Why Kokrajhar?

Assam has seen little peace in over a century now. The ethnic conflict in Kokrajhar with serious communal undertones that had erupted in four districts (Kokrajhar, Dhubri, Chirang and Bongaigaon) of Lower Assam has opened our eyes to the widening rift in Assam between the two communities. This has been the worst conflict in the recent history of Assam shocking us with its brutality and wantonness. 

Simple causalities have been brought forward to explain this genocide – The encroachments of Bangladeshis on local land and the increasing population of these illegal migrants have led to this mayhem. The local media channels had given fuel to this popular perception by splashing stories of displacement and violence of mostly the Bodo community. Now all that needed to be done was to flush them out and we would have a free Assam again! Almost as simplistic as the ‘Either you are with us or against us’ of the erstwhile Bush regime.

But this ‘politics of perception’ needs a reality check. The history of the Bengali speaking Muslim in Assam is actually a complex one. Encouraged by the colonial State and a section of the Assamese-speaking gentry, a large number of landless Muslim peasants from East Bengal moved to the Brahmaputra Valley in the 19th century. Since then, time and again, they have had to prove their allegiance to the state. They have remained at the lower rungs of Assamese society and the benefits of education and development have never really reached them. A fact that divisive political factions like the UDF has made ample use of.  On the other hand, the Bodo community has fared no better. Embroiled in a decade of violence, they had only recently found their bearings when a clever rhetoric of illegal migrants created in them a fear of the ‘other’, of being outnumbered and rooted out of their own lands. Popular culture and perception in Assam has created a dark picture – of Bangladeshis multiplying every minute and finally taking over this blessed land, unaware that that both Assam and the Bodoland area has shown decreasing trends of population growth in the last few decades as against the all India growth rate of population. What we urgently need right now is inter-community dialogue and a historically informed understanding of what constitutes Assam.

A Timeless Summer...

Devdungri is a small hamlet nestled in a remote corner of Rajasthan. Electricity and running water are not the benefits it affords. Little did I know that fate would direct me to this distant village and my city bred consciousness receive a rude jolt. I was a cynical 23 year old still struggling with Lacan and Brecht when a letter reached me at the North Eastern Student’s House for Women at Delhi University. This was to congratulate me for being accepted for the Spic Macay Gurukul Program where you got to spend a whole two months with a mentor of your choice. 

The RTI activist Aruna Roy had always intrigued me. A literature student like me, she had worked for seven years as an IAS officer before giving it all up to stay back in Rajasthan and start the MKSS (the Mazdoor Kisan Shakti Sangathan). The RTI revolution she had started with Nikhil Ray had made it possible for countless citizens like me to demand transparency in public life. My choice was made and my bags were packed.

A dusty sunset greeted me on arrival and the small, thatched house welcomed me. A city girl to the core, I had not anticipated the Magsaysay Award winner to live so humbly. I had known I would be learning a lot but it turned out to be much more than that. It turned out to be an experience that shook me to the core and I started questioning things I had taken for granted all along. At the crack of dawn, we were all up, fetching water from the well that smelled of pomegranate leaves. Cooking was a communal affair; everyone was expected to lend a hand. Equality is something we all value, but seldom have I seen it to be so visible everywhere. Nikhil would often carry earthen pots on his head accompanying the women of the village. Amusing at first, it soon opened my eyes to the subtle ways we emphasize gender.  My deep-rooted cynicism was soon replaced by hope. For when I saw the fair priced shops being operated by the MKSS or the village Panchayat elections being held without the usual compromises, it led me to believe that change was indeed possible and it was taking place in front of my eyes. Instead of the ‘chalta hain’ attitude we all so find comfort in, this was a refreshing change. Today when I choose not to bribe the passport officer or to file an RTI for a delayed pension grant, I know I have learned an invaluable lesson.

Tumi..

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Puwati nikhaa’r hopun tumi

Bohagor uroniya hubah tumi

Tumi aaha junakor baat'ere

Anishchoyotar dawor faali

Tumar sokut soku thole

Jonua nirove tumi

Asu moi, tumaar babei

Tita-mitha jibon’or ajaan baat’tit

Sinaki mathu tumar moromor poroh

Etiya jana, nijoke bes hahokhi lage

Monor akakh’ot ujjal

Jotiskar tora je tumi..

When Tiks's folks came over! :)

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It was just one of my usual, lazy evenings sipping a cup of cappuccino with a friend at the Barista at Khan Market, the one where its cloyingly cosy yet affords a breath of fresh air with a couple of chairs out on the balcony. I was just contemplating what to have for dinner, maybe a quick affordable bite at Mc'Dy's or let’s see, one of those rolls at Khan Chacha's when I noticed two missed calls on my phone. It was Tiks, my flat mate, my former hostel mate, and more than anything else, my critique and shopping partner! Her parents and kid brother were coming in for the night! 'O my God, is the house in a state fit to be seen was my first thought!

I went over as hastily as I could to our modest two room sarkari flat and was met by the most appetizing flavour ever! Hot dinner being cooked by Aunty, yellow dal in true assamese style with just a spattering of ‘paas-phuron’, mixed vegetables, fried onions n tomatoes and eggs, and lip-smacking 'bogori asar' (berry pickle)! Aunty looked at me and smiled, 'Go and change quickly, dinner is almost ready'...i did not need that line; I was ready to tuck in right at that moment if only she would let me! Me and Tiks gorged ourselves on 'maa ke haath ka khaana' and later shamelessly admired our swollen tummies! Size zero was passe! ;) 

Uncle was updating me with how expensive the humble karela was in Delhi, 60 rupees a kilo, can you imagine that? Or for that instance, lemons, the staple add on to every assamese meal was 5 rupees a piece! How do people manage to live here! I did not want to clarify that 'cooking veggies was not really a priority for us' and we could get by very well with scraps here and there, we were pretty uncomplaining people if you consider! Raja meanwhile was busy watching a movie called 'Ninja Assassination', a film we had no clue even existed on Tiks's laptop! He also advised me to watch 'The Fast and the Furious' part two not part four; the action in the latest one was pretty lame. My knowledge on Harry Potter too was suitably enhanced when I assumed 'The Deathly Hallows' was the end of J.K Rowling forever, but no! ‘There’s a second part coming, you didn't know that’ was his scornful reply! We were also supposed to call it an early night because the family was heading to Haridwar for a religious dip and Tiks's was going explicitly to click more pictures that could be uploaded on FB asap! By 5am, everyone was up and debating who takes the longest time to get ready...Aunty wins that hands down...I doubt whether anyone other than my own Amma could beat her!I had to  warm her tea twice before she packed in all her mekhela-sadors, blouses even a bottle of sauf I managed to keep her from taking! I tasted the sauf, delicately browned with little dry coconut pieces thrown in, used to traditionally welcome every guest back home with additions like pieces of paan and betel-nut. By 7am, everyone was miraculously ready to go, and I was left wishing I could go too inspite of Tiks's cryptic warning 'Bore khaabi'! (You will get bored')....I guess it was a desire to re-connect with all those familiar pointers that make any place feel like home...But sigh...evil things like chapter-writing awaits me :(

As they all waved goodbye and as I saw the white Indica vanishing from sight, I went inside and was greeted by the strong sweet smell of burning incense...I remembered the Eid mornings when it filled up the whole house, and an intense longing to go home overpowered me...

St Mary’s N.Lakhimpur, My first film and much more!

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Change….that was the most hated word of my childhood. I craved stability…a place where I could take root…grow wings but inevitably have a place to come back to…but the word ‘transfer’ threatened it all! Abba's being in the judiciary was a curse me and my three brothers had to constantly negotiate most of our lives. And what was more horrific to me was to be uprooted from an upmarket, polished all girls school to a co-ed one, with the dreaded word ‘boys’! St Mary’s North Lakhimpur, where all the rules were written to be broken. Where you had periodic strikes by students and boycotts… India indeed was independent but the students considered themselves self styled rebels, Guevera must have a Lakhimpur connection!

When all I wanted to be was invisible, being the new girl in school put me under intense scrutiny. My unusually long hair was commented on, home-made remedies for blackheads offered, hindi film music cassettes and slam books exchanged, Nancy Drew's  lent, almost as if I had always been a part of std Viii B! What was much more interesting was all the ‘gyan’ I was offered, Assamese slang worth its salt, how to hide your boyfriend’s gifts if you had one, but the one I particularly mastered was being a postman for my friend’s crushes! It felt good to be accepted and loved though my prudish ways were often looked down on.

Till then, the holy doors of the cinema halls were forbidden to me, but courtesy my gang, be it the then scandalous ‘Titanic’, or the Rahul-Anjali love saga ‘Kuch Kuch Hota Hain’, we saw it all and our parents never had an inkling to this day! Tution classes are seriously the best excuses in the world!

The first film however that I saw in a theatre and that remains a favourite to this day is Santosh Sivan’s ‘Halo’ in the good old days when he was not star struck enough to attempt a disastrous 'Ashoka'! We were taken to this one from school, and the mood was upbeat though the more knowledgeable ones like my friend Sabera were disgusted that at Std viiith, we were supposed to watch a kid’s movie!

We were all taken to the illustrious Surjya Hall with its betel-nut stained exteriors and cosy dark interiors. The huge screen made my eyes sparkle and to this day, the magic of a good film at a theater never fails to lift me up.

It was a simple tale- Sasha, a little girl in search of her lost pup, one she believed she needed the most but one she eventually gave up for another little boy, for well..he needed him more.A subtle moment of compassion and giving that took your heart away. Santosh Sivan, the ace cinematographer that he is regaled us with some beautiful shots of a wet, sea-drenched Bombay, long before ‘Dhobi Ghat’ happened. The riots of Bombay, the friendlessness of a small, motherless girl, the amusingly naïve love of Lata and Goldie and most of all Sasha’s answer when asked what is that she seeks the most, she searchingly replies, ‘happiness’…evevry moment is as fresh as that day many years back. It is funny how things come back to you...And how wrapped up you actually are to moments that make up your life...I am glad I can manage a smile then…quietly to myself…
P.S I had never believed in destiny until the day I met you…I cried all the way from Dibrugarh to North Lakhimpur, believing it was the end of the world for me..in fact, it was a new beginning..It meant getting to know you, the cute guy in my class with large specs, a pet of my maths teacher who still haunts me in my nightmares! Who knew we would become such good friends and discover worlds together..and many years later…make another new journey…’Halo’ was then our first movie together and it makes it all the more special…Cheers to many more years of movie viewing and much more!

Not just another day!

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It was another hectic day of a working week. Riya managed to drag herself out of bed as the bell droned on for the second time. Her maid Radha, with her ‘thousand excuses a minute’ stepped in. Without pausing for breath, she continued ‘Kal woh tabiyaat theek nahi thi Didi’ (I was not not well yesterday Didi). Riya made a wry face, ‘Phir se?’(Again?) ‘Arrey, meri nahi didi, mere bhanje ki!’ (Not me didi, my nephew was unwell!). Riya thought it better not to delve in deeper but stick to ‘Que sera sera’….what will be will be.

She stepped inside her bedroom and drew the curtains aside. The sleepy winter sun peeped in, cautiously but warmly. Riya woke her husband up, ‘Get up Rajib, I’m setting the tea on boil’. Rajib grunted a non-distinguishable reply and drew the blanket around him tighter.

By 8.20 am, things had settled into their normal pace. Riya was sipping her ‘kadak’ morning tea contentedly and thinking of ways to surprise Rajib, it was their first anniversary after all! Her eyes rested fondly on Rajib, who was busy digging into the morning news on NDTV India. ‘My weekend is going to be eventful, another test season begins’. Riya was busy with her own thoughts, ‘Should I get him an engraved watch? Yes, that would be just the thing!’ She had recently watched ‘Sex and the City part 2’ with her pals and had concurred that a watch engraved with ‘Happy Anniversary, Me and You, Just us Two’ was dizzyingly romantic! And of course, I have to pick up his favourite chocolate truffle cake on my way back from work’! Rajib broke in to her reverie with ‘Little Miss lost, it’s time to go for work, or do you plan to live in your castle today?’ Riya made a face and fetched her sturdy brown handbag.

She climbed up the steps to her office and flashed the receptionist a radiant smile. She should too partake of my happiness; a year of married bliss is no mean achievement! She felt like a little girl all over again on the verge of her birthday; the excitement churning in her tummy, the pestering her ‘deuta’ for the blue shoes with the red bow. ‘What will Rajib surprise me with?’ Riya thought. ‘But then, he is not the sentimental sorts. He was measured and precise in his opinions and did not believe in making a hue and cry about birthdays and anniversaries. But I am sure he must have planned ‘something’! Well, I have. That should be good enough for the two of us!’  She concluded. Before her thoughts could run away with her, Riya noticed the fat, hard-bound book on her desk, one that urgently required a blurb. She got lost in the white sheets in no time. Words had always fascinated her. The way they could leap around and form new worlds; worlds she could lose herself in.

Riya reached home armed with an extra-chocolatey truffle cake and Rajib’s gift wrapped with a transparent white ribbon. She liked her frills! She put up a few decorations with Radha’s help who was secretly wondering who’s ‘janamdin’ it was! Rajib walked in, pleasantly surprised at all the pretty decorations and Riya in his favourite blue ‘Mekhela-Sador’. ‘Happy Anniversary Rajib’ Riya chirped. Rajib smiled back and said ‘This is a surprise, same to you dear!’ Riya’s special evening had finally started.

She playfully tugged at Rajib’s tie and coyly asked, ‘So where are we going for dinner tonight?’.He casually replied, ‘I wish I could take you out, but I have a meeting tomorrow I need to prepare for. Let us just order some pizza tonight’ Tears welled up in Riya’s dark brown eyes but she mananged  a ‘No probs Rajib’. She took off her silver blue bangles and put them on the dressing-table. A vacant look in her eyes, Riya sat looking at herself for a long time. This was not what she had bargained for. After all, love marriages are supposed to be different, special.

Riya walked out into the small balcony of their two-bedroom flat. The dim winter moon was already up. The pavement in front of the street was occupied by construction workers, their small blue plastic tent sheets offering scant protection against the Delhi winter. A fire made of twigs warmed the residents. A small grubby girl of about three years was nestled in her father’s lap who was warming her tiny feet.  They looked content, protected against the winter chill in a cocoon of love.

Rajib’s voice came floating to her, ‘Baby, whats this in the fridge? I did not know you had brought a cake too. Lets eat it, im ravenous!’ Riya cut him a piece but could not bear to look at it any longer. Rajib noticed she was quiet and asked her, ‘Are you ok?’ Riya said, ‘Of course, how’s the presentation going’? . That was it then. Just another day…just another night.

Riya’s slumber was broken by Radha’s insistent ringing. Irritated, Riya let her in. Radha paused on her way to the kitchen and took out something from her dupatta knot; a small mehendi cone. ‘Aaapko achi lagti hain na didi, meri bua ki ladki layi thi’, (You like mehendi na Didi, my aunt’s daughter had brought it) Radha blurted out in her usual abrupt fashion.  ‘Haan’ smiled Riya. It was not just another day!

Upohaar

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There is a special pleasure in writing in your mother tongue however inadequate your expression might be! Without any pretensions to writing in Assamese, this is just a very amateur effort to assuage my heart. :) This one is dedicated to three wonderful women in my life who keep me ticking n for whose sake i have refrained from using the Assamese script....For u Amya, Jotika and Saba (in strict alphabetic order!) 

Ratipua bes forkaal asil. Nixa’tu pise adbhut ashostit paar hoisil. Tuponiye luka-bhaku khelutei raati paar hoi gol. Trisha’i table’or uporot thaka ghori’tu dekhi asorit hol, homoi jen druta railgari’r dore bagori goise.

Gaari’t bohi Trisha’i kole ‘Bhaiya, AC nahi chal raha hain kya?’. Driver jone nai sola buli kuwat tai’r alop birokti lagile. Rishav’e misikiya’i hahi kole ‘Aaji gorom besi nohoi, khidkikhon alop khuli lua’. Imaan  horol sobhab’or manuh tai komei log paise. Hokolu poristhitit imaan hanto. Kintu eikeidin’or uthal-pathal’e tai’k bisolito kori rakhise. Tai’r sinaki sobikhon dine dine nirjiv hoi porise.

Keidinmaan agoloi tai hopun dekhaat byosto asil. Ajikali’r prithivit karba’k bhaalpua ati hadharon kotha. Hokolu’e hohoz bhabe lobo buliyei anumaan korisil Trisha’i. Kintu aaji bujibo parise..bhaalpua honghorho’r naam mathun. Kintu himaankhini hahokh tai gutabo kor pora?Trisha’r gaalkhon sokupanire hemeki asil othoso tai musiboloi eku sesta nokorile. Hokolu bixaad jen boi jabo sokurpaani’t.

Tai’r haat’ot hothat Rishav’e nijor haat thole aru hohoz bhabe kole ‘ Aloptu bujaboi lagibo soboke, nohole tu love marriage’or nisina nelagiboi’! Trisha’r sokut hahi jiliki uthil. Bohupar taa’r hanto sokujuroloi sai rol tai.

Hi hot Airport’or departure lounge’or homukhot ahi pale. Pise dutai ekharu kobo pora nai. Tai hothat dekhile taar pocket’ot jikmikiya ronga kolom eta. 

The Song...

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Feather soft rain drops

Against a stark September night

Your memory stashed somewhere

I fiddle with the present...

Smile,nod,take a sip in between

And the damn song plays

''Wish you were here''

There I go again

walking over jagged edges

doing the old tightrope

But not tonight

No tiptoeing out of old memories

For tonight..a blank slate

For tonight.... let me dance...

Sunny Saturdays

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It seems like ages since we have been here. And it seems like ages since its been raining. All our love of the rain has been thoroughly exhausted by now! Sigh! And I thought the rain was romantic!

We were not so glum two weeks back. In fact, we were ecstatic to see the rain as we taxied our trolleys out of the Dibrugarh airport. On the way to Bobby’s place, four bright pair of eyes looked longingly at the lush green countryside outside. The rain drops trickled down the window panes enveloping the outside world in a halo of mist. The blazing, scorching Delhi days were over and boy! Were we not relieved! Childhood memories of jumping over puddles, making lop-sided paper-boats, watching my brothers play football in the rain while I sat daintily on the veranda steps (I was not ‘allowed’ to join!). But my favourite memory of the rain was the day my school had remained close due to heavy showers and Abba made me write an essay aptly titled ‘’A rainy day’’ while I sat perched on his knee and listened to his favourite memories of the rain. All little girls idolized their fathers. I was no exception.

But that was two weeks ago. Now we really need some sunshine to dry our musty towels and dripping clothes. Not to say anything about our field visit to Romai tea estate when our car almost skidded off the slippery road. We abandoned it in that treacherous state and trudged our way to safety through oodles of slush. 

Its Saturday today.  Most importantly, the weekend has arrived.  For a week filled with reports to be read and conclusions to be drawn, Saturadys are no less than manna from heaven! Voila! And when I open my sleepy sleepy eyes, what do I see? The sun streaming in golden hues flooding the house with its warm radiance. No wonder all ancient civilizations worshipped the sun. Suraj devta ki jai ho! And gosh!Whats that! Rachel, Sarika and Ellen tucking into some yummy looking ‘lusi’ and ‘aloor dom’. Life indeed is a gift! We draw a quick POA (plan of action) for the day; some shopping (shopping is a must have on our list!) and watching Rajneeti at the local cinema hall ‘Ranghar’ ( the last time I saw a movie poster stuck there and had craved to go in was light years ago – DDLG to be precise) and a hearty lunch at the food court in Junction Mall ( food by mutual consent is our first priority!) So we all showered and dressed ; putting in little extra touches, Sarika straightened out her curls, Rachel wore some lovely beads, I applied my loreal eastern diva eye-shadow ( there's something about smoky eyes that gets me!) and Ellen…ummm….she was the usual good old Ellen. In no time, we were packed tight on the backside of Bobby’s car, expectant, happy, carefree….

One Sunday Evening.

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It was an almost perfect Sunday evening. Dinner with Dadba had to be more than ‘purrfect’ in fact. Along the way, I was as always chattering my heart away and my brother had a half amused ,half thoughtful expression; his standard one! We stopped at the customary Mc Dy’s wala corner at Kamla Nagar. On a whim, my Marxist brother felt a desire for a capitalist cup of coffee. So be it!

The whole place was chock-a-bloc; it was a Sunday after all! There were mostly families today, I noticed. Pampered kids with their parents, contently licking ice-cream. A secure universe.

In the midst of my discussion with Dadba on ‘Detha and the oral history of Rajasthan’, I saw a little boy selling balloons to passersby. I had seen him before and like many others brushed him aside with a ‘Nahi chahiye bhaiya’. However, I had never really noticed how incredibly adorable he looked; even in his tattered shorts and dirt-stained face. Ok perhaps! I need to get married!He was wearing a faded red sweater and his face peeped amidst red, green and yellow balloons.

There were couples hand in hand, groups of friends out on a weekend who passed him by. He diligently prodded after everybody ‘Didi,Ek balloon le lo! Bhaiya, ek balloon le lo’ he pleaded. I guess everyone was caught up in their own private worlds to notice much. Suddenly, I saw his face clouding over with tears. He just let them flow. My mask of insularity didn’t help now. I had to go. I walked over to him and asked him ‘ Kya hua beta?’. He just sniffed ‘Didi ek balloon le lo!’ Oh! What wretched luck! All I had that day was a paltry ten bucks,after all why carry money when Dadba was there! I thrust it into his hands and said’ Main bohot badi hoon na, balloons se nahi khel sakti!’ It was a lame joke but he smiled. My heart soared.

I went right back and continued to talk with Dadba. Perhaps the conversation turned a little cynical. Why were there so many destitute children? Which NGO’s would help out? We finished our coffee in contemplation and left. While we left Mc Dy’s, I saw a youngster, dressed in the customary branded sneakers and a rugged jeans munching away on his burger with the little guy. Both were animatedly talking. That’s when I realized…a little sharing goes a long way…. :)