Majuli IN the Brahmaputra

Our guest writer is back, this time with an experience from her trip to Assam :)

The ride to Nematighat near Jorhat was uneventful. The birds were just waking up and a few clearing their throats in the freezing cold. We reached the jetty at around 7 am to discover that our passage was not booked as promised and we had to wait for an hour for the next ferry.

The double decker ferry piles people on the lower deck and cars, jeeps, cycles, goats and cows on the upper deck. There are no barricades on the upper deck and the vehicles are held in place with big stones. Since we were advised to take our rented cab across to the island I kept asking the driver if he was sure ours wouldn’t roll off.

The lower deck was crammed with loads of people and had only one inflated tyre to serve as a life boat. The ride takes about 50 minutes and all along one sees various water birds swooping on the water and fishing. While the birds are busy finding fish the people on the boat are trying their best to draw personal information out of you.

On the banks of the Brahmaputra where we touched Majuli was a makeshift toilet and a tea house.

As soon as we docked many of the people who had gathered on the banks ululated loudly and were joined by some of the ladies from the boat. I was sure it was some ‘Made it to Majuli safe’ ritual but No! As I discovered later they were a marriage party and sounds were a part of the ceremony.

The island of Majuli is referred to as the seat of Vaishnavite culture and there are different Vasihnavite monasteries on the island. We visited one where the monks were reading the scriptures in the faint light that entered the vast halls. Oil lamps were burning here and there. There was no idol in what looked like the sanctum sanctorum but there was a temple of goddess Saraswati outside. The architecture was completely unique and the whole structure with massive pillars was built from local wood.

I was repeatedly told that there were bigger and better monasteries and also a museum but due to lack of time made my way to the ‘Misin’ village. All the houses in this village are on stilts and villagers house their hand-loom, boat, cycle, fishing nets etc. under the house. The houses were made of what looked like mats. Most houses had a balcony of sorts and in some of these one could see pots with fermenting and frothing rice beer.

As I understand it, during the rains the Brahmaputra is in spate and then Majuli is under water. The villagers have to camp on the streets which are elevated as compared to the rest of the island. After the rains they rebuild their homes in the original locations.

As all this had made us hungry we walked to the island restaurant. The wash-
room hadn’t been washed for ages and we took it upon ourselves to clean it up. In the process we lost our appetites. On the way back to the jetty we saw some magnificent birds which were too far away to identify but I suppose were some form of storks. We rushed to catch the last ferry out.

A few days later I woke up to newspaper headlines about a four-wheeler slipping off the ferry to Majuli and sinking to the depths of the Brahmaputra. The driver escaped and swam to the surface. So not all of my concern was misplaced.

After the rains

I used to think my favorite time was when it rained. Today proved me wrong. I realized it is just after it stops raining. The mist clears, but the clouds are still there. Omniscient, dark, forbidding. The sun wages a constant battle with them, winning one minute, losing the next. It’s quiet…till the birds come out. Then the air fills with their songs and caws. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear the river rushing past too. She’s filled today, and no longer lazily crawls. A flock of migratory birds fly to the distant hill, a stark white against the dull grey and blue. You can see the puddles on the half flooded road. Past it, there are various shades of green. Grass, coconut trees, trees I cannot identify, they’re all there. Every now and then a building pops up, in garish colors disturbing the greenery. The hills are covered in green too, but they don’t seem warm. They’re much like the clouds. Forbidding. Every time the sun wins, and pops out of the clouds to stare over nature’s creations majestically, the greens become brighter, welcoming their friend. It’s a short victory. The clouds engulf it again, and the rain begins once again. By the time it stops, it’s early evening. My river, like I call her seems to be rising by the minute. She’s having a small battle of her own with the cement embankments that try to curb her. The sun seems to have wearily gone off, calling off the battle for the day. There seems to be an uneasy truce.
And I sit there, with a book, waiting for the next battle to begin.