Headlines       Vol. 1 Issue 42-43

Mar 22- Apr 6,   1999

The world's largest river island (II) Further writing about his ancedotes during his stay at Majuli, Sanjoy Ghosh narrates his observations during election time in 1996 and his search for some friends in the island. A time for elections April 1996 It is late April, but there is still a chill in the air. From half-past three in the morning you can hear the whistle of the ketaki-sarai, as it flaps overhead. By the time dawn breaks, just after four o'clock, the air is rent by birdsong. The Himuli gos has begun to shed its cotton pods, and you can find the tell-tale signs of cotton wisps all over. As usual, it was an ordeal getting to Majuli. First the crowded one-hour bus ride, then the hour-long ferry, followed by the scramble for standing room on the next bus. Then rushing to the riverside again, to be ferried across in small boats, dangerously overfilled, standing room only, to jump off at the river bank and run again to get space in the bus to Kamlabari. Most of our fellow passengers from Jorhat are crossing Majuli on their way to North Lakhimpur — faster and cheaper than crossing by road from Tezpur. These days all that life revolves around are the elections. Unlike the indifferent atmosphere in Jorhat, here everybody is involved. Even not being actively involved in campaigning is making a statement. Like Sarat Das, who comes from a poor scheduled caste family in Pokajhora, about fifteen kilometres away from the biggest town on the island, Kamlabari. Sarat is peeved about the way in which Padmeswar Doley, the erstwhile AGP candidate (it's a different matter that he switched to the Congress after being elected) came to their small community, and in the naamghar, after being garlanded by the village elders, took a solemn oath to build a bridge to the main road, and an embankment so that they could cultivate fish. Neither happened, and now Sarat says that the village has decided to do it on their own—but they're staying away from the elections. The symbol of involvement in campaigning this time is vehicles—mainly scooters and motorcycles, and of course ordinary cycles. Cars are too few, too expensive, and in any case have mostly been requisitioned by the district administration. Everyday, one party or another organises a rally. Hundreds of flag-waving cyclists pass by shouting for their candidate. Mostly it is the men who are campaigning. In one Mishing household we stopped to meet with Lakhi Payeng, to ask if she would consider working with our group. She was busy cooking for a death feast (it was a month after the death of her maternal uncle), but she and her slightly inebriated brother-in-law (the festivities had started quite early in the morning!) sat and considered our proposition. It was like proposing marriage. He warned to know what future was in it, and when he heard that it was not government, not well paid, and involved working all the time, even travelling out of the house, the level of enthusiasm waned a bit. But after a long discussion, he seemed convinced that it was a good thing, and told his sister-in-law that she should agree. They conferred for a while in their own language (the Mishing Doyan language, is very different from Assamese, the lingua franca), and then said, sorry, can't do it. The reason, it transpired, was that they had already paid a bribe of thirty thousand rupees to an official in the education department, who had in exchange agreed to get their 'venture school' recognised. It was difficult to piece it together, but it appears that the government of Assam has a policy of encouraging private individuals to take on primary education. They set up a school on their own, follow the prescribed syllabus, and after a few years, if you have the right connections, the school gets recognised, and the teachers get government jobs. The current rate for a primary school teacher position in the government is fifty thousands rupees. The general issue of corruption in administratiuon has been picked up by all the political parties other than the Congress, but none of them have a focussed agenda, and few people expect anything to change—this has almost become a part of the cultural environment. This time in Majuli the BJP is contesting for the first time, and they seem to have quite a following in Kamlabari, and the trading community in general. They were 'brought' onto the island by one B.P. Chaturvedi, erstwhile lecturer in the local college, who has now in partnership with a local person (the former Principal Medical Officer of Majuli Sub-Division) set up an English medium school, called the Amarjeet Academy. Last year they organised an RSS camp, which was quite well attended. The AGP have put up a non-Mishing candidate for the first time (ever), benefitting from the recognition of the Koch-Rajbonshis as a scheduled tribe. (Majuli is a reserved tribal constituency). Some people feel that this will bring the rest of the non-Mishings together for the first time. They are likely to benefit even further from the fact that there are three independent Mishing candidates, all strong individually, and with considerable support. The official 'parliament' of the Mishing community, the Takum Mamak Mishing Kebang, is backing one of the independents, but it obviously has less hold than it did in the past. In Jengrai, we encountered Indeswar Pegu, the principal of the local Jengrai College, busy campaigning for Padmeswar Doley, the Congress candidate. Both are Mishings. Pegu has in fact converted his home into a makeshift election office, strewn with voters lists, posters, and all the paraphernalia of conflict. Yet, somehow local issues don't figure in the campaign this time—they are all big picture issues—changing things if the government changes. One of the independent candidates even said that this was his main strategy—after being elected he would assess which party had better chances of forming the government, and then would join that. On the other hand, just across the river one of the strongest contenders, the AGP candidate, Hitendra Goswami, is campaigning with a two-point agenda: building a spur to protect the population of Neemati from the floods, and improving the power supply situation in Jorhat. This has very serious implications for Majuli. Twenty years ago, a similar spur built by the government to protect the people of the mainland at Kokilamukh was responsible for destroying one entire mouza in Majuli, the Ahatguri mouza. This time, if the spur is built at Neemati, waters could sweep away Kamlabari. While all this hectic campaigning is going on, the river has begun to swell with the rain, and has turned a menacing slate-grey. Every year there are floods in Majuli, and worse, large amounts of land are just disappearing under the river, never to surface again. There is little loss of life, because people have come to understand and live with this phenomenon, but there is a great deal of loss of livelihoods. While crossing the Luit at Karatipar between two islands, we heard a resounding crash, like someone had fallen into the water. 'Gorakohoniya', the boatman explained. The eating away of the land. Gradually eroding from the base, the overhang just collapsed into the river. Women we meet recount the difficulties— having to get from place to place by boat, stranded for days without drinking water, or food, having to borrow to make ends meet since the flood invariably arrives just before the harvest of the bao dhan. In the last fifty years since India became independent, life hasn't changed much for them, and it seems unlikely that this election will bring them any close to the mainstream, however muddy that may be. Searching for friends April 1996 This time the rains had already come. We were unprepared for the icy cold breeze at Neemati ghat, and being drenched in the ferry rides, but this time the Brahmaputra had swelled, and there was just one crossing across the entire distance. Now there was no bus, since the road was still under repair, and we had to endure a five kilometre walk in the driving rain, laden with luggage, but feeling sorrier still for the many women and children who were walking with us, cold, shivering, wet and tired. In our understanding of the word 'development' we are taught that the 'hadware'— roads, electricity, and communication—are not as important as the software—the ability of the people to be creative, innovate, and manage their lives. Yet here in Majuli, I can see the validity of the conventional definition. With such serious infrastructural problems, how are people going to generate the confidence to be innovative? We finalised a house to stay and work in, near the Chariali at Kamlabari, the main town of Majuli. (Actually there is a sort of clandestine rivalry between Kamlabari and Garamu for the status of first town of Majuli — Kamlabari is the hub, but Garamur is where the court and the government offices are located; both have equally famous satras). [But] Since we had no electricity or even a stick of furniture, we decided to stay at the Kamlabari satra guesthouse, and were treated with a hospitality that can only be described as innate, and natural. We would return home from our wanderings late at night, tired and hungry, and there would always be one of the bhakts on hand to ask if we had eaten, and then help the chowkidar Khogen rustle up something. It was like this for all visitors, even the rare hippie that dropped in to satiate their curiosity. The Satradhikar himself had his office there, and would meet us ever so often to enquire after our health, and work. In fact we are amazed at the informality in the satra complex. Our understanding was that any form of organised religion involved hierarchy, and ritual, but here it was different, almost casual. The disciples would be strolling past, arm-in-arm, little initiates would be playing around outside, under the watchful gaze of an elder—more like a large family than an institution. In the evenings we would walk across the Dolong at the tiniali, catch up with the day's events, and stand in the cool breeze, looking up at the starless, overcast night sky. The occasional flash of lightening would illuminate the baat-sora. We would return with an escort of fireflies, flashing in unison. We were in Majuli on an extended trip, trying to find local people who would work with us. It is always difficult starting from scratch, without any contacts, and more so because our line of work (voluntary organisation) is confusing. Here in this part of the country the word voluntary means precisely that: people give time to social institutions that they are associated with on a part-time basis, without any remuneration. Excerpted with permission from Sanjoy's Assam, edited by Sumita Ghosh and Published by Penguin Books India

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