By the river near Piyali Phukan Nagar, Guwahati, Assam

It was springtime late afternoon in Guwahati. Spring is probably the best season in that region. The rains have not started yet, the summer heat is not that bad, and the winter cold is gone. No wonder it is the time of the biggest festival in Assam, Rongali Bihu. There was some argument going on the in the house and I was not in agreement with my mom. I decided to step out of the house to cool myself down. Usually we would turn right and go downhill from the bottom of the steps of the property, towards the city. But I took a left turn instead and went uphill. There were not that many houses back then in the neighborhood, uphill on our “kaccha” street that we called Nilgiri path. Others called it by different names at different times. Anyway, we knew who lived where at least till the peak of the hill. There was Sharma uncle’s house at the top of the hill. Theirs was the only other “Pakka” house on the hill at one time, other than ours. We used to go to their house to watch cricket test matches during our vacations. Aunty used to bring us “goodies” to eat and let us sit and watch the game till lunchtime. We would go home to have lunch and then come back for the afternoon sessions, five days in a row. Good way to spend summers, it was.

It was a short climb to Sharma uncle’s house and the path descended down into another little valley, where a perennial creek ran. They had a road running along the creek and along the hillsides from Holy Child School in Krishna Nagar, all the way up to the refinery on the other side of town. The Indian Oil refinery was created at the eastern end of the city, and it was adjacent to the river one side (which was quite important from a water supply standpoint) and was parallel to the N.F. Railway line that ran from Guwahati to upstate, on the other side. Perhaps only in Assam you could have an oil refinery that was this close to a city and its vast population.

I crossed the creek and went up the steep path over the next hill. There were also people’s houses along this path, but these were built in a traditional way, “Kaccha style”.

The properties ended at the top of that path. There was one last house at the top of that hill and the owner put a nice little bamboo fence to mark his boundary. There was just wilderness beyond that fence and the land I think was owned by the IOC or some other govt. entity. I sat down beside the fence to catch my breath.

You could get a panoramic view of the river from here, as far as the eye could see. You could see as far as the northern bank of the Brahmaputra and the little huts there, next to the sand. To the right, you could see the river till bend up north, much beyond the outer limits of the city. And to the left, the banks of the central part of Guwahati and the big bridge at the southern end of the city, named after a great battle between the Ahoms and the Mughals in the middle ages.

I saw a little sail boat, sailing down the waters. It sails had a white cotton cloth sail, torn in a couple of places, but still doing the job. There was some water traffic business going on in Assam, back then, down and up the river. Tezpur was the nearest city up river, and there was good trade between Guwahati and that town. Nowadays everything is governed by the price of gasoline, and running those gas-guzzling boats were not a viable option I guess back then, and sailboats were too slow for modern commerce. Anyway, sailboats on the river were a common sight in those days.

The Brahmaputra was a strange river, unlike any other in the country. It had a mystic and a might to it that would dwarf some of the more known rivers of the world. Many a poem and song have been created in praise and fear of this giant of a river. Strange indeed is that fact that it is named after a male, Lord Brahma’s son, and not a female, as is more common in India. Perhaps because sustenance of life is not the only role it plays. Strange also is that the lesser known of the Hindu Trinity of Gods is chosen for its name. Lord Brahma, who is the creator of the physical world, had somehow fallen from the ranks of the supreme authorities of the three worlds. There were many a mythological story of why it was so, and if you travel through the landscape of the country, you would find very few temples dedicated to this God. Perhaps the mysticism of the Brahmaputra is added to by the landscapes that it travels through. Beginning near the Kailash Mountain in the higher Himalayas, the most revered of all the mountains in the Himalayas, traversing through the high Tibetan valley, dropping down into the lower Himalayas, in the form of the hills of Arunachal Pradesh, and passing into the bosom of Axomee Aai.

I started going downhill towards the riverbank. It was an uneventful climb thru thick shrubs, down a little wiggly goat path. I noticed a house or two, here and there, but nothing that had a large family dwelling. There was only just one house at the bottom of that hill, next to the river, surrounded by huge rocks. The river sand was just beyond those rocks.

It was spring, so there wasn’t much sand left, but there were still places where the water touched the sand, and I sat down on one such spot. I could hear the water licking the sand, from where I was sitting. You could see and hear the sandy beach disintegrating, in the fashion of icebergs melting in Antarctica, and making a loud “thump” as they go down. I was safe. I was quite a few dozen feet away from that action.

The sun was starting to set in the west over the bridge.

The water’s sound started to have a calming affect on me. And I started to think the troubles back home and reflect on it. What will be best for my dad, given his struggles against an unknown disease. He worked his ass off, till he was nearing retirement age. But then he fell sick and totally lost his ability to be affective at work and sometimes at home. Perhaps his only error in life was that he got married late, thanks to family circumstances and economic conditions. I wish they had an Alzheimer’s association in Guwahati, back then. It is tough to grow up with an Alzheimer’s patient, and knowing others going through similar experiences does help.

I am now a member of the Illinois chapter of the American Alzheimer’s Association, albeit a very inactive member. I joined it more out of principle, than an actual fear of having the disease in the later half of my life.

Suddenly I saw a kingfisher, in an almost standstill position, 10 feet above the water. And in a flash, it dove into the water and flew right out, its mouth holding its prey, a small fish. I was thrilled to watch the act and forgot all about my worries. I started to hum a song by Deep Purple, “A wasted sunset”: “One too many, wasted sunsets”.

The water’s sound was ever more calming by now. I started to think about the problems home again. I felt a little sad, and depressed, again. I have felt sad singing an old lullaby that my dad used to sing. “Are o Allah, Kader daani”, even later when I could play the tune on my guitar. It was a religious Sufi song, but somehow I always used to feel sad singing it. I guess it overwhelmingly reminded me of him. I was not thinking of that song, though, at that moment in time, but was feeling sad nonetheless.

It was starting to get dark. I thought to myself “I need to head back home. I have two hills to climb.”

The return was quite uneventful again. I felt a sudden fear for foxes and want to get out as soon as possible. I didn’t have a flashlight with me. I stepped up my pace up the hill. I relaxed once I reached the other side of the first hill, and the houses start to appear on the hillside. I recognized the fear just passed, and laughed at my cowardice.

I went downhill and saw the elementary school, perched on the hillside, against the little creek. One of the kids living in our house now, goes to that school. It is a lot bigger structure now, and they have a concrete building I believe. Back then, it was a “temporary” construction, made of bamboo and mud walls with a thatched roof. The kid’s name is Thomas and he is around 10 / 11 years old now. He is in class six I believe. He came to me excitedly one day, when I was at home, recently. “Dada, moi maths’ot Axo marks paisoon” (He got a 100 out of 100 in his recent mathematics exam). I was quite thrilled to hear that! I gave him a hundred rupee note, during the New Year celebrations. I asked him, “Thomas! What are you going to do with the money?” He said “Dada! I will buy books.” I said “Good! That’s the way to go, boy!” He didn’t actually buy books with all the money, as I later found out.

We had a lot of little kids in our house, growing up, and we had a lot of cricket. You see, when our father decided to build a house in the outskirts of the town, and move us away from the heart of the city, I think the thing we missed most was our cricket. And my brother even more than me, because he played a lot with the older guys in Gandhi Basti, where we used to stay earlier.  

So our solution was get whoever we could in the house to play cricket with us, and the only playmates we had were the kids who used to work at our house, as a live-in domestic help. They were all treated very well, except for the occasional scolding from my mother and the rare fight with us. But most of the time, we watched cricket, and whenever we could, we played cricket. And boy was there a lot of cricket going on back then. We were always on India’s side, whenever there was a match between India and Pakistan. But there was this kid; his name was Phulchand, who always used to change sides, depending on who was winning. We used to curse him for that! Back then, Doordarshan, which was the only provider of Television in Assam, did not have Hindi commentators. So the commentary was always in English. And our Phulchand would memorize the commentary and try to give a running commentary as he played. It went something like this: “Ande Waseem Akram bowleeng”, as he ran up to the crease to throw the bowl. His commentary made us crack-up. We even used to join with “Abdul Qadir bowling”, and “Kapil Dev, bowling”.

He was a great kid, that Phulchand. He stayed with us for almost 8 -9 years, till he reached his adolescence, and then he quit. He probably had bigger plans in his life than to just work as a domestic help in Piyali Phukan Nagar.

We had another guy after Phulchand. His name was Johirul and he was barely 4 feet tall. He must have been 7 or 8 years old, when he came to our house. He was small but he was gutsy too. And he threw a swell fastball, by our cricketing standards. Johirul was another phenomenon. He ate like a pig and his tummy was disproportionately outside the frame of his body. And he worked like crazy. This little kid used to lift 40 gallons of water on both hands, and climb up the stairs, from our well to the house. His feet were so small, the bottom on the buckets used to hit the stairs, as he walked up. Johirul didn’t stay with us long. His father wanted him out, in order to employee him in a Chai shop in his hometown. His father thought he would make more money for him there. The two boys, Johirul and Phulchand, although from the same background and region, were very different in nature and temperament. 

Our cricket playground was the front yard, like in most homes. Our mother had given up hope for her precious flowers, thanks to our cover drives and pulls over long on. We broke some many windowpanes in our front windows, that our parents stopped repairing them. It was much later, when I was in high school and my brother was in college that they were replaced for good. The window breaking was such a problem, that we had to invent our own cricket ball, soft enough so that it does not break the glass and hard and heavy enough to spin and play a decent game with. Tennis balls and other kinds did not meet our requirements. Our cricketing game had it own set of rules. You could not hit a shot on the offside, because the ball would roll downhill and someone had to go collect it. So the rule on an offside shot was that, you were out if you hit one and you go get the ball. So we hit shots on the leg side. There was a big rock on the hillside where our house was. We had imaginary score lines on the rock and the land above, for runs. You got a one run if you hit the bottom part of the rock. You got two runs if you hit the top part and four runs if you hit the land above the rock. That would be good pull shot on any ground, provided you did not get caught. Leg before was always a controversial decision and we did not have an umpire. So we marked a small square with chalk before the wicket. If your foot was in that that square and you got hit with the ball, you were out leg before. The pitch was around three-fourths the size of a regular pitch, because the hillside curved at its end and it was not possible to make it any longer. There was a big bush too in the middle of the pitch, towards the side, which meant that you always had to be on target.

I later started batting with my left hand, especially when playing with the kids. That way I could hit cover drives and shots on the offside. I even bowled Ravi Shashtry style spin with my left hand, just for fun.

Our cricket ground is all gone now. There is a big building in its place, with steps to go upstairs over the big rock. The “1979” that my brother had carved on the rock when we moved in is still there. I will probably never forget that year, one year after our youngest uncle died in Gandhi Basti.

I remember Phulchand and me making makeshift weapons together during the 1984 riots in Assam. Riots in Assam were very rare, as compared to the rest of the country. But when it happened, boy was it scary.

It was like living through a bad dream. And our elder Pehi, the eldest of my father’s sisters, fell ill around that time. They were staying with us, as she had to be in town for her treatment. Her eldest son, our cousin, was a psychiatry physician, a profession he chose after watching his mother’s condition and knowing the family history. He also spent a lot of time with us. I remember the chess matches under moonlight, when there was a blackout, between my father and my cousin and my brother. They were having a series and keeping count. And they played every night, for weeks on end. Don’t remember who finally won the series.

The shouts during the dark nights were scary. Our neighbors ran with lantern in one hand and holding their lungis and weapons with the other. We were safe in those hills. Nobody bothered climbing all those hills just to come kill us. Most of the chaos was going on in the city. But we still prepared. I remember my mom used to make simple sandwiches with butter and cucumber. And she used to pack them in a carry-on box, like a picnic basket and made us wear sneakers, so that we could run. One of our uncles, my mom’s younger brother, who was in the Assam police force, came to visit us, around that time. He was talking to my mom about his friend, who was sitting next to him, in a police jeep, being pulled out and instantly killed, in Nowgoan, during the ’84 Nellie riots. It was quite chilling to hear those stories.

The element of fear is the biggest tool for a man’s survival. It makes one behave in ways unimaginable. I guess that is why the Bhagavad-Gita is written in a climate of war. War makes the warrior super-sensitive and be present in the “here and now”. War makes a man reactive and at the same time reflective. Lord Krishna throws his gems of wisdom at the soldier who is on the verge of killing and being killed by his fellow kin and seeking justification for all the bloodshed. It is indeed a Handbook for the times that we live in, much like the Koran, for Moslems.

Coming back to the story:

That was an evening spent on the riverside, near Piyali Phukan Nagar. I went home, washed-up and hit the books till dinnertime. I studied some more after dinner. I was happy. The walk to the river helped. It wasn’t such a wasted sunset, after all.