The 15th August Post

My earliest memory of the Independence Day is waking up to the sound of 21 cannon fires, and sleepily walking to the TV to hear the Prime Minister’s speech. I knew it was the Prime Minister because Dad told me so. The only thing that was special was the TV being turned on that early in the morning. True, Independence Day celebrations lacked the spark and colors of the Republic Day parade, and even the Prime Minister’s speech went over my head, but at least for once Mom would make an exception and we would get to have breakfast in front of the TV. Gradually Independence Day became embossed in my memory as a holiday laced with fear (thanks ULFA, for nothing) that I couldn’t wait to see the end of. The irony of the whole thing was that the day after Independence Day is my birthday, and all I would pray during the 15th was to remain alive to celebrate adding another year to my life. If terrorizing was what the banned outfit had intended to do, I guess they had done a pretty good job, since they managed to induce fear for life into a ten year old. I wouldn’t let any of the family members go outside that day, and my Mom says she could actually see relief in my eyes once the dreaded evening would be over. So thanks to the fact that I studied in a missionary school, and to the ULFA for declaring Assam Bandhs each year without fail, I grew up to be twenty without having witnessed a real flag hoisting on Independence Day. If that was not enough, the ban on the National Flag until then also meant that the only time I got close to one was when I had to draw it for Social Studies lessons.

You can’t really blame me for not quite getting the “spirit” of celebrating our Independence when the only thing I learnt since I was a kid was to be scared of this day. I would ask Dad, “What’s there to be so happy about the 15th August anyway? Doesn’t it always bring in blasts and curfews and chaos and fear with it?” And Dad would tell me stories of his school days when Independence Day meant major celebrations in school, and how they would spend sleepless nights in anticipation of the day. I would later hear similar stories from friends who studied in Kendriya Vidyalayas, and always feel a pang of jealousy because I could never get that bit about Independence Day being fun… something to be happy about… something to look forward to.

And then, one brutal 15th August, 11 kids in Dhemaji died in a bomb blast, and I wept for them and their families and tried to find an answer to the nagging “Why?”. I remember an event in the Latasil Field in Guwahati, where painters from all over came to pay tribute to those eleven kids, and as I walked by all alone, the only thing I had wanted to do was scream and shout even though I knew no one would hear me. I cursed the fateful Independence Day. I cursed them ruthless killers. I cursed humanity and I cursed myself for being a silent spectator. For being helpless. I turned a cynic. I lost faith as I realized, if the cost of wanting to celebrate Independence Day was your very life, then maybe it wasn’t worth it after all.

Then Rang De Basanti happened. And soon after, the protest by medical students against reservations happened. I would like to think the latter was inspired by the former. Because both made me sit up and take note. True, RDB was just a movie, but it made me think yet again. And realize that if I truly believed in a cause passionately, maybe even I wouldn’t stop to think about the consequences, as long as I stood up for what I believed in. And a year after that, when I heard the National Anthem being played right before a movie in a PVR, and I got goosebumps and weird choking feeling inside me while hearing it, I realized something else. That patriotism doesn’t need to be about celebrating Independence Day with gusto once a year, or maybe painting my face and cheering for my cricket team as it plays against our arch enemy. It is not something that you have to show off. It is not about posting status updates and changing your profile picture once a year and yelling out a happy independence day, and forgetting about it for the rest of the year. You are a patriot, as long as you know that you care.

And I do. I love my country. And it makes me sad that I am such an insignificant minuscule part of it, and the only thing I can do as a citizen is to give my vote religiously (still haven’t got around to paying taxes, jobless that I am) and abide by the laws. Even though ethical politics is slowly becoming a myth and timely justice a thing of the past. I still care enough to have hope inspite of everything. Someday, my country will be free. From fear. And that day, we will all come out on the streets and celebrate all day long. As one.

Summers in Dibrugarh: The Reprise

In the twenty-four odd years of my life so far, I must have visited Dibrugarh, what, ten times at the most. Besides being my Mamma’s birthplace, Dibrugarh also happens to be where my Jethai (my Mamma’s elder sister, my Aunt) and recently my Mama (Mamma’s elder brother, my Uncle) have their homes. I have vague recollections of the Assam Medical College, where my Jethu (Jethai’s husband) had had his operation before his demise almost a decade later. I must have been five or six, and Mamma says I would make regular rounds of the wards decked up in my best white cotton chemise, performing (yes, performer I was even then) the famous Pan Pasand advertisement (Shaadi, aur tumse? Huh! Kabhi Nahi!) in front of anyone who requested me to do so, and come back hours later with my hands loaded with the loot of the day (biscuits, toffees and oranges) gifted by amused patients and their patient attendants. I should have given a thought to social service in the entertainment business, honestly speaking. I have a feeling I would have done great.

But coming back to Dibrugarh. I can’t help thinking that it was that very place where I rode my first bike (my cousin’s Pulsar 180cc) last year, or that the early morning ride to Bogibeel in bone-chilling January cold is something that I won’t forget for the rest of my life. Seems amazing how at that point of time I had thought Dibrugarh couldn’t possibly give me more joy than it already had. How wrong I was, and how happy am I to be proven wrong this time!

To begin with, I was traveling by car with both my parents, which was a first in a long time. And the weather was just right for a long journey. Isn’t there a saying about a perfect destination beginning with a perfect journey? If there isn’t, then there should be one. Because I believe my trip to Dibrugarh this time showed signs of awesomeness right from the journey across numerous tea estates, with trees in symmetry wearing drapes of creepers in uniform. Or maybe it was the brilliant hues of the flaming red Krishnosuras, blushing pink Radhasuras, sunshine-y yellow Xunarus and most of all the pretty purple Ejaars, which were in full bloom and splashed amidst lush dark green trees. Whoever says that spring is the only season of colors should seriously consider making a road trip from Tezpur to Dibrugarh in the month of June. I couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to sleep, just because I wanted to watch just how far the colors splashed into the horizon. It was almost like the Ejaars were trying their best to overpower the green, so much that it made me want to go and ask, “What’s up with you?? Why do you bloom this crazy??” and I know I am not crazy to want to go talk to the flowers because my Mamma said the same thing.

Refreshed and invigorated, we reached Dibrugarh just in time for sunset. And sweet lazy Nirmaligaon embraced me in the warm evening with outright palpable affection. Between visiting my Mama’s place and my Jethai’s place, all I did was bask in all the love, and then some more. And when night came, I tucked into my bed from where I could see this huge field right outside my window.

Come morning, I spent almost half an hour trying to come up with something I could DO. Having found nothing, and contemplating going back to sleep right away, I almost managed to tuck myself in again when I realized I was under a full blown attack by my nine year old cousin. Searching my recollections of the previous day to come up with some instant when I might have dropped him the hint that I was a human punching bag and failing for the second time since the moment I had woken up, I surrendered (like I had any other option anyway). A little later I found myself flat on my tummy, with him perched on my back, impersonating alternately a bike rider and an aeroplane pilot, depending on his whims and fancies. Did I mention that while my left leg was his brake, my right was his accelerator, and my hands locked behind on his tummy, his seat belt? Please don’t try imagine the situation. Just thinking about it gives me a back ache.

Relief came in the form of my Mama who asked us if we wanted to go get jamus from the tree in our backyard. And just like I used to when I must have been nine myself, I readily got up, rushed outside and followed my Mama with my cousin in tow, a long bamboo pole our aid in plucking and picking ripe jamus. I found myself giggling like a little girl while chasing after truant jamus which fell far away from the tree. And had you been there, I am sure you wouldn’t have been able to tell us apart. My nine year old kid brother and me.

In stark contrast to reliving my carefree childhood during the day, in the evening I underwent a complete transformation into a mekhela-sador clad “about-to-get-married” woman, accompanying my Bou to the Naamghor to serve tea to the people involved in the Bhaona Akhora (Bhaona is a religious form of drama, where mortals take on the roles of the Gods, and enact scenes from mythology, Akhora means rehearsal, Naamghor is the traditional place of worship for the Assamese). While my Jethai kept muttering blessings about how I was looking like the perfect Assamese buwari, my Dad kept sighing about his daughter finally growing up. And me? I was overwhelmed when I visited the same Naamghor that my Mamma had spent hours in as a child herself.

But if I had to choose one, just one Dibrugarh moment, it would be that night, or rather the wee hours in the morning, when sleepless and restless, I opened up the window facing the field, and couldn’t stop myself from gasping out loud. I sat there on my bed in front of the window, transfixed, at four in the morning, when light and dark were playing their own game of hide and seek. Crickets sang in unison like it was the end of the world, and only their singing could save us from imminent doom, while a lone cuckoo sang its solitary song as if it had forgotten that spring was long gone, and nobody bothered to break the news to it. There was a single tree in the huge field, and the field itself stretched on till it seemed to touch the horizon. A few lights from the distant towers of the radio center, and the TV center flickered rhythmically, but lost my attention when I witnessed my first dog star in ages. I don’t know how long I sat there. When I finally tried lying down and closed my eyes it was dawn already, and the angry blue clouds that spread out as sharp streaks in the night sky had softened to become swishy patches with the quintessential silver linings. And even though I was absolutely sleep deprived, I knew, I just knew, that I had fallen in love once again.

And I’ll call it the “Bihu” effect..

This post has been long overdue. And for a year now this has been one of those things which get me started. Started as in the whole “rolling my eyes, nodding my head, waving my hands and getting excited to the point of panting and puffing” started. Now don’t blame me if this, too, sounds blatantly loyally Assamese, but heck, I am proud to be one. Inspite of the million issues this state keeps cribbing and crying about all the time, inspite of the fact that even now people outside the North-East find it difficult to digest that we do know the national language afterall and that no, we don’t come from the jungles, and inspite of the dwindling number of people in our generation who actually understand the essence of the classic Assamese way of life.

I was lucky enough to have been blessed with parents who taught us to appreciate and form our own opinions on everything without forcing anything on us. I mean, I actually had what one would call an “ideal” upbringing (that I ended up slightly screwed up I consider totally my doing, or rather, “undoing”). Having spent a considerable amount of time during my first three impressionable years, cradled in my grandmother’s lap listening to folklores and mythological stories to be punctuated by songs and verses in her amazing voice, and the best part of the years thereafter learning unadulterated Assamese songs composed by our very own bards along with Hindustani classical music, I find it intriguing how I still manage to love classic rock the way it is. I do belong to that class of people (then again I wonder if there’s a class like this) who have western music by the bulk in their I-pods, with rare Hindi numbers thrown in now and then, and swear by Angarag Mahanta  and hence never delete his songs from the music library. And yet, I find myself getting goose-bumps and all choked up (for some weird reason) and strangely anti-rock when I hear live Bihu, which is *the* folk dance, in case you are ignorant enough not to know, that has become (erroneously) synonymous to be the be all and end all of Assamese culture . And that’s when I know I am either a true-blue Assamese or an A-class hypocrite. For the sake of my own ego, I’d like to stick with the former.

This started last year when we had the North-East Vice Chancellors’ Meet in our university, and we’d invited a team of teenagers (some of the dancers were not even ten though!) to perform Bihu in the cultural evening organized for the benefit of all the delegates from outside Assam. And when I saw those young kids enjoying themselves to the hilt while giving one of what I consider the best Bihu performances I’d seen till date, and our very own Professors struggling hard to keep themselves from clapping and cheering much like we did (some of them simply decided to let go) it was like a sudden realization. And that’s when I blurted out to my thoroughly non-Assamese friend who happened to be standing next to me, “Why do we need rock when we’ve got Bihu?”  I attribute his non-committal nod to his not understanding the whole spirit, and that’s when the “Oxomiya” in me decided to raise its head (and voice) and I went on a rant about how Bihu, albeit getting so much focus and everything, is still under-rated.

The same fire was rekindled just yesterday after seeing yet another Bihu routine, this time by our own university students. Guys who donned low-waist jeans and t-shirts screaming “Metallica” and “Black Sabbath” on any normal day, looked equally at home wearing our “suriya” and “gamosa” as they danced on the stage. And while most girls find it difficult to even walk wearing our traditional “mekhela sador”, them pretty dancers made it look so effortless and graceful; the whole dancing and singing bit. Now I remember having this discussion with my Dad (a much more sympathetic listener) as to how one should put in the two together:  a rock band and a Bihu troupe, and then simply turn off the power in that place. And then let’s see which “rock” (pun intended) more. With that I rest my case.

But then again, I insist that I am not taking sides here either. Put it simply, I love rock music. I just happen to love our Bihu more. And not the kind that sells by the gunny-bags these days in the market either. I love the plain simple verses that my parents would sing all the time, the funny, at times outright quirky lyrics and the typical tunes that I had always known Bihu to be made of. The ones which didn’t need an entire studio and a dozen electronic instruments and synthesized sounds to make it suitable for the public’s ears. Give me an open field and dancers decked up in dominating red and golden, having the time of their life celebrating youth, and the spring-spring smell in the April air anyday. And I’d happily leave my I-pod behind.

But this is not just about Bihu and rock music is it? This is just an epiphany of how culture is defined these days. I find myself actually feeling sad, that given how much I have been able to take from my grandmother and my parents, what I pass on to my children will be even less. With no proper documentation of our folk culture and traditions, the norm being that they are always passed down from generation to generation, how many generations will it take for it to evolve into a totally hybridized morphed version of what it had originally been? Will the next generations never know the beauty of simplicity?

The incorrigible optimist that I am, I still see hope. And not just when it comes to the fact that even in the small town of Tezpur, there is an actual academy where Bihu, inspite of it being a folk and not a classical dance form, is being taught formally, and that just a few months back there was an event here, when a large number of Bihu dancers gathered together to dance in sync on a huge open ground. Which means that there must be things like this happening in other places in Assam too. I am talking about the people who’ve left this place and gone out, and maybe that’s when and that’s why have realized the worth of what they’d somehow never attached much importance to back home. I’m talking about that small sect of people who inspite of not knowing much about where they come from, at least realize that it is not something to be proud of. And that it is as cool to know about our music and our traditions as much as it is to know by heart the names of the latest Grammy winners. I’m talking about Assamese all over the world still getting together to celebrate being Assamese. And I’m talking about pioneers like Angarag Mahanta and Zubeen Garg who’ve given a whole new dimension to Assamese music, and have made us listen to Assamese songs, and most importantly folk, yet again.

So until next the time I get a chance to enjoy live Bihu, I’ll get back to my classic rock and swear loyalty, and when the untimely cuckoo birds (seriously, is it just me who’s noticed that the “kuli” seems to be rather impatient this year….singing when its still March….or that the mango trees have flowered already?) get a little too much for me, I’ll listen to Angarag croon “Lokomotive” (by far my favorite in the fusion-folk genre) into my ears and for good measure hum a few Bihus my Mamma’s taught me, all by my own.