An Assamese rues Brahmaputra’s dwindling might

On a posting to Guwahati, the heritage house, with its layered straw roof and wooden frame built by the colonial rulers, welcomed me as the new incumbent. Poised on the Brahmaputra’s bank, it had been the dwelling of the city’s police chief, watching for decades the whims and vanities of those in power.

I sit in a glass-walled chamber facing the mighty river. The first rays of dawn filter through my windowpane kissing the river as the waves drift past, mocking my insignificance. From the cluster of country boats, someone plays Shri Sankardev’s Borgeet in morning raga on his flute. The boats ferry bicycles, motorbikes, bundles of vegetables, and their vendors.

The city would go hungry if they failed to arrive with the produce. The river is their lifeline. Students leap ashore from anchored boats when evening ferries hurry them home. The last ferry must not leave them behind. They talk as the busy day slowly dips into the river. “The river is the bridge,” they say, “it binds hearts, syncs bazaars, ghats, villages and the chaotic city.” The Brahmaputra is the main artery of their civilisation, culture, tradition, creativity, language, and literature.

I see the statue of Lachit Borphukan with its feet bathed by the river’s radiant waves. The river he cherished as his naval force once crushed the mighty Mughal onslaught upon this beloved land. My river, you stood a silent witness to victories and defeats in the eternal game of power. Nimbus clouds have gathered and you are in full spate, fingerlings popping up on the waves, dolphins playing hide and seek.

The earth trembled in the great quake of the Fifties; you changed course, kept flowing, and laughed at nature’s rage — for you are the nature. You spread seeds, grow trees, bring monsoon and rain. The thirsty fields drink from you. You love people, their stories and songs drift upon you. They dump their waste, immerse their deities after puja; you bear them for miles and become the sea. They praise your endurance, salute your generosity. Civilisations expanded, cities were born, malls rose beneath your gaze.

You smile and flow, having no time to wait or watch. You are not a mere backdrop to their lives — you are the metaphor of a living city. They confide broken dreams, woes, and worries. A new wave comes, forms a new river in you, and carries unspoken words away, never to return. They said you would be tamed. But who has the might to challenge you, O son of the almighty Brahma?

Yet this time, they say, the sword is drawn, big waves devour the smaller ones. You would not come to me to kiss my window. To see your skinny health, I should descend the rocky steps, cross the sandy shore in search of you, only to be abandoned on burning patches of sand.

There would be no magic of distant stars and the moon bathing in your waters. No one would see my footsteps on marshland thick with wild grass and creepers. The music of your ripples would not soothe my ears. The migratory birds would not return to their forsaken nests on the trees that you nurtured, because they came for the mother in you.

Your mighty limbs, Mahabahu, as the great maestro Bhupen Hazarika sang, would be clipped and left crippled and you would be a thin stream, a brittle thread, a dried artery. With apologies to Mikhail Sholokhov, should I say, “And quiet flows the Brahmaputra?”

Kula Saikia (former DGP), Assam