Sargodha & Migs

The city of Sargodha and MiG fighters have come to form a part of our national heritage. I spent a considerable time in that environment in the early seventies. Though, by then, I had flown all fighters, MiG-19 came to hold a special place, mystique and mystery for me. It had an individualistic streak and was very Asian in character. Because of its unpredictability, I developed a love-hate relationship with it. I loved it in winter mornings when we went to the firing range. It sputtered bullets so slowly and deliberately that each one was visible flying down to the target on ground. I also liked the way one could pull and push it and throw it around in the sky like a toy. It was a tough nut, almost unbreakable, never getting over-stressed. And with its two after-burner’ powerful engines, it became a wild machine quite capable of cutting holes in the sky. It rolled fast, bolted crazily and climbed like an arrow. Coming from the cold climate of the ‘Shinjaan’ province in China, it was a thing of cold temperatures. It felt comfortable in low temperatures when its systems did not leak and when its brakes did not get hot.

It was only in summers that it fidgeted, freaked and became moody. In the afternoons, when flying at low levels, about 200 feet above ground, the cockpit got so hot that gloves went wet and sweat trickled down the forehead. Below 6000 feet, its airconditioning could do nothing to the heat of Sargodha country-side. And when one flew low over the broken Potohar plateau, one felt bumps, just like on a camel ride. After sunset, it was a pleasure to fly it in cool, moonlit nights but, in dark nights, its cockpit light was never enough. In those days, Sargodha’s skyline was always busy with a formation of MiGs flying in, turning and landing one by one. Jet noise and vibrations were a part of local life as the city rambled on in its own moods and lifestyle.

Barring the few business families, it was a city of ‘Zamindars’ coming from nearby villages. They were docile, well off and Punjabi. Thus making Sargodha a favourite place for government officials, who enjoyed living in sprawling bungalows hidden behind tall trees with an ample supply of conforming natives just outside their big gates. A typical zamindar suffered from a compulsive desire to show off while remaining quite a pygmy from the inside. At one moment he would be seen walking with chin up and chest out, in starched white clothing, duly following by a bevy of obliging underlings; giving an impression as if the earth was too small for him. And the next moment he would be a humble pie and grovelling in front of a petty civil official.

For those, who wore ‘dhotees’, the usual style was to lift its one end up, as they walked. And all had a dying urge to cultivate a good working acquaintance with local officials, an asset that dramatically enhanced their prestige in the village. They viewed the Air Force with respect; and placed it at a higher level of social standing. Then there were the poor folks of the nearby villages who were so innocent that they came to the city carrying their shoes on the heads and putting them on just before entering the city. For them, the city experience was so novel, rich and grand that it deserved shoes. The women were simple and so far back in the times that their staple dress was confined to thin black cotton; quite transparent and without the usual female support equipment. They all came to their ‘Paris’ for court hearings, for shopping for ‘jahez’ or to see a doctor. For them, aircraft was something from the outer space and far too remote and enigmatic to bother thinking about.

To be honest, the MiG was not a creature of the 20th century. Even from its looks, it looked like a product of the Chinese cottage industry. Its two 30 MM gun-barrels protruded out of the aircraft body like two sore thumbs quite unmindful of the drag that could be caused when flying beyond the speed of sound. A long thick tube which measured the speed stuck four feet out of engine intakes giving an impression to a layman that it was this stick which poked the enemy aircraft. Similar was the story inside the cockpit, so snug and small that well-built pilots got fitted into it like a cork into the bottle head. Sargodha was then not as chaotic and as populated as now. It was simply a big sleepy dusty village with an air of medieval times - the only modicum of sophistication and technology being the airbase. Paradoxically, while the jets roared overhead, ox an donkey carts pulled on the main city roads and buffaloes and goats grazed on the lawns of bungalows. For a pilot there was a swing in the pendulum. After experiencing the slow slurpy tonga ride, the only mode of local transport, it was quite a feeling to jump into a supersonic aircraft, which took off in less than 1500 feet and reached 30000 feet in less than five minutes. In an after-burner take off, one had to literally pull back on the stick so as not to exceed the wheel and flaps speed. And no pilot could ever take the Mig 19 for granted, because it required that extra skill and cunning to get the best out of it.

It was mostly at slow speeds that the Mig needed tender handling - little tickling and little fiddling. Doing it intelligently and consciously. At slow speeds it nudged right and left always wanting to go into a flick, stall or spin, forcing the pilot to sit at the edge of his seat, fully alert. So after the sweat, joy and frustrations of the day's flying, what had the city to offer in terms of night life and culinary delights? Nothing really! Certainly there were no operas, theatres or concerts. Nor was Sargodha ever famous for its cousine. Whatever it offered was rudimentary, down to earth and very basic. You went to see the ’Richh kuttey da bhaer’ (bear-dog fight) on the salty foothills of Kirana. Then there was the Sargodha’s annual ’Mela Mewaisheaan’ (animal festival) where you got to see overweight buffaloes, oxen and goats. For the thirsty, there was always the rich mouthwatering ’lussi’ of pehelwaan of ‘Gole Khoo’ or the round well. His glass could easily be mistaken for a jug. ‘Karahi Ghost’, the newest find of the time, thanks to the Landi Kotal’s smuggling bazaars, was another popular dish to get tipsy on.

Now, the city is littered with clinics and hospitals, one at every corner; changing the city's title from ‘Shaheeno Ka Shaher’ to ‘Doctoron Ka Shaher’. As for the good old MiGs, they have left having been replaced by more sophisticated air machines. But the skyline of Sargodha would always remember the roars and thunders of those quaint Chinese birds which kept its skies so colourful, noisy and interesting for so many years.