The clock tower in Dimapur is quiet by moonlight. Eight months ago, an angry mob dragged a man here from the city’s Central Jail, tied him to the rails of the tower and beat him to death. They said he was an illegal Bangladeshi immigrant, they said he had raped a Naga woman. Neither claim could be proved later on.

The lynching crowd had walked nearly five kilometres from the jail to murder its victim here. In the heart of the city, not far from the railway station, the tower presides over one of Dimapur’s busiest intersections. This was a crime that was meant to be watched, an elimination of the “IBI” who had overrun the surrounding countryside, causing trouble and threatening to obliterate indigenous Naga culture. Such, at least, were the paranoias spread by certain Naga groups and believed by a section of the public, even in Dimapur with its mixed population and its bustling trade.

“Influx” is a loaded word in the Northeast, often used on its own, without qualification, conjuring up hordes of faceless outsiders swarming into the pristine hills and valleys.

On a cool evening in late October, however, the clock tower bears no trace of the crime. There is a placard on the rails saying “Vigilance Awareness Week, October 26th-November 1st”, part of an anti-corruption campaign that has swept through Nagaland in the last couple of years. There is another placard announcing a mysterious “Mission Nagaland”. But the Vodafone 3G sign, familiar from pictures taken eight months ago, still hangs high on the tower.

An army truck is parked at the petrol pump in one corner of the roundabout. Soldiers are perched in a row on a fence. They do not want to be photographed. More soldiers sit on the steps of a dark, shuttered shop, slumped over their guns. Just the day before, one of the roads leading up to the clock tower had seen a long traffic jam. An armoured tank was rolling down the street. Almost all of the Northeast is under the blanket of the Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act. Dimapur, home to the III corps of the Eastern Command, is thick with arms and security personnel.

At seven o’clock in the evening, the unlit streets are already lonely, given up to army cars and speeding jeeps. There are furtive groups whispering under darkened arcades. The road leading from the clock tower to the central jail passes the remains of a Durga Puja pandal. During the day, you can buy car parts and hardware on this road. It is lined with shops with names from the mainland. Jagadamba Motors and Asha Motors are shut, so are Pinky Trunk Parlour, Om Trunk House and Khermahal Parlour. Hotel Rajdhani Palace, which serves Mughlai food, is still battling on, along with Universal Bakery down the road. A shop selling everything from readymade garments to stereos had been pumping out Bollywood hit songs all day long. Now it is silent.

Earlier that evening, a Bihar auto driver who had informed me that two things were very cheap in Dimapur - “ladki aur daaru (girls and alcohol)”. Girls he had never tried in his two years in the city, alcohol he drank once every fortnight, in the quiet of his room. He used to work as a salesman in Delhi, where he managed to sell goods worth Rs 12,000 a month. But by the time he had paid his dues, he was left with only Rs 7,000. Life was better in Dimapur, even though he had to pay the auto owner Rs 250 a day.

He remembers being bullied and harassed by local residents when he first came to the city. “Lekin March 5 ke kaand ke baad, sab sudhar gaye (But after the incident on March 5, they’ve all reformed).”