Majuli pdf

CURATION

TRAVEL

JANUARY

photographed by Priyanka Mehra

Majuli Island Assam

twenty seventeen

written by Ishita Mehra

A Sinking Paradise ...................................

The open fields, the wetlands, the bamboo huts, a harbour of unseen birds, a vast space seen so rarely.

This is the reminiscence of a dream called Majuli.

he open fields, the wetlands, the bamboo huts, a harbour of unseen birds, a vast space seen so rarely. This is the reminiscence of a dream called Majuli. We packed no expectations, we filled no disappointments. Stepping down on the biggest river island in India, a void in my heart was filled with a place that felt familiar from my dreams.

“Why Majuli?”- asked my colleague from a long gone workplace. “Why not?”- I replied. The very question of doubt perturbed me, what was there to question anyways. Although I have become inured by now to roguish queries of people upon my choice of ‘vacations’ as they would say. But that’s just an ‘Indian’ way to think. Travel perhaps never lands as an important learning opportunity in our plate full of social demands.

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In the still of a moment, there were voices yet unheard.

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Ferry Ride from Nimati Ghat to Majuli Island

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ell one can’t completely place the blame for not having heard of such a place, in fact Majuli has just a pinch of research.

And in my la la land of orating content, I imagined myself immersing in the words of descriptions for a lesser known thing. A place with a meaning, Majuli refers to a land between two parallel rivers, the great Brahmaputra in the south and Subansiri river (a tributary of Brahmaputra) in its north. A wetland, Majuli is a hotspot for flora and fauna, including migratory birds that arrive in cold of the winter season. The island is yet, thankfully, untouched by human destruction. Almost pollution free owing to the lack of polluting industries and factories and also the chronic rainfall.

The island is under threat due to the extensive soil erosion on its banks. The reason for this magnitude in erosion is the large embankments built in neighbouring towns upriver to prevent erosion during the monsoon season when the river distends its banks.

According to reports, in 1853, about 33% of the total area of Majuli landmass has been eroded in the latter half of 20th century. In 15–20 years from now, Mājuli would cease to exist. In 20 years from now, we will start to live the movies we grew up watching, in the name of science fiction. Apocalypse in not a distant realm.

Despite the pain, there has been some good as well. The good that my research brought me towards was of a local environmental activist Jadav Payeng, who planted a 550 hectare forest, known as Molai Forest to combat erosion on the island. The forest has become habitat for animals including elephants, tigers, deer, and vultures.

Although we never got the chance to visit the forest due to the stringent timeline of our visit, we were lucky enough to still have gulped it’s essence while many despise it’s taste.

There are the contrasts of a land, a land we only see in movies or flicks to show the palette of India. One of the most foundational palette is that of an Indian crop fields. And what more can you inhale than the typical picture of farmers of the lush lands in broad daylight.

Simplicity is a thing of the past for people like you and me. Seeing a conduct so close to nature and to the roots we are born from comes as a surprise, and it’s subsequent realization a guilty shame on the head.

How was I to have known that the legitimacy of birth will bring me closer to cement blocks than the soil barrens?

How was I to have known that the pioneers of architecture in India were never really the ones with a degree and foreign experience, but an understanding of human resources and the intelligence to build on it? How was I to have known that living is not as tough as we have made it with incessant demands and desires, that what we are provided from a planet unlike any other is what we choose not to adopt? How was I to have known a life I consider beautiful to live? Perhaps, we only learn to value what is far from our reach.

We woke up in a cradle of light at a time we would have usually not woken up. The bamboo house we stayed in had slight spaces in it’s linear stacks. It would be cold by night, but the morning rays would illuminate the room, like we were sleeping inside a lamp. The tiredness of previous days travelling hadn’t quite yet worn out. I opened my diary to write about the long journey of the day before, the first page open, and all I could think of was myself in the blue of the tides.

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t’s often great to not have any destination in mind, the great advantage being absence of disappointment since one came with no expectations. We took off on the hired scooty, with my sister riding it and me on the backside, carefully gazing every moment that would pass by with the rotation of the wheels. Some of the roads were flooded with sand, some others were smooth as clay, the long rides felt like a boat in the sea. The open fields on parallel sides were like paintings of poems of Wordsworth.

The ease of the village life takes over you for that while. I hear a few screeches on the way, and soon the sound is accompanied by the vision of white decents. A group of ducks and goose running on the street like wild fire, what an exceptional greeting to the village. We made our first stop at a Satra, which are institutional centers associated with the Ekasarana tradition. Ekasarana is a religion founded and propagated in the 15th century. Most of the adherents of this religion today live in the Assam. It rejects vedic and other esoteric rites of worship, and instead replaces them by a simplified form that requires chanting the name of God. Satras are independent of each other and generally are taken care of by the community living in that particular Satra area.

Many of the larger Satras accommodates hundreds of celibate and non-celibate monks. They hold vast lands and are repositories of religious and cultural relics and artefacts. The Aouniati Satra and the Uttar Kamalabari Satra are the most essential Satras according to the people of Majuli.

The moment I entered the Kalambari Satra, my mind began to clear. The beauty of the place and the peace it brought along was devastating to the usual level of anxiety in my body. I have rarely ever been calm, and this was unexpected by my usual self which feeds on self destruction. I saw a few monks (whatever you call them please mention) departing from their afternoon ritual into their sun kissed rooms. I wondered if they could see through me, and my beliefs. If they could see how much of God lives in me.

The daunting walls and pinnacles on regular lands. It was time for me to leave the calm. With another beautiful ride on a road that stretched as true as a line of longitude, we reached the Samugari Satra. It is a Satra mainly known for it’s mask making craft.

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solitary reaper, Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singling by herself

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The entry to Bengenaati Satra (image on the left)

Bhogpur Satra from the inside

Idol inside Bhogpur Satra Uttar Kamalabari Satra (image on the right)

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he beginning of the village will bring you to the two families with the expertise of making masks. Dhiren Goswami, son of a famous mask maker whose family has been in the craft since generations, invited us to look into their works. Traditionally, masks were used for religious dance and drama and depicted the characters of ‘Srimad Bhagwat’ to the devotees. They also helped people to associate with the character and expressions of the mythical heroes. The mask making practice has been an art since the past 20 years or more and they also train artisans to learn the art, thus, keeping alive this tradition. Bamboo and cane covered in cotton cloth and clay are used as base for the mask. The features of the face are made with cow-dung with another layer of cloth and paint is applied for the final finish.

By the time we walked out of the beautiful serenade that was the house of Mr. Goswami, the sun began to repot it’s sinking from the sky. The gaze of an empty highway reached our sights.

We watched the sun sinking slowly, till it disappeared. We drove back to our place of stay and took a lasting polaroid.

My feet tread on to damp grass, the sky is almost black. I move forward in a daze. The ground gets wetter and wetter. Through the green weeds ahead I glimpse a cold sweep of water. I roll over and retch and my mind goes blank. In the moonlight I sort through my belongings. Apart from the echo of my dragging footsteps, the place is silent. The full moon rises into the night sky. After a few hours of slow march I see a light in the distance.

Traditional mask at Samugari Satra

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