A Majuli Childhood

The smell of fermented bamboo shoots always takes me back. It’s a pungent, earthy smell, a bit like strong cheese mixed with damp earth, that hangs in the air during the monsoon season. In Assam, where I grew up on the river island of Majuli, this smell was as much a part of the monsoon as the rain itself.

It was the backdrop of my childhood. Not the Majuli you see in travel brochures, with its smooth roads and regular ferries, but the Majuli of my memory: a world of ever-shifting sandbanks, bright green rice fields stretching as far as the eye could see, and the constant sound of the mighty Brahmaputra River.

It’s December now, and the air here in Delhi is sharp and cold. But in my mind, I’m back in the warm, humid kitchen of my grandmother’s house in Majuli. Our house was a traditional stilt house, built of bamboo and thatch, raised high on stilts to protect us from the floods that were a regular part of life on the river island. Even in December, the sun in Majuli had a special warmth, a golden light that shone through the bamboo walls.

I can almost hear the rhythmic drumbeats of the Raas Leela, a vibrant festival of music, dance, and religious devotion that celebrated the end of the harvest. The sweet smell of rice cakes cooking over the open fire mixed with the pungent smell of the fermented bamboo shoots, creating a unique aroma that was the very essence of Majuli.

We lived in a small village near a Satra, a Vaishnavite monastery, called Kamalabari. Our house was simple, built of bamboo and thatch, raised on stilts to protect us from the floods. The Brahmaputra, our great river, was everything to us. It gave us fertile land for growing rice and fish for our meals, but it also eroded parts of the island each year, a constant reminder of its power.

My grandmother, we called her Aaita, was the heart of our home. Her hands, rough and weathered from years of working in the fields, were always busy – weaving traditional Assamese garments called mekhela chadors, cooking meals, or telling us stories of ancient kings and mythical creatures that lived in the forests.

Her voice was deep and warm, and her stories, told in Assamese, were full of magic. She taught me the names of the local birds the magpie robin, the drongo, the whistling thrush and the different types of fish that swam in the Brahmaputra the carp, the catfish, the featherfin.

One memory stands out, sharp and clear. It was during the monsoon season, which we called Bohag. The Brahmaputra was swollen, its waters a swirling, muddy brown. The rain poured down day after day, and the island seemed to shrink before our eyes. We were stuck inside our house, the sound of the rain on the tin roof a constant drumbeat.

Aaita told us stories to keep us from being scared, tales of brave warriors and clever animals. But even her stories couldn't completely hide the fear we felt. The river was rising quickly, and we knew that if it broke through the earthen embankments built to protect us, our house could be swept away.

One night, the storm grew even worse. The wind howled, and the rain crashed against the walls. We huddled together in the main room, Aaita quietly chanting prayers. Suddenly, we heard a loud crack, followed by a terrifying rumble. The ground beneath us shook.

The cracking sound came from the riverbank. A section of the embankment had given way under the relentless pressure of the floodwaters. Panic rippled through our small community. We could hear shouts in the distance as villagers scrambled to move their belongings to higher ground. Aaita quickly gathered us – my younger brother, Biju, and me – close to her. She wrapped us in warm blankets, her hands trembling slightly.

"We need to be ready," she said, her voice strained but firm. "If the water reaches us, we'll move to the Satra. It's on higher ground."

The night was a blur of fear and uncertainty. We huddled together, listening to the roar of the river and the wind howling outside. The rain continued to fall, and the water level kept rising. We could see the dark water creeping closer to our house, inch by agonizing inch.

Just before dawn, the water reached our stilt house. It wasn't a sudden rush, but a slow, steady encroachment. We could feel the house shudder as the water lapped against the stilts. Aaita quickly ushered us out, wading through the knee-deep water that now surrounded our home. We carried only a few essential belongings – some clothes, a few cooking utensils, and Aaita's precious prayer beads.

The walk to the Satra was a nightmare. The wind and rain lashed at us, and the water was cold and muddy. We stumbled through the darkness, guided by the flickering lights of lanterns carried by other villagers. I remember Biju crying, his small hand tightly clasped in mine. Aaita kept urging us forward, her voice a steady beacon in the storm.

The Satra was a haven. It was a large, open compound with several buildings, including a prayer hall and living quarters for the monks. Many villagers had already gathered there, seeking refuge from the flood. We found a dry spot in a corner of the prayer hall and huddled together, exhausted and frightened.

The next few days were spent in the Satra, waiting for the floodwaters to recede. The monks provided us with food and shelter, and the community came together to support each other. Despite the hardship, there was a sense of solidarity, a shared understanding of the power of the river and the resilience of the people who lived alongside it.

When the waters finally receded, we returned to our village to find devastation. Many houses had been damaged or destroyed, and the landscape was scarred with debris. Our own house was still standing, but the lower level was flooded and covered in mud.

The memory of that flood stayed with me, a constant reminder of the precariousness of life on Majuli. But it also taught me the importance of community, the strength of the human spirit, and the enduring power of hope. It was a time of great fear, but also a time of profound connection, when we all came together to face a common threat.

The rebuilding began almost immediately. Everyone helped each other, clearing debris, repairing houses, and sharing what little they had left. It was a testament to the spirit of Majuli, a spirit forged by generations of living alongside the unpredictable Brahmaputra.

Aaita, despite her age, worked tirelessly, her hands as busy as ever. She had an unwavering belief in the power of community, and she instilled that belief in me and Biju.

Life slowly returned to normal, or as normal as it could be on an island constantly reshaped by the river. The rice paddies were replanted, the fishing nets were mended, and the rhythm of life resumed.

But the flood had left its mark, not just on the landscape but also on me. I had seen the power of the river, its ability to both give and take away. I had also witnessed the strength and resilience of my community, and their ability to come together in the face of adversity.

My childhood was filled with such experiences, a mix of joy and hardship, of beauty and danger. There were the vibrant festivals, like the Bihu, with its lively music and dancing, celebrating the arrival of spring and the new harvest.

There were the quiet moments spent with Aaita, listening to her stories and learning about our traditions. And there were the constant reminders of the river's presence, the floods, the erosion, the ever-changing landscape.

One memory, less dramatic than the flood but equally significant, involves the naamghor, the village prayer hall. It was a simple structure, built of bamboo and thatch, but it was the heart of our community. Every evening, the villagers would gather there to sing devotional songs, accompanied by the rhythmic clapping of hands and the beat of drums.

I remember sitting beside Aaita in the naamghor, the air filled with the scent of incense and the sound of chanting. The flickering oil lamps cast long shadows on the walls, creating an atmosphere of peace and tranquility. Aaita would sing along softly, her voice blending with the other voices in the room. I didn't always understand the words, but I felt the power of the music, the sense of connection to something larger than myself.

It was in the naamghor that I learned about our culture, our history, and our values. I learned about the importance of community, the value of hard work, and the power of faith. These lessons, learned in the flickering light of the oil lamps, shaped me in profound ways.

But life on Majuli was not without its challenges. The constant threat of floods, the isolation of the island, and the lack of opportunities meant that many young people left to seek a better life elsewhere. Even Biju, when he grew older, left to study in Guwahati, the largest city in Assam.

The departure of Biju was a turning point for me. It was the first time I had experienced a significant loss, the first time I had felt the pull of the outside world. I missed his laughter, his companionship, and the shared memories of our childhood.

His absence left a void in our small house, a silence that even Aaita’s stories couldn’t fill. I began to spend more time alone, wandering along the riverbank, watching the Brahmaputra flow relentlessly towards the sea. I would sit for hours, gazing at the vast expanse of water, lost in my thoughts. The river, once a source of both fear and fascination, now became a symbol of change, of the constant flow of life, of the things that are lost and the things that remain.

As I grew older, I too began to feel the pull of the outside world. I longed to see more, to learn more, to experience life beyond the confines of the island. Aaita, ever wise, understood my yearning. She encouraged me to pursue my dreams, to explore the world beyond Majuli, but she also reminded me of the importance of remembering my roots.

“The river will always be a part of you,” she said one evening, as we sat on the veranda, watching the sun set over the Brahmaputra. “It flows in your blood, just as it flows around our island. Never forget where you come from.”

Her words stayed with me, a constant reminder of my connection to Majuli, even as I ventured further and further away. I eventually left the island to study in a city far from Assam, a world of concrete and noise, a stark contrast to the quiet beauty of my childhood home.

Life in the city was a whirlwind of new experiences, new people, and new ideas. I immersed myself in my studies, eager to learn everything I could. But even as I embraced this new life, a part of me always longed for Majuli, for the scent of fermented bamboo shoots, the sound of the dhol beats, and the warmth of Aaita’s stories.

Years passed. I finished my studies, found a job, and built a life for myself in the city. But the memories of my childhood remained vivid, like a collection of precious photographs carefully preserved in my mind. I would often think of Aaita, of Biju, of the river, and of the small island that had shaped me in so many ways.

Then came the news. Aaita was gone. The news reached me through a crackling phone call from a distant relative. The words were simple, but they struck me like a blow to the chest. Aaita, the anchor of my childhood, the source of so much love and wisdom, was no more.

I returned to Majuli for her funeral, a journey that felt both familiar and profoundly different. The island had changed. There were more concrete buildings now, more roads, more signs of modernization. But the Brahmaputra still flowed, its waters still a powerful force, a constant reminder of the enduring spirit of Majuli.

Standing by the riverbank, I scattered Aaita’s ashes into the water, a final farewell to the woman who had shaped my life. As the ashes drifted away, carried by the current, I felt a deep sense of loss, but also a sense of peace.

Aaita was gone, but her stories, her love, and her wisdom lived on within me, a part of the river that flowed in my blood. And as I looked out across the vast expanse of the Brahmaputra, I knew that even though I had left Majuli, a part of me would always remain there, forever bound to the island of my childhood.

The End.