Once our ‘Climate’

The Earth is dying.

But there’s no fixed date.

What ails our planet?

Reducing it to this state?

Man’s uncaring nefarious activities,

Releases the floodgate.

Smog, deforestation, acidification.

Is the once green planet’s fate.

Desertification, glacial melt,

Ozone depletion must abate.

Global warming and greenhouse gases

With carbon, methane and nitrate

Puff off smokers and 4-wheeled vehicles

The Earth through human-beings opiate.

Laced with acid, the raindrops

to the ground percolate

How much misdeeds of mankind

The Earth must tolerate?

Mountain wildflowers and orchids vanishes

The apple, onion and fish has no taste

Forest and wildlife threatened

Pests swarm at alarming rate.

Our ever increasing needs,

Didn’t Mother Earth satiate?

Hoping her children will learn to protect her

With patience she does for days and years await . . .

Let’s pledge to ebb such ramification,

Before it’s too late

For there’s no space for earthlings,

to be cradled in the womb of Earth’s mate.

Let’s make haste

Before the Earth asphyxiate.

Let not our future generation

Curse us with scorn and hate.

The future lies in today’s present

Who must revive, rejuvenate and regenerate.

Let’s pledge to recreate the natural flavor

Of our fast eroding climate. 

Kaziranga and the deluge

Way back in September, 2008 the company I worked for in Delhi sent me to an official trip to the London office in UK. Unfortunately I got cautioned by the metropolitan police, just a day after landing, for carrying a pen-knife in my bag to a public place (the Big Ben). At the police station I was asked to produce my passport. On questioning I told them that I hailed from Assam in India. It is then that one of my interrogators commented “The place from where the tea comes from and also famous for the rhinos”. On the verge of tears I added “And oil too”.

Those tears of mine dried up as I was dropped at the apartment in Pimlico by the two police personnel late at night with a “Enjoy your stay in London” but today while watching one of the local news channels (which I rarely do) highlighting the floods inside the national park, brought back fresh flood of tears.

Wild animals still alive  swept away along with the current, rhino calves separated from its mother, dhekia-potia bagh (wild feline) floating and struggling between life and death, deer taking shelter and other wild beats escaping the inundated areas and fleeing towards the national highway- 37 and the embankments, rhino calf barging inside the bamboo-fenced compound of a house-hold in the fringe village, animal carcass floating in the river-water, were a few clippings which were enough to kindle moisture in the eyes of this animal lover. The not so fortunate ones of God’s own creations met with a watery grave. Needless to say, poachers lurking around may find the easiest catch.

Kaziranga situated in the floodplains of the mighty river Brahmaputra encompasses the districts of Golaghat and Nowgaon to which Sonitpur was also added later. A few kilometers upstream is Majuli, the largest riverine habitable island in the world. Both Kaziranga and Majuli are the two geographical hotspots within Assam which is facing the vagaries of flood and its accompanying unabated natural erosion. The national park, also a world heritage site declared by UNESCO, is the habitat of several endemic, endangered and vulnerable species. Its rich biodiversity in terms of both flora and fauna is enriched by the complex interaction of diverse biotic and abiotic factors including the river water of Brahmaputra. The ecosystem in KNP is not only unique but also different from those of other national parks within India like the Corbett NP in U’khand etc. owing to different its physiography, climate,  soil, etc. The river Brahmaputra sustains life of the wild creatures of the park by recharging the beels (wetlands) and the natural water-holes and replenishing and rejuvenating the complex ecosystem of KNP. The irony is that the river water of Brahmaputra which sustains life in this national park also takes away countless lives of wild beasts during the monsoon season.

Years ago my animal lover friend Azam Siddiqui, whom I knew from my association with PFA, emailed me a photograph captured by the famous photographer Rituraj Konwar wherein predators and preys alike (in KNP) were clinging on to dear life, as each stood in the temporary make-shift elevated platform erected by the forest department at the time of one such floods in Assam. Such is nature’s marvel.

As a student of Geography, I learnt about the sculpturing of the earth’s surface by the different agents of erosion viz. running-water, glacier, sea-waves, under-ground water and wind. Its blessings are in the form of beautiful meandering course of the river, ox-bow lakes, natural levee and flood-plain in the middle course of a river, as is commonly seen in Assam. After the flood water recedes, it leaves behind rich alluvial deposit which is highly fertile for the cultivation of different crops, esp. our staple crop rice. It is nature’s way to supplement soil nutrients derived from weathering and transportation which enriches the soil.

Nature is the best sculptor, agreed. But at what cost? Dhemaji is the worst flood-prone district in Assam, which gets cut-off from the rest of the state at the time of high floods. I consider myself to be so fortunate sitting at home (parental home), sipping my cup of evening tea as I watch the news. Entire villages swept clean by the killer-flood, standing crops bull-dozed by the flow, domesticated animals either swept away or have to be carried to safer areas by their owners from the angry-hungry river. Life is brought to a complete standstill. People are brought down to the roads, reduced to beggars (often seen begging in Guwahati), with nothing to eat, no other clothes to wear, no home to go to because the flood water either submerged it or swept it all. Everything wiped clean when it came surging. The tribals esp. the Mishings have built their homes on stilted platform owing to the floods which hits the headlines annually without fail. They have learnt to acclimatize with the ravages of floods.

I remember my father brought home some answer scripts for checking which was for a job opening. One of the questions was on “Floods in Assam” (probably an essay). An examinee wrote “Assam’s flood is compulsory”. That one liner is a dark humour. It just knocks everything down, like a glacier mowing down whatever comes on its way.

While porcupine structures and geo-bags are erected as a measure to check erosion and minimize the devastation caused by floods, these are not permanent solutions. If at all floods have to be controlled the entire catchment area must be taken into consideration which includes the states of Arunachal, Nagaland, Meghalaya, Mizoram, Manipur and Sikkim because the tributaries of river Brahmaputra and also Barak down south in Assam either originates or flows through these states. It is a known fact our neighbor Arunachal is damned by the ongoing building of mega-dams to generate hydro-electricity, so much sought after by city/ town-dwellers and the unsatiable industries to run its engines. Pristine-virgin lands of Arunachal Himalayas have been submerged to make way for such projects, definitely not on sustainable lines, and not in consultation with the locales. It is pertinent to highlight here that entire northeast India falls in the highest seismic zone (Zone V). Trees which binds the soils together has been axed at an alarming rate, that much of Arunachal’s once sylvan cover, can be easily detected on the satellite imageries standing bare and exposed. With lofty mountain without the binding element, there is a free-flow of river load further downstream. There is no denying the fact that deforestation is also silently going on at our own backyard. We are hungry for land. We don’t think twice before we chop-off trees in order to clear the forest so as make way for agriculture or some other economic activity. The teeming Indians and their ever increasing numbers is the moot cause.

A villager who was interviewed by the media broke-down in tears having lost everything to the floods- his child, his agricultural field with its crops, his livestock, nothing to call his own.  My husband who also hailed from Dhemaji once narrated an incident about floods. As a youth while out to provide food and clothes the relief providers were shocked to see two dead bodies that of a mother and her daughter, locked in a tight embrace as they drowned in the flood water.

The solution to controlling floods doesn’t lie in the interlinking of rivers (as in Europe). Assam faces drought-like conditions in the non-monsoon period. Aquatic life in the rivers could be jeopardized in the name of checking floods. We cannot simply copy and paste- what is good in Europe may not be good in India when it comes to inter-linking of rivers. How will we check pollution of river Brahmaputra considering river Ganga and its tributary Yamuna is far too polluted than our Brahmaputra. Why must river-water pollution spread out to lesser polluted natural waterways?

All the governments who were in power in Assam could have come up with a permanent solution to tame the problem of Assam’s flood. What can we expect from a government whose leader who led the state until a few months before stated humorously that people can use bamboo plantain bhur (raft) when such a natural calamity strike. With a change of power, more so because the current chief minister of Assam whose constituency is Majuli, will things improve for the better? Let’s hope it does, fingers-crossed.

If we don’t care for our trees and our forest which is the home of the wild animals, a day will come when our natural forest will stealthily turn into urban concrete jungles. Will we go wild then?

                                                                                                                        -By Karobi Gogoi

Marks Market

“Do you know where I can buy marks?” asked the child to his cousin. The child was Bhargabh Barman who studied in class IV in a city school. His cousin Jitu who came from the remote Dhemaji town was there to spend his vacation at his maternal uncle’s house in Guwahati. Bhargabh was willing to shell out his accumulated wealth from his piggy bank which was in the shape of a piglet made out of coconut- the pocket money which he got whenever his mother didn’t pack his lunch-box to school. Little did his parents know that their child at times feasted on other’s lunch boxes- devouring on noodles, cakes, rolls, sandwiches, sweets and whatever satiated his taste-bud.

Bhargabh’s Ma was always after him to study. Study in the morning, study in the afternoon (if it was a Sunday or any holiday), study in the evening and still some more study at night. He was curious to know the location of the Marks Market because the other day he had heard his parents discussing that the class X board examination’s Mathematics question paper was leaked and he had also watched in the T.V. about the recent Bihar episode where a girl student became a state topper who didn’t even know her subjects right.

If his cousin Jitu was not able to help him out then he can always ask the neighbourhood hero Ron, few years older than him and who was a storehouse of valuable information. At the same time he also tried to check the location of Bihar in his Oxford atlas which he got from the book fair last time. Not far away from Assam, only the state of West Bengal was sandwiched in between Assam and Bihar. It measured just his little finger’s breadth. His mind wheeled on a railway coach to Bihar where he was sure to easily procure good marks without any effort (unaware to his parents) and which they would show it to their relatives, friends and neighbours and distribute sweets too if it happened to be the board examination. Now board had a different meaning to him. He had heard from his seniors about a CBSE board and his school was under SEBA board and his classmate’s elder brother went to an ICSE board. Then one of his cousins who was in a boarding school at Dehradun in Uttarakhand was under IGCSE board. Perhaps it referred to the different boards wherein a teacher wrote in the class room or so he thought.

When he went to Beltola market with his father on a Sunday, he had his eyes and ears wide open for he was in search of a vendor who sold marks; good marks, many marks or just any marks but passing marks, to any or many student(s) buyer(s). When his mother took him to Khadim’s in Ganeshguri to get him a pair of new shoes as the one he had was old and torn out in the monsoon rains, his searching eyes picked up the tiny new shoes; kept neatly arranged in racks in the shop, to check if it had marks hidden below or if it came inside shoe boxes. When the fruit and vegetable vendors or the fish-seller came to his locality, he hurriedly rushed in front to check if they also sold marks for money. If only marks flowed like the waters of the river Brahmaputra which skirted his city or if there was a torrential downpour of marks like the way it rains in Assam during the monsoon or more still instead of the flood waters if only it flooded everywhere with marks, how lucky all the students would be. But alas! He had no such magic wand. When the kabbadiwallah too came for collecting used plastic and glass bottles and old newspapers and magazines with a weighing machine and his cart he thought perhaps he was a godsend for him. But no, no such kabbadiwallah ever came to him with a cartload of marks. Before the approach of winter too when he heard the strumming of the quilt-maker’s instrument go twang-twang and he saw the soft fluffy cotton in jute sack, he wondered if it would fluff out marks instead of the light raw-material. How comforting it would be to sleep in a quilt of good marks which would keep the cold wintry days at bay!

Sunday through Saturday he had to strut accompanied by his Mommy to his private tutors houses: first Biren Tamuli sir’s house every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. On each of those days he tried his best to store all the mathematical calculations in his small brain which weighed just a few grams resting on his small head. His one hour class at Biren Tamuli’s house could best be termed as a mind ‘out-of-class’. But who cared apart from his parents who had to burn a hole in their pocket by shelling out Rs 1600 per month for they had a dream to make him an engineer one day. Engineering without mathematics is like eating one’s favourite meals without the braces on. Not naturally digestible, quite naturally.

Second, all Tuesdays and Thursdays were meant for English, two days where he had to listen to Miss Sampson’s dull and monotonous lectures for an hour without fail. The only attraction at visiting Miss Sampson’s house was the pet dog who barked at almost anyone who barged inside the compound. However, Bhargabh being an animal lover knew that Janus, Miss Sampson’s pet dog who was spotted with black dots on a white milky coat, communicated something else to him. His bough-wough with a waggy tail was what Bhargabh looked forward to. He loved to pat Miss Sampson’s pet in as much Janus loved being patted by him. The pet would at times stand in between Bhargabh’s legs with his tail moving like a pendulum or would place his forepaw on the child literally standing up or would run away from him for a minute or so and dash towards him at lightning speed, all this much to his mother’s annoyance. The rest of his English class would slowly tick-tock by, his often wandering thoughts diverting from English to what pranks Janus was up to when he had to read and write his lessons in English prose, English grammar and English composition. Every time he had to write a few exercises on the parts of speech- nouns, pronouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, prepositions, conjunctions, interjections and now articles too, Miss Sampson asked him to write ‘grammar’ on top followed by the actual heading and at the same time she ensured that he wrote the dates and drew straight margins with a pointed pencil. But he would always write GRAMMER without fail instead of grammar. If the English words ‘drummer’, ‘hammer’ and ‘stammer’ sounded the same as grammar then why was it spelled differently towards the end, he couldn’t infer. Saturdays was again devoted to Hindi because none at home could guide him about the language. He particularly had to struggle with the gender in Hindi since his mother-tongue had gender-neutral words. He was fluent in Hindi because he was constantly glued to the Hindi cartoon channels whenever there were no prying eyes darting at him. On Sundays he was forced to go to his neighbour’s house where Miss Jyotika Talukdar taught him his mother-tongue Assamese. No respite for him even on a Sunday. When he went for his Assamese classes, as also when he returned back, he saw his mother (and father too) with eyes all focused on the T.V. watching serials.  But when he would try to settle down too with them, he would be shooed away. Bhargabh was always thankful that there was no more than seven days in a week else his mother would drag him to yet another private tutor.  He had heard about a particular day ‘dry day’ it was referred to by his father, probably once or twice, and he silently wondered what sort of day it was as it was neither reflected in his school’s time-table nor in the calendar which decorated the living room of his parents.

Also, the other day his English teacher at school Miss D’souza gave a surprise test on the lesson ‘Heidi’. When he showed his answer script to Miss Sampson, it seemed to him that her eyes would pop-out of its socket. After all what he wrote in his answer to the question “Who was Heidi?” (by Johanna Spyrri) was “Heidi is a two volume, young village girl”. He knew his answers right and he was sure to get good marks this time. At times he got confused with the spellings and the words so when in his social studies question paper the students were asked to write about the problems of overpopulation in India, he wrote “Overpopulation leads to storage of food grains”.  (instead of ‘shortage’). In yet another question on ‘What are the factors which influence the climate of India?’ he remembered his Social Studies teacher Mr Barua telling something about the Tropic of Cancer so he wrote about the imaginary line Tropic of Cancer  and added “India has lot of cancer” to it. He had heard his distant aunt dying of cancer recently as also his neighbor from the other block. The disease was as alien to him as this imaginary line called the ‘Tropic of Cancer’ and he wrote down what he only felt. He thought the question to be wrongly printed as he couldn’t gauge the correlation between India’s climate and cancer. Then there was another question on “How is solar energy used in India?” Mr Barua was surprised to read Bhargabh’s answer “Solar energy is used for hotting and cocking in India (instead of heating and cooking). Barua Sir couldn’t help sharing this with his wife before going to bed at night. And just before he slept the only thought that came to his mind was “O My God! Is this what I have taught my students’!”

Looking at his Hindi copy his Hindi teacher at school Mr Shivbali commented, “Erre, yeah toh abhisehi doctor jaisa likhne lege hain”. (He has started to write just like a doctor from now itself). Needless to say everyone in the class started laughing at Shivbali sir’s joke including the ones whose handwriting resembled nothing less than a scavenging crow’s filthy feet.

Miss D’souza, their English teacher asked the students to prepare for the play “The Demon and the Dancer” based on a story of their English textbook. In the story, Bhasmasura, the demon of ashes was burnt by the Goddess of Power who came disguised as a dancer. Bhargabh who was selected for the role of the woman dancer had to ask Bhasmasura if he could dance like her. The way Bhargabh enacted especially his dancing mudras tickled everyone’s bones with laughter. Even Miss D’souza’s face saw a curve of smile followed by laughter. Towards the end of the play the entire class applauded for the actors for their superb performance especially Bhargabh’s.

Life without studies was easy going. In school he was branded as the naughtiest boy in his class. His teachers found it hard to force him to write, which only meant copying down directly from the blackboard. However, naughty Bhargabh would like a wandering satellite, turn back and hit Jumon, the one who had a rich eye-bladder and who would also keep moving his body at varying angles even while class was in progress and at times standing up for no reason or Manash who was the second naughtiest in his class or Pratik who was the most talkative or Manav who was the loudest among all 66 students. Bharghab would saunter as soon as the teacher turned back to write on the blackboard and he snatched either a pen or a pencil or an eraser or a ruler or a sharpener from his classmates or in the worst possible case tease a girl of his class. His class teacher Mr. Ramesh Paswan (also from Bihar), who was new to the school had a tough time controlling him and the bunch of pesky in his class. Paswan sir could never forget the day when in the very first period and this is before the students wished him good morning, a boy Samir by name, shouted loud and clear and complained- “Sir, tomorrow (meaning yesterday) Bhargabh told me sexy”. Paswan sir didn’t know whether to blush in embarrassment or to scold the child, who used that word tomorrow, err . . . yesterday, uff . . . today as well or to ignore his comments altogether like an ostrich with its head buried under the sand. Children as young as a class IV student, few of them if not all, knew a few slangs- words they might have either picked up at home, in their locality or elsewhere.

Bhargabh was not only active in games and sports but would always bag a prize in whichever games he participated in. Winning in sports competition was in his blood, something he inherited from his father Ramen Barman who worked in Assam Sachibalaya. His father had got the government job on sports quota and Bhargabh was also destined to do so, necessary terms and conditions applicable herein- if there is no intervention from his parents. They knew of their son’s interest in games and sports particularly in athletics but ignored it straightaway like a sweet-meat seller who ignores flies settling down on the sugary- syrupy- sweet mithais. How many can become Tendukars and pehelwans and emulate our very own Shiv Thappa?

His mother would always take him to the nearby temple on Saturdays since it was a holiday at school. His prayers to the idol was to make him pass in the school examination especially Mathematics and English, the two subjects in which he got a red line in his progress report. In order to pass the school’s promotion examination without getting a red line he was even ready to sacrifice the much forbidden bite from the unripe berries which he and his friends saw growing in the berry tree which stood in the corner of the playground where children played cricket. It was a commonly held belief amongst children of his age that one bite from the unripe berry and the student would invariably flunk in the examination. How he wished if one day instead of berries, marks, eh, mind you, good marks . . . showered from its bountiful boughs and he would stand right below the berry tree waiting to pick it up from the ground; slightly bad marks he would discard it like the unripe or rotten berries and collect only the best of the best in his shirt and pant pockets. If need be, he was only too willing to be like the actor Salman Khan, to bare out his chest and be clad only in his white vest in his mission on amassing marks. On Saraswati Puja- the Goddess of knowledge, learning and wisdom, Bhargabh would never take non-veg. even though chicken was his all time favourite. If he can sacrifice non-veg. just for a single day, Goddess Saraswati can never ignore such a devout bhakt and may perhaps bless him with at least passing marks.

During Durga Puja, on the day when Ma Durga is just about to be taken for immersion, he and his battalion of neighbourhood gang of boys could be seen carrying various academic books- some carrying Science text books, others with Hindi on their hands, some others loaded with Assamese and some like him, almost the entire wooden table of books minus the table of course, as they chanted to Ma Durga to bless them with a promotion to the next class.

A few days back, Bipin borta- his paternal uncle who worked in the Digboi refinery came to his house and over a cup of tea informed his family about his possible transfer to Barauni Refinery in Bihar.  Bihar once again rang a bell to him as did Barua Sir, his Social Studies teacher at school while explaining the chapter on ‘Our Valuable Resources’. “Children, there is a pipeline which transports oil from Assam to Barauni refinery in Bihar” as Barua sir pointed to the India map which stood next to the blackboard hung on the ply-board partition which separated classroom IV and V. And he imagined he was floating in a bed of oil inside the pipeline which transports Assam’s oil to the state where there was a market for marks. His vision of scoring high marks was about to come true with Bipin borta’s transfer. There were two classmates who originally hailed from Bihar- Sunny and Sunil. He knew about their native place because both had reported late to school when it reopened after the summer vacation. Sunil came back with a tonsured head as his paternal grandfather had passed away during the holidays and all the boys had made fun of Sunil since only a tiny pony tail, resembling his piggy-bank’s tail, appeared on his almost empty head protruding like a barren island in a sea. He would remember to ask Sunny and Sunil about the marks market in their native place. Perhaps they would be able to provide some vital clues.

But he had to first find out how much money he had saved up until then in his piggy bank. Bhargabh, unlike other students, didn’t know the art of cheating directly in the examination. His classmate Aniruddha was caught red-handed by another English teacher Mrs Chatterjee who taught English in the senior classes. Mrs Chatterjee does chatter like a chattering Magpie and also makes others laugh with her chatter and there’s no full-stop to her constant chatter and the accompanying laughter). Miss D’souza was called to the examination hall to check if the answers handwritten in small and short chits tallied with any of the examination questions. One question sure did, the one on “How Tenali Raman was able to bag the award of a thousand gold coins from the king?” While Miss D’souza checked the notes written by Aniruddha and cross-checked his handwriting written in his English copy it was found that the way he wrote the letters particularly the ‘s’, ‘h’, ‘i’ and ‘t’ matched ditto as in those chits. Five solid marks Aniruddha lost. Bhargabh who was Roll No. 6 and came right after Aniruddha Borthakur (Roll No. 5) got all the running commentary from the two English teachers (sans Mrs Chatterjee’s laughter this time). This happened last year but the incident was still fresh in his mind. Anirudha who was weak in English just like him was promoted on consideration. Bhargabh could never imagine getting a good hiding from his father for cheating in the examination.

The school’s annual examination was round the corner. Bhargabh would very often dream that he is unable to write as a teacher- his Mathematics or English teacher, yelling at him to write fast as the bell will ring in no time. And he would wake up from his sleep with a start with his forehead laced with beads of warm sweat.

Then, one day while going for his private tuition to Miss Sampson’s house, Janus whispered something in Bhargabh’s ear when he went to greet him still wagging his tail and emitting a low ‘bouuuuugh’- “Watch my shadow”. Janus knew a few tricks like pawing when asked to shake hands with others or to run away when the chain was brought to tie him in the garage. At times Bhargabh also saw him playing with a ball or chasing his own shadow or going round and round in circles holding his tail firmly with his sharp canine teeth.

Just when Bhargabh thought he had heard Janus communicate something to him, he ran away towards the house responding to the call of Naini, Miss Sampson’s helper. And as he ran so did his shadow. He saw the image of Ma Saraswati in Janus’s shadow who told him these lines- “Child, don’t run after marks. The ultimate aim of education is to gain knowledge and not to adorn your report card with marks.” His mother who was standing next to him saw Janus running free and Bhargabh too could sense that what he saw was perceived by his mother too. A shadow falls only when there is light. Let every child’s life be candled by the light of knowledge. Marks would follow automatically, like a shadow, if a student is passionate about learning and develops an interest in the subject. Why go for only marks without having an understanding? The world is your oyster and it is for you to find the pearl hidden inside it. If you don’t use your brain it will rust and very soon it will stop functioning like a rusted machine. The son and mother saw Janus running all around the compound like a child left free. Bhargabh’s mother had a vague montage of her child drowning in the oil pipeline, with him asphyxiated by his school bag which weighs more than him as also by his more than dozen books and copies bulldozing him under its pressure. His mother pinched herself as Janus, the gate-keeper of Miss Sampson’s house, awoke the mother in her and hugging Bhargabh once, she let her child run after the dog, to chase his own dreams and aspirations. The very next day she took her child to the nearest stadium for his admission in the sports of his interest.

Dear parents, would you want your child to grow and learn by sinking in a quagmire of marks or would you love to let your child grow naturally like a sapling, nurtured and nourished by parents and teachers alike, where there is no rat-race for getting marks, marks set much above expectation? There is edutainment in the process of learning. There are students who cheat in the examination hall by adopting unfair means, both verbal and written, with the sole aim of gaining a few extra marks. What purpose will it serve if a student doesn’t even know the answer? S/he will only be marks rich but knowledge poor. If only every family, every parents encourage their children not to read and learn by rote, if nobody pressurized anybody (if you know what I mean?), won’t there be a greater percentage of passed students than failed? Parrot learning, learning by rote, mugging up answers may be the shortest route but such short-cuts in the highway to gaining marks by a few notch is never the surest way of easy access but is an cul-de-sac as it can only lead to long delays in storing our granary of knowledge and ameliorating our skills which comes with learning and understanding.

While hand-holding is required, parental helicopteering must be avoided. It is the parents who build up undue pressure on their child to scale the peak of ‘Mountain of Marks’ not realizing that there could be an avalanche or the child could be trapped in a crevice. Let the child scale such a height on his or her own. Like the beautiful and sweet-scented wildflowers which grow with the right amount of sunshine and rain on the high valleys and mountain sides, let your child also grow, in quite the natural way.

(All characters are fictitious.)

Harvest of Nostalgia (Magh Bihu)

Magh Bihu is all about celebrating the rich harvest and community feasting, like Lohri and Pongal, Makar Sankranti celebrated in other parts of India. The fervor of Magh Bihu though distant in time is still freshly etched in my memory. The Magh Bihu or Bhogali Bihu I remember and cherish the most was celebrated at the Post Office field in Dispur Capital Campus where boys generally played cricket. This field had a huge gomari tree in the north-west corner, a bogori tree to the north east corner and one to the south-east corner which flowered white fluffy cotton. I forgot what tree was there near the Post Office corner but this particular tree was entwined with Rabonor Nari- the yellow creeper. During Magh Bihu time, the entire field would sprout out over-night with either bhela ghars or tents pitched by different groups- families as well as group of young boys.

The campus we grew up was very cosmopolitan with UPites, Biharis, Madrasis (yeah! All south Indians were Madrasis to us then), Punjabis, Rajasthanis, Oriyas, Bengalis etc. The campus was a microcosm of India. Our geographical knowledge about the different states were associated with surnames like Khare (whom we called as Ravan uncle amongst us for his Ravan-like moustache), Jhingran, Mishra, Bhattacherjee, Banerjee, Mukhurjee, Chatterjee, Chakraborty , Kabilan, Kamilla, Pipersenia, Chawla, Yadav, Verma, Sengupta, Musahary, Deka, Ahmed, Sarma, Goswami, Pegu, Kutum, Maheshwari, Saikia, Hazarika, Bora, Patar, Barua, Pathak, Singha, Malakar, Dey,  Das, Gogoi, Gohain, Thakur, Borthakur, Duwarah, Choudhary, Neog, Singh, Majumdar, Thadani, Mondol, Kotoky, Kakoti, Khanikar . . . the list being endless (and if your surname is not here you can that too). It was good to see non-Assamese families participating with us in our festivities. It won’t be wrong to state that we lived like one big family within the cocoon of the campus.

The small yet cozy and homely Assam-type government quarters were well fenced with bahor bera (bamboo and cane wall/ fences), lattice and with a wooden gate leading to the verandah. There was never any dearth of these ubiquitous materials which came in real handy during Magh Bihu celebration. The entire campus was well guarded as it housed the CM, his platoon of ministers, bureaucrats, officials and staff of Dispur Secretariat and hence was considered very safe and secured except for young thieves like us. A month or so before Magh Bihu, we- a gang of 4-5 girls in our locality would survey the length and breadth of the campus every day during our evening walks to steal whatever could be burnt during Uruka- Magh Bihu eve. Two incidents stand out clear in my mind both related to stealing. Stealing of bamboo fences, wooden gates and plundering vegetables from neighbour’s kitchen garden was never a taboo during Magh Bihu and Uruka.

There was a children’s park in my lane which could also be accessed from the lane behind my house. Children staying within the campus but afar would also frequent it. The house adjacent to the park was lying vacant as the uncle who occupied it retired from service. It was not difficult to steal bera from such unoccupied houses as we faced no resistance at all. Another factor which immensely helped us in the collection was the presence of 2 uncles who drank like fish. They cared a hoot if their houses had bamboo fences or not. The climax of stealing came on the last few days of Uruka when families left for their native homes for Magh Bihu. Such houses were diamond mines and hence fell in easy prey for us. The friends from my circle- Kabita, her younger sister Tutumoni, Tikli, Bhanti and I were masters in stealing such objects while Juri, Tuski (a young Sardarni) and Dolla (a very quiet Bengali girl) whose stay in the campus were very brief never learnt the art quite well. In one such stealing expedition my Oriya friend Tikli’s helper Gajendra also accompanied us. Equipped with pliers and hammar in our hands we got busy with our work of cutting the wires from the beras. Tikli must have accidentally touched a caterpillar and her entire face swelled up in no time. Such an inflated face had a simple cure during those days. We, as kids would without fail dab our ears with a dash of lime.

Very soon Tikli joined us again once her tidal face receded back to normal. We had to concentrate hard on our work on tearing off the wires from each other so that each bera came apart. During such expeditions we also took brief breaks to tittle-tattle in hush-hush tones and also to guide each other on how best to extract the bera efficiently and quickly without being caught. In the same house, Tutumoni while working meticulously accidentally stamped onto something which later emitted an awful smell once ‘the cake was cut’. It was human excreta as we found out on close inspection, dried up from above but still fresh like ‘freshly baked cake from Ma’s oven’ from inside. On seeing this, Gajendra in his Bihari accent announced, “Kune eyat ‘pa-khena’ korise?” (Who did number 2 here?). We all burst into laughter on hearing him say so. Poor Tutumoni was literally on the verge of tears. Children who frequented the park to swing or slide must have either felt easy to attend to nature’s call in the backyard of this house or must have felt the urgency to relieve himself/ herself here instead of dashing back home. Luckily there was water available with which Tutumoni washed off her dirty and smelly feet. We had to drop the adventure for the time-being on that day and decided to continue the next day. But we gave Tutumoni all the moral support, which we did from a distance on our return back home, something she desperately needed at that hour.

The other incident also took place very near the Post Office ground which was also the common adda ground for some group of boys. Bhanti divulged the secret to us that her neighbor from the same lane- a Bengali family, were out for the day to the State Zoo on a picnic. The girls swung into action at once with all tools handy for operation ‘bera-chur’. It was broad day light, must be around 3/ 3-30 pm when we stormed in. We were all positioned in front of the house busy piercing the wires from the bamboo fences when suddenly a white ambassador car halted right in front of us and an old uncle- the house-owner, emerged shouting “Hey, hey, hey! Ki korisa tumaluke?” (What are you all doing?). I must state here that the same gang of girls was great sprinters too. During Rongali Bihu when athletic competitions were held (100 m, 200 m, relay race, 3-legged race etc.) in the Tank field we always won prizes. The Tank field, a little away from our house was the venue of Durga Puja, Kali Puja and Rongali Bihu. It had a huge stage with a World War tank on display behind the stage and hence the name. It was no competition when we were all caught stealing red-handed but we all ran like fugitives from the spot barring Bhanti, the girl who provided us with the valuable information (albeit a bit late), had the sure footedness of a mountain goat as she remained rooted to the ground petrified by the sudden entry of the occupants of this house-hold. When I fled from the spot I remember hearing her utter “Nai, mane Uncle.” I don’t know what she explained to Uncle later.

Once the beras came apart, we carried it two-by-two since it was light weight and stored it safely in either of our homes. Carrying the beras to our house was a ritual on its own. We felt like a tigress on a night prowl having pounced upon its kill and returning to its den after the catch.

Like fishing eagles, we also vied for wooden gates because this burnt longer and lit really well in the bonfire. We had to use ‘siprang’ (a solid heavy iron tool used for digging) to uproot the strong foundation of the wooden gate, more so because its base was cemented. Gates in Dispur Capital Campus always came in pairs, medium height generally painted blue and with an iron bar to close it. Since extracting gates was no easy game, the neighbourhood aunts- namely Phukan aunty and Deka aunty et. al. also helped us at times. However, this was done under the cover of darkness and never in broad daylight.

The venue of uruka where all the neighbourhood families got together and feasted was always the south-east corner of the field i.e. the corner nearest to my house. We collected money from those who participated and followed the ‘per person system’ while collecting it. Our only cause of concern was for a particular boy, much younger than us but who ate more than double of what a child could eat. We were in a dilemma as he wasn’t an adult that we could charge more for him from his parents. Nevertheless, we included him in the children’s category. For participating uncles and aunties the amount was more while for participating children it was half of their parents. The logic was we ate lesser than our parents. Now those who didn’t participate with us, we ensured that we swept their front yards clean or left our signatures by stealing vegetables from their kitchen gardens. In those days every house-hold, sowed veggies- fresh and organic. While non-participant families, mostly two such families from our immediate locality, always raised their fingers at us when they woke up the next day, irrespective of the fact whether we plundered their assets or not. Silence was the best mantra so we always remained mute spectators. Since stealing on such a festival was not considered a taboo we enjoyed every minute of our loot.

To erect the bhela ghar, we needed 4 beras, one on each side and another one or two for the thatched roof. On the day of Uruka, right from the morning the girls would get busy as a bee burrowing holes like rats on the ground with tools like siprang and khonti (garden spade) to plant the 4 bamboo poles which stood as posts at each corner, followed by the bera walls. This time we had to tie the beras with wires to each other. The wires which we preserved in our bera burglary always served this purpose. Spreading the roof which was done at the last was the most challenging task. Just flooring the roof on the top was not sufficient. We had to fix half slit bamboo poles diagonally and like a lat. and long. network to hold the roof firm over our heads. After the makeshift bhela ghar was ready we also dug a chowka (a fireplace) on the ground inside the bhela ghar with 3 bricks neatly laid out on each side. Winter in those days- 30-35 years back were very cold and not like today’s winter which is comparatively warmer. It was great fun for us to sit around the fireplace, to play games and prattle. Even though the girls were able to build the bhela ghar absolutely on their own we were always entirely dependent on the boys- Hitesh (Kabita and Tutumoni’s brother), Tarun da et. al. for electricity. Without electricity there would be no music, music to dance and sing and play games. Of course, the music which blasted the whole night was the latest Bollywood numbers. One song which floods my memory with Magh Bihu nostalgia whenever I heard it even now is “Range bhare baadal mein” from the Hindi movie Chandani starring Rishi Kapoor and Sri Devi.

Magh Bihu in Assam is a time when prices of meat and fish shoot up overnight. One need not study Economics for this short-duration price rise. That’s what I heard Deota often telling me jokingly when I opened my Economics textbooks. Near the Panir Tanky (Water Tank) field there were two shops- one which sold vegetables and the other which sold fish. Adjacent to my friend Bhanti’s house (who was also known as Hitler) lived an uncle who was commonly known in the campus as ‘Rou Mach’. While out in the fish shop to buy fresh fish, Rou Mach uncle went on poking his fingers on the fish to check if it was fresh or stale. The brusque fish-seller commented, “Baperor gharor harmonium paisili neki?” (Is that a harmonium at your father’s house?)

We got chairs, morhas and pirhas from home which was used outside the bhela ghar for the aunties and uncles to sit while the mats and dharis would be neatly spread out on the ground inside the bhela ghar around the fireplace for us. We also got kotaris to peel, chop, slice vegetables; colander (khorahi), griddle, ladles, plates, sauce-pans and whatever kitchen utensils were required. The two huge dekchis and kerahis at home were used for cooking in the community feast during uruka. A music system with a few cassettes from the latest in B-wood would enliven the atmosphere immediately. A few aunties would also gyrate to the music once the evening music flowed in.  Cha, namkeen and sweets were served after dusk. Potatoes were also roasted in the chouka (fire-place) inside the bhela ghar. We greatly relished the alu pura (roasted potato) with a sprinkle of salt.

The aunties took charge in the evening as they got ready to cook for the feast. Chicken, mutton, fish, labra, dal-bhat and salad was the usual items for the community feast. The marketing of meat was usually done by the uncles. In a way each and every one of us, from the children to the aunties and uncles played different roles in the Uruka celebration.

Once during uruka it rained in the afternoon while we were busy building the bhela ghar. Someone from the gang suggested that if we draw the Sun on the road or footpath with chalk or bricks, the rains would disappear. So, all of us took broken pieces of red brick and started to draw the sun so that the rains would go away. Lo and behold! The weather God did listen to our prayers.

After feasting at night we would be cooped inside the bhela ghar till late night, as jokes, stories of ghosts and fairy tales and folk tales, games like passing the parcel did its round around the warmth of the smoldering embers. However, by 2-3 am we esp. the younger ones would head home to sleep. Once my elder sister Pahari and her friend Pratibha ba (Kabita, Tutumoni and Hitesh’s elder sister) and a couple of other boys and girls slept inside the bhela ghar when Hitesh all of a sudden lit the bhela ghar. God only knows what made him do so but we were all very angry with him when we discovered to our utter horror that our bhela ghar was reduced to ashes at night while we slept at home.

At night, police personnel from Dispur Police Station would also patrol the area for any untoward incident. When we were very young, perhaps I was in class V or VI, an older boy from the same campus murdered his friend in an inebriated state on Uruka night. We got very scared on hearing the news but since we were with our parents we saw no harm from the policemen on duty.

On the day of Magh Bihu we went on rounds from door-to-door feasting on larus (ladoos), pithas (rice-cake) and other savories made of narikol (coconut) and til (sesame). This ritual of feasting went on for a week or so after Uruka.

Nowadays there’s hardly any park or open ground where a group of adults and kids can celebrate Magh Bihu. I feel sad when I see the present generation kids confined to pigeon-holed buildings. Ours was a different time altogether. I feel sorry for my nephews and nieces and kids of their age who would never know the excitement of stealing during and before Magh Bihu, the fun of raising a bhela ghar, the bond woven by the finer threads of feasting and celebration on Uruka, the time when young boys and girls got to know each other well ‘in-quite-their-own-special-ways while stealing secret glances’, when love and festivity reigned supreme. This was also the time when young boys learnt about the art of smoking and took their first sip from the ‘bottle’.

We worked as a team with shared responsibility and acquired some degrees of organizational skills when still young. We were small architects in our own ways even though the bhela ghars we built stood on the ground for just a single day.

The next day after Uruka we woke up early in the morning when the veil of mist still hung in the air and lit the bhela ghar, our one-day ‘home’. We prayed and chanted hymns as our bhela ghar was reduced to ashes. But we never felt disheartened on seeing the bamboo structure going up in flames because we knew, come next year; we will start the whole process of stealing and merry-making once again with renewed vigor and fervor and with yet another years of experience added to our hats.

Footloose and fancy-free: A day-trip bike ride to Pobitora WS

It was the time when the darkness of the night makes way for the morning light to set in when I rolled out my Hercules Roadeo and headed towards the Janata Bhawan cricket ground at Dispur. My friend Aklantika Saikia and I had planned to start our bicycle tour at sharp 6 am on 23-January (Saturday) from there and we were to join by fellow riders Nitin Das at Zoo Road Tiniali and Azam Siddiqui at Hatigarh respectively.

The ride route was Dispur, Ganeshguri, Zoo Road tiniali, Hatigarh, Geeta Mandir, Mathgaria, Narengi. The Chandrapur Road/ SH 3 starts from the Narengi traffic intersection and connects Bonda, Panikhaiti, Hatisila, Chandrapur, Gabardhan, Burha Mayang with Pobitora in Morigaon district. SH-3 forks out into two of which Road 3B leads to Pobitora WS- our destination.

It was still cold and somewhat misty while we crossed the morning vehicular traffic near the refinery but beyond Narengi-Bonda the air was fresher and the trees and the hills painted our route green. The signboard of Amchang WS zoomed past us as we pedaled our way.

At Panikhaiti we saw the rich silt river bank deposits with the mighty River Brahmaputra at a distance veiled by thick mist. The terrain though plain for most part along this route also has a few climbs uphill. Even though all four of us had mountain bikes, we pushed ourselves and our bikes and huffed and puffed as we clambered uphill. Every tough climb uphill has an easy and a smooth ride downhill, something we discovered as gravity did its work as we cascaded downhill at almost bullet train speed.

We took a short tea break ((including photo shot and one for loo too) at Ratan Hotel in Chandrapur which is 20 kms from Pobitora WS, as declared by the roadside signboard. The sight of a signboard which read as Maa Santoshi Cycle Repair shop in Chandrapur was a great relief for me even though none of the 4 cycles caused the slightest problem along this road. There are 2-3 cycle repair shops enroute to re-fuel cycles while cozy looking, warm and inviting roadside eateries and restos with thatched slanting roofs and equally fancy names like C-15 Restaurant. Dolphin/ Dalphin (sic) Restaurant, Di Chang Restaurant etc. dot the route for travelers and tourists and rides like us to re-fuel our belly. After a few kms ride we reached Gobardhan Bridge across river Kapili, a tributary of River Brahmaputra. The confluence of river Kapili and Brahmaputra on one side of the bridge while distant green hills on the other side, is a sight not only to be captured by selfie but also by the lens of our senses permanently. The draft of the cool air didn’t drain us of our energy and kept perspiration at bay. In fact, the sun was up only a few minutes before we reached our destination. Paddy fields, farmers with their bulls and traditional farming equipments, shops selling wicker baskets, a fish market after Panikhaiti railway station, 2-3 picnic parties, a marriage pandal with Nepali or Bengali music at full blast in Gobardhan, children playing seven stones and cricket, camera-shy sheep grazing on the grass silently, bovines standing on the middle of the road, rhesus macaques all cuddled up for warmth in pairs on naked tree tops, various migratory birds all with colourful plumage in the paddy field and beels was more than any nature lover can ask for. We also spotted a spring trickling water from beneath the bare rocky boulder of earth and a reserve forest with the sylvan cover of sal trees (mono-culture ‘afforestation’ under Social forestry). The signboard placed by Archeological Department of Assam declares the presence of rock inscription in Burha Mayang. At first the rock’s surface looked just like a huge normal bare rock but on closer look it revealed the not-so-distinct inscription. Banks with ATMs, though a rare sight, are located at Chandrapur (UCO Bank) and at Pobitora (SBI).
A herd of cattle, ranging from calves to old ones, blocked our way for a few minutes as we waited for the holy Gai Matas to cross, with me tring-tringing the cycle bell every now and then.

Before reaching Burha Mayong, my friend Imtiaz, whose role in this trip was to provide us with rescue and relief, in case of need, appeared in his black Scorpio Getaway with another friend Juri. The duos presence uplifted our spirits immediately. Later on reaching Pobitora when we halted at Prashanti Guest House I was not surprised to see thick ‘rescue’ ropes used for pulling motorized vehicles and a huge bottle of water kept at the rear carrier.
They reached us at the right place and at the right time as Imtiaz on a quick exploration of the place, probably while attending to nature’s call, saw or heard the tricking of water. He declared his discovery of the spring as we all dashed to the water-point for some photo shots. Next we crossed a reserve forest in Burha Mayong. This area also had bare boulders of rocks hidden by tree trunks and green canopy and occasionally exposed to view.
Finally the arched gate erected by the Forest Department, Govt. of Assam, welcomed us to Pobitora WS. We halted for a brief time near the tourist info centre for another round of selfie and called our rescue service who were stationed at Prashanti Tourist GH nearby. As we entered the compound of the GH our happiness on completing one leg of the journey knew no bounds. Black tea flavoured with ginger followed by rotis and scrambled eggs, omelette and alu bhaji was served to us on order while we also devoured and gulped down whatever we had got from home- chocolates, boiled eggs, cashew nuts, biscuits, kaju-butterscotch milkshake, Glucon-D, water to refill our lost energy.

We explored the vicinity of the sanctuary and crossed the Hadug Hanging Bridge halfway but didn’t explore the inside of the wildlife sanctuary as we wanted to reach home before dusk. Hence, this was a trip without sighting any one-horned rhinoceros which Assam is famous for.
Our emergency rescue and relief service was not required fortunately but were available on call as they dashed off towards Jonbeel Mela- the famous fair where barter system is still practiced till date and later went for a game of cricket in the Khanapara ground.

The journey back home was shorter as we didn’t stop frequently except once or twice for the tea-break and to munch on chocolates, biscuits and dry fruits on the roadside. However, I ensured that the basket of food which I carried in my carrier became lighter by chomping to the last bite of all that remained in the basket.

I wonder why mountain bike designers always keep the seat so small which doesn’t fit our bums as we realized this bitter truth in our trip. The yesteryear Hero cycle’s big seat is the standard size for us. In fact, in the single tea-break which we took in the same tea-stall while returning, one from the group suggested that s/he wanted to fix the chair s/he was sitting on the cycle itself for the comfort of our aching bums.

On the return back home, while Aklantika and I pedaled in proximity as Azam and Nitin pedaled much ahead of us, young boys zoomed past us on motorbikes singing and crooning the tunes of the popular Axomiya song “Cycle mari mari”, perhaps to lift up the diminishing spirits of the not-so-young-‘ladies’-rider.

Aklantika and I decided to take a de-tour, the shortest route from Narengi intersection- the VIP Road which directly connects Panjabari and south-eastern Guwahati. Azam waits for us at Narengi tiniali while Nitin, not aware of the change in our plan, moves further ahead and later calls from Hatigarh to bid good-bye to both of us telephonically. At Narengi tiniali I realized that something was wrong with my cycle gear as I couldn’t change it beyond the second gear. Our legs were numb by then and every square inch of our body ached. Aklantika and I resumed pedaling along VIP Road slowly as trucks, cars and motorcycles overtook us. We once again halted for garam-garam chai midway along this road. We crossed Hengrabari-Bagheswari Mandir in no time and then crossed the busy GS Road on foot before lights were lit at homes in the evening. At Super Market both of us exchange goodbyes with a promise to meet again in the near future for similar rides. As I open the gate of my home, my wrist-watch reads 5 past some minutes.

This trip flooded my memories of Deota (RIP) who had served as the D.C. of Morigaon district in the early 90s when I was a student of class VIII but I never visited Pobitora WS, when Morigaon town was still a sleepy town then, even though I got the chance to see the length and breadth of Assam with him. Perhaps I developed a taste for the outdoors from such trips and I owe much of my non-academic understanding and learning about places from a person who was a ‘living dictionary’ for me and my siblings.

This bike tour covered in a single day in less than 12 hours was a rejuvenating experience for the riders. We wish more pedal yatris will join us in our rides in the future so that it decongests our city roads from the already terribly clogged vehicular traffic, to keep Guwahatians directly healthy (and indirectly wealthy), to reduce the commonest problem in today’s world called pollution, to promote cycling as a popular mode of travel for at least short distances, to explore and enjoy nature at its best while still pedaling and the last but not the least to protect this earth which is every living souls ‘home.’

Riders: Aklantika Saikia, Azam Siddiqui, Nitin Das and Karobi Gogoi along with emergency rescue and relief support provided by Imtiaz Rehman Saikia and Juri Nath.

Once a Mountain

I was a bride dressed in fine green

With air, water and soil clean

The moving clouds above me would greet me everyday with a warm ‘hello’.

As the rains that poured from it, I would with great delight swallow.

The butterflies, birds, bees and the beast

And with the sun rising to my east

While the city to my south did lie

As it stealthily crawled and sprawled towards me, for me to die.

Men blasted, quarried and plundered me of my natural wear

 My rocky bones they all did lay bare

O, the waters of my soul has ebbed

As settlements, factories and industries lie scattered disheveled in a concrete web.

I was once a mountain

The tribes life of simplicity in a fountain

What was once a trail in my body

In now criss-crossed by metalled roads which looks shoddy.

Where are the springs, streams, brooks and water-falls?

Did you hear my final desperate call?

The wind laments as it wails over my empty breast

While the people silently look over me dying in Nature’s nest.