, badminton, cricket, and when rain poured, we stayed indoors tuning in to distant radio stations or listening to our favourite cassettes on a two-in-one stereo cassette recorder. Breakfast might be at Durjoy Singh’s house, lunch at Chandam Debabrata Singh’s place, and tea at Laishram Dhiraj Singh’s home. At every stop, good food and western classics were waiting. Life was simple, straight, and innocent, yes, indeed.

If I stayed late after curfew hours, my Rajbari friends would insist on accompanying me back home. On days I didn’t show up, they would ride their motorbikes to my house, pick me up, and we’d take a joy ride through Laitumkhrah main road. 

One November afternoon, Rishikumar Singh from Rajbari dropped by my house. Rishi was stylish, good at artwork, and heavily inspired by Jon Bon Jovi, hair, attitude and all. With Sam, William, Lung, and others gone to Jowai due to the unrest, the two of us decided to walk down to Laitumkhrah main road during curfew relaxation time for a glass of tea and some samosas.

As we walked past the old Ambrosia restaurant, a black Ambassador car with tinted windows and “A/F” plates brushed dangerously close to us. Loud bass thumped inside the closed car. I recognised it, it belonged to a group from Malki. Rishi, annoyed, muttered, “So much space in the middle of the road, and still this fellow drives like this?” We laughed it off and continued walking.

But just near the Laitumkhrah bus stop, the same Ambassador stopped in front of us. Seven Khasi youths jumped out and specifically called Rishi for a fight. Rishi, puzzled, said, “The car nearly ran over my friend, what’s the matter now?” He demanded a fair fight, but there was no fairness. Within moments, seven to eight of them dragged him to a narrow lane near the old SBI evening branch and the big round water tank.

What followed was horrific. They beat Rishi mercilessly, kicking him in the face and private areas with boots, pushing him into a dry drain. Blood poured out. His teeth were broken. I screamed for help, pleaded with folded hands, but nobody came, not the police pickets nearby, not even passersby. No one reported the matter to the Laitumkhrah Beat House.

When Rishi lay unconscious, they finally left. I fetched some water and sprinkled it on his face. Slowly, he woke and tried to stand. His face was swollen, bleeding, teeth shattered. He could barely speak.

It later emerged that these boys were linked with a local student body.

That brutal assault on Rishi has never left my memory. For years, it gave me sleepless nights. Panic would grip me whenever the thought returned.

Chowdhury Mansion, a Shillong residence close to my growing-up years.

After a few relatively quiet years, Shillong saw another flare-up in August 1990. It was short but nasty. Some Khasi miscreants threw Molotov cocktails at a non-tribal trader’s shop in Police Bazar. The shop owner suffered 70% burn injuries.

I was a reporter then with an English daily. I rushed with my camera to Nazareth Hospital, photographed the injured man, and filed my story. By next day, the city was tense. Sporadic arson, stone-pelting, and attacks on pedestrians were reported from different parts of Shillong. By late afternoon, the district administration clamped curfew across the city.

The same decade, brutality struck again. In 1990, Jyotish Ghosh, a sweet vendor, was subjected to a horrific attack. Miscreants immersed him in boiling syrup used for rasogollas, then set him on fire, leading to his death.

In 1991, another shocking incident shook us. Prakash Hotel in Laitumkhrah, owned by the Saigal family, was well known. Their eldest sibling was running Saigal Automobiles in the same arcade. One afternoon he was gunned down in broad daylight by the militant group Hynniewtrep National Liberation Front (HNLF) for refusing to pay ransom. The message was clear: even non-Bengali speaking citizens had become targets now.

In August 1992, Shillong plunged into yet another major communal riot. Arson, killings, and assaults went on for months. Indefinite curfew was declared. Non-tribal traders, particularly Marwaris and Biharis, faced the worst. Many were beaten, their shops destroyed, and families forced to leave for Assam, Rajasthan, and elsewhere.

The city’s fabric had been woven by these very communities. Marwaris, Sindhis, and Punjabis ran businesses. Biharis played a big role in the service sector, milk vendors, barbers, cobblers, butchers, laundry men, even the humble loaf-sellers. Shillong’s so-called cosmopolitan flavour owed much to them.

I clearly remember one day in the last week of August 1992. A non-tribal businessman, badly assaulted the previous evening, died. The next morning I went to Civil Hospital around 10:30 a.m. The premises were tense. Family members and traders had gathered. By 1 p.m. the crowd swelled, demanding justice and protection.

Around 2 p.m., the East Khasi Hills DC, Mrs. Margaret Mawlong, arrived in her royal blue Ambassador car with two police escorts. The crowd rushed to her car, surrounded it. She stayed locked inside, windows up. Section 144 was imposed. Armed police escorted her inside the hospital. The gates shut, the hospital grounds fell silent. The crowd, however, gathered outside on the road.

I sat quietly on a low tree branch inside the hospital campus, watching. A truck stood nearby, and some men climbed on it, shouting for security and justice. At around 2:30 p.m., a lady magistrate arrived with armed police. Guns, tear gas, lathis, shields, everything was ready. She shouted (without even a megaphone) for people to leave. Police fired blanks in the air. Tear gas shells were about to be lobbed. I quickly climbed down and ran to a side door of the hospital.

The hospital staff refused to let me in. I showed my press card and threatened: “If you don’t let me in, you’ll be tomorrow’s story.” Nervously, he opened the door.

An hour later, when I came out, the road was empty. Only hundreds of scattered footwear told the story of a fleeing crowd. From Barik Point onwards, the streets were deserted. Through loudspeakers, the DIPR announced: curfew from 4 p.m., Section 144 in force across Shillong.

I walked back to office, then home for a meal. Shops were shut. Later, as I rode back from Malki, a big stone, at least 300 grams, missed my head by an inch. Luckily, I was wearing a helmet.

A well-known astrologer’s family in Malki was assaulted by mobs. One evening during curfew, I saw them sitting outside the Laitumkhrah Police Beat House. Their son’s face was swollen with bruises. I stopped to check, and he told me how the mob had tortured him and how unsafe they felt to return home.

But some incidents were far worse. One of them I can never forget. In 1992, a young Bengali woman from Malki, Gauri Dey, six months pregnant, was brutally attacked. She was raped, and a bamboo stick shoved inside her. Witnesses existed, but no one was ever convicted. Justice never came.

Back in 1995, a tragedy struck. Lawrence, the owner of Riche’s Restaurant at Laitumkhrah Police Point, was shot dead by HNLF militants at his residence in Umpling (Rynjah). He had grown up in Shillong, a plains tribal from Assam married to a Khasi lady, and was living with his mother-in-law’s family. His death showed how the violence of that period touched even the places and people we knew well.

In November 1999, a shocking incident shook Shillong. At Laban, Dipankar Bhattacharjee, younger brother of the well-known Aristo TV showroom owner, was gunned down inside his residence by HNLF militants. He also ran a cable TV network. The assailants looted his shop before escaping, leaving the community in disbelief.

Barely two months later, on 1st January 2000, militants again struck at the Aristo TV shop in Dhankheti. Five innocent lives were lost in broad daylight, three employees (two Bengalis and a Nepali), and two Khasis, including a customer and a betel nut vendor. The scene was ghastly, blood splattered across the floor and glass shards everywhere. Though the police and ambulances arrived quickly, the culprits vanished unhindered.

The next major communal flare-up came in 2018, this time targeting the Sikh residents of Punjabi Lane (Harijan Colony). Descendants of sanitation workers brought by the British in the 19th century, the community had lived there for generations. A minor altercation over access to water on 31st May spiraled into violence. Rumours spread on WhatsApp claiming Khasi boys had died, fuelling mobs to attack with stones and petrol bombs. The KSU soon demanded the eviction of the entire colony, once again reviving bitter divides.

On 6 August 1988, our family left Shillong. It was an emotional day with neighbours and friends gathering at our home. A few months later, I returned alone and began my journey into journalism, carrying Shillong in my heart in a new way.

These grim episodes, stretching across decades, highlight the pain Shillong has endured. From 1979 onwards, non-tribals were repeatedly targeted, yet murders went unsolved and no convictions ever followed. The government’s response was slow and passive, often clouded by political transitions and elections around the corner. Traders were urged by the police to report extortion notes from militant groups, but seldom received any assurance of safety. Religious institutions and community bodies, despite their influence, did little to calm the tensions. Families like those of Saigal Automobiles and Aristo TV even regretted informing the police about extortion threats, as protection never came. Even familiar landmarks of daily life, like Lawrence (Riche’s Restaurant) near Laitumkhrah Police Point, quietly bore witness to these years of unease. Amidst these inhuman treatments, many locals carried on with life as though unrest had become normal.

The August 2021 cold-blooded killing of surrendered HNLF activist Chesterfield Thankhiew at his home, in front of his family, further deepened public anger.

Shillong today – a city of clouds, still whispering stories of the past

And yet, years later, the handling of the Indore missing couple case suddenly brought a wave of appreciation. For once, the police, civil bodies, and politicians acted swiftly and in unison. Solving the Raja Raghuvanshi murder mystery even put Meghalaya Police back into the spotlight for the right reasons.

It leaves one wondering: if the same spirit of urgency and unity had been shown during the first sparks of communal tension in 1979, perhaps the long trail of horror, murders, assaults, extortions, and hatreds, might never have happened. Tribals and non-tribals could have continued their shared life in harmony, with Durga Puja at Lal Villa still glowing like old times.

Today, Shillong wears a different face. Tourism, education, and music have given a global identity. People are far more conscious of how unrest affects livelihoods. When the Indore case made headlines, civil societies and politicians marched together, not to divide but preserve the city's image and peace. 

Shillong has seen its darkest nights, but it has also shown gleamers of healing. I carry those memories, both bitter and sweet, wherever I go. And like many who once called it home, I still pray Shillong never repeats its past, but instead continues to stand for coexistence, dignity and peace.

Disclaimer This article is based on true events I witnessed. It is written with respect, and some descriptions may feel strong. The closing thoughts reflect hope that such days never return.

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Celebrating Prof. S.K. Acharya: A Brilliant Mind with a Playful Spirit

Reflecting on His Impact and Unforgettable Moments, 30 Years On

A Familiar View–Sketch by Prof Acharya 

As we approach the 30th anniversary of Prof. Salil Krishna Acharya’s passing on November 17, 2024, a flood of mixed thoughts comes to mind. While I’m proud of his pioneering work—like his blueprint for connecting the Ganges and Brahmaputra, which envisioned bringing Northeast India onto the international maritime map, and his founding of the Shillong Commerce College with groundbreaking courses—the lack of recognition by the authorities remains a painful reminder.

In Thought

In the 1970s, shortly after the formation of the State of Meghalaya, Dad prepared a ‘Blueprint for Industrialisation of Meghalaya’ and conducted a study on ‘Agriculture in Meghalaya, Mizoram, and the Mikir & North Cachar Hills’. His insights on education were also captured in articles such as ‘Professional Education in Degree Colleges’.

Beyond his intellectual achievements, Prof. Acharya had a deep love for the arts. An avid admirer of Indian literature, he was a fan of George Bernard Shaw, Shakespeare, and T.S. Eliot, and he even dabbled in poetry himself. His intricate sketches were renowned for their detail.

But, amid all his serious endeavors, it’s the other, more humorous side of Dad that sticks with me.

The Petticoat Episode

Dad had a habit of waking up early, cleaning the verandah, and settling in with his morning essentials: a cup of tea, a packet of cigarettes, The Statesman and The Economic Times, a Philips transistor radio, and sometimes his typewriter or a stack of papers. He loved this morning routine in the warmth of the Shillong sun. One autumn morning, however, my siblings and I were woken up by our mother, whispering, “Something’s off with what your dad is wearing!” We crept closer and burst into laughter—Dad was wearing Mom’s petticoat instead of his pajamas! Mom had mistakenly left it on his clothes rack the night before, and Dad, absorbed in his thoughts, put it on without realising. He even had dinner in it without anyone noticing!

The Case of the Missing Tie

Another gem was during an important conference at Gauhati University. After three days, Mom asked Dad how it went, and he spoke glowingly about Bellevue Hotel, where he stayed with S. Gurudev, a representative from The Statesman. They shared long conversations and a double room with a breathtaking view of the Brahmaputra. However, Dad mentioned that he was puzzled when he saw Gurudev wearing “his” blue Zodiac tie. When confronted, Gurudev insisted it was his own, and Dad, not wanting a fuss, let it go. But when he got home, Mom found his blue tie in the wardrobe! She stormed over, showed him the tie, and scolded, “You left your tie at home and embarrassed that poor man!” Dad, laughing, immediately called Mr. Gurudev to apologise.

The Suitcase Mix-Up

This final story is a classic family tale, passed down from my mom and aunts. One winter, Mom had escaped Shillong’s biting cold by staying with her parents in Lucknow. Dad was busy with his work and planned a trip to Lucknow to bring her back as spring approached. He packed his suitcase carefully ahead of time. But, in the morning rush, he grabbed the wrong suitcase—a near-identical one filled with old saris, blouses, pillow covers, and tablecloths. When he arrived in Lucknow and Mom opened the suitcase, expecting his clothes, she was mortified! Dad, however, found the whole situation hilarious, laughing heartily as he admitted that he’d been too preoccupied that morning to notice the switch. It was typical of him—so engrossed in his thoughts that practicalities sometimes took a back seat. Despite the inconvenience, the incident became a treasured family story, one that would make us laugh every time it was retold.

Another Hilarious Episode: Half-Human, Half-Cow!

Sometime in 1988 or 1989, while I was pursuing my post-graduation at NEHU, Dad traveled to Calcutta to make arrangements for our family's relocation. A few days later, he sent a detailed letter to Mom, excitedly describing a large flat he had rented in South Calcutta. The letter had a vivid description of each room, the washrooms, and the ample space for our Lhasa Apso, Dicky, to roam freely. Dad even wrote about the peaceful ambiance of the neighbourhood and its promising residents.

Mom read the letter aloud to me, but something about it didn't quite resonate. The next morning, as soon as I woke up, I recounted a bizarre dream I had to Mom. In my dream, the South Calcutta neighbourhood appeared outdated and shabby. Even stranger were its residents — from the waist up, they looked like normal humans, but from the waist down, they had cow-like legs! Every resident was a strange mix of human and bovine, half-man and half-cow!

Mom found my dream absolutely hilarious and shared it with Dad in her reply, followed by a trunk call. Dad was so entertained by my absurd vision of South Calcutta's half-human, half-cow residents that he brought it up many times over the years, laughing each time as if he had just heard it for the first time.

Dad’s playful ode to our beloved pet, Dicky, complete with a charming sketch and colorful signature.

Words from afar, a heartfelt letter penned from Calcutta during Dad's work trip.

Creativity on the fly: an old Air Mail envelope transformed into a sketchbook, capturing a slice of our surroundings,  'Bonokusum' House as viewed from our compound.

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