No matter how often they are sighted, river dolphins, or ‘sihus’
as they are locally known, always manage to attract attention. Even the most
taciturn of passengers would point a finger, albeit in a desultory fashion,
towards where they were spotted. Admittedly, they are a bit difficult to catch
sight of. One moment, a flash of a greyish snout, next moment, barely a ripple.
And unlike their cousins in the sea, river dolphins don’t do the touristy
let’s-swim-alongside-the-boat act. The murky water full of sediments also
doesn’t help. Seeing me swivel around restlessly trying to catch another sight
of the ‘sihu’, the aforementioned passenger nodded at me and said ‘Sit down or you might fall into the river.’
I was atop an overladen ferry across the Brahmaputra, the only
male river in India. An alpha
male river at that.
The Brahmaputra originates as the Yarlung Tsangpo in Tibet, streaks
through Arunachal Pradesh as the Dihang, bifurcates Assam as the Brahmaputra,
enters Bangladesh as the Jamuna and ultimately flows into the Bay of Bengal. A
total distance of over 3500 km.
I was on my way to my ancestral village in Lakhimpur, a
far-flung district of Assam, bordering Arunachal Pradesh. During my schooldays
in Jorhat, a quiet town fringed by verdant tea estates, the annual trip to
visit my grandparents in Lakhimpur was an eagerly anticipated adventurous
mission. I was recreating the journey after almost two decades. Nothing much
has changed. The
Ferries are the only way to reach Majuli - one of the largest
river islands in the world formed by the shifting courses of the mighty
Brahmaputra and a couple of equally powerful earthquakes. The island is famous
for its sattras (monasteries)
established by Srimanta Sankardev, the 15th century Assamese
scholar, playwright and strong proponent of neo-Vaishnavism.
Legend has it the great Sankardev could swim across the
Brahmaputra even when it was in full spate. I guess this was the reason why the
passengers waiting for the ferry at Nematighat are quite impatient. They know
they cannot swim across the Brahmaputra in any season. And have to depend on the
ferry every single time. Which is why the sight of an approaching ferry would
be the cue for passengers and vehicles to start jostling. Cups of tea would be
flung disdainfully. Lit cigarettes would be puffed out furiously. The coconut
vendor would briskly scrape out the last scraps of juicy flesh from the tender coconut.
Drivers would stride purposefully towards their parked vehicles. This is irrespective
of the fact that, unless and until, the ferry is docked and a landing plank is
flung across, nobody could board, or disembark. So, after the initial
hullabaloo, in face of the irrefutable logic mentioned in the previous
sentence, some semblance of normality would be restored. Albeit, a bit
grudgingly. Vociferous shouts followed by muttered curses were the norm. 
The swift swirling currents are known to have swept away the
strongest of swimmers. A good enough reason for me to take my own sweet time to
avoid the initial rush to clamber aboard the ferry. With a couple of cars,
bikes parked in neat rows on the roof and passengers everywhere, the ferry of
modest dimensions now looked even more modest. I decided to head straight to
the roof for the open-air experience instead of the packed environment of the lower
deck or the ‘cabin’ where passengers sit facing each other on wooden benches.
The luckiest ones are those who manage to get seats near the panoramic
‘windows’. The not-so-lucky ones are those who get seats opposite the lucky
ones and have to endure sights such as watching a man exploring his nose at
leisure with the index finger of his left hand while thoughtfully taking in the
sights. The extremely unlucky ones are those who get seats near the enclosure
that houses the heart of the ferry – the diesel fume spewing motor that
valiantly propels the ferry surely but sluggishly to its destination. There
have been instances of people turning a sickly shade of green by the time the
journey gets over.
The roof, corrugated strips of iron bound together by a framework
of wood, is a far more pleasant space to be in. You can take part in low-stakes
card games, join an impromptu debate on which politician is the most corrupt,
watch sly egrets try to steal fish from the fishermen’s baskets, look out for
shy river dolphins or simply soak everything in. Which is what I did till I got
a gentle poke in the solar plexus by a man who beamed at me in a friendly
manner and without much ado started a conversation. Naren Bora, a lecturer in a
government college in Majuli, is originally from Golaghat (another district). He
was returning to Majuli after a trip home with two of his colleagues. On
learning that I make my living from advertising, the trio displayed a sense of
humour by cracking several jokes based on popular commercials. Quite good jokes
too. It was more than a bit sobering to see how highly-acclaimed-resulting-in-gargantuan-egos
commercials become fodder for jokes.
Naren asked a fisherman intently observing a card game – ‘What
fish have you got?’ The fisherman lifted
the lid of his wicker basket and replied – ‘Common carp’. Naren snorted – ‘Salani?’ The fisherman closed
the basket, replied – ‘Yes’ – and got back to watching the game. From Naren’s
tone, the fisherman knew he wouldn’t really buy fish that’s ‘salani’ or fish
that’s imported all the way from southern states such as Andhra Pradesh. Naren
explained the economics of the flourishing fishing trade in Majuli. Local fish
from Majuli fetches good rates in Jorhat and then gets transported to other districts of Assam. This results in a majority of the fish being sold in Jorhat
without gracing the frying pans of the locals. The fishermen than get ‘salani’
fish from Jorhat and sell them at Majuli. Fish, a staple ingredient in the
Assamese diet, has to make its appearance in some form or the other during
lunch or dinner. Those who can afford the Jorhat rates of the local fish
grumpily pay for the privilege. Those who can’t (or won’t) pay the high rates
go for the ‘salani’ option. Again, grumpily.
Once, a herd of about 50 elephants was spotted on one of the
many sandbanks that appear when the water level reduces considerably during the
winter months. Apparently, an elephant herd comes from Arunachal Pradesh
through an ancient elephant corridor that extends through Assam to Nagaland.
One part of this hike involves swimming across the Brahmaputra, foraging for
food in Majuli and taking a well-deserved break on these sandbanks before they
continue on their way to Nagaland.
I really hoped to catch a sight of a herd. Unfortunately, it
wasn’t that time of the year.
Almost an hour and a half later, Badatighat at Majuli came into view. People snapped out of their
comatose state. Planks were thrown across and people rushed towards one of the
waiting buses in a manner reminiscent of the migration of wildebeest. I never
did really figure out the reason behind the rush; there were always plenty of
seats. A roller coaster ride on roads ravaged by the yearly floods engineered
by the Brahmaputra began. The bus journey was enjoyable. I greedily drank in views
of lush wetlands, storks patiently stalking fish, swaying mustard fields, people
fishing in small ponds in front of their houses, houses built on stilts – an
identifying factor of the Mishing tribe - and the occasional disoriented
cyclist pedaling away furiously, challenging the bus driver. The bus clattered
through the island’s small towns and villages stopping at the slightest of
waves of passersby. Some would climb in. Others would tell the driver that they
were merely scratching their heads. Or swatting a fly.
Everybody heaved huge sighs of relief as the bus wheezed to a
stop at the port at the other end of the island. The last leg of the journey is
in sight. Lakhimpur is just across the river. This journey across the Luit, a
tributary of the Brahmaputra, that separates Majuli from Lakhimpur, is a much
shorter one though. About half an hour or so.
Once we made this entire journey from Jorhat on my father’s
trusted scooter, Bajaj Chetak. We took our own time in Majuli and by the time
we reached the port, the ferry had made its last trip for the evening. My
father told me that when they were students, they didn’t wait for the ferry.
They used to just swim across. I was at an impressionable age, but even then
seeing the expanse of water, I had my reservations. ‘Were you really that
strong a swimmer?’ ‘The currents look really strong.’ Hearing my slightly disbelieving tone of
voice, my father had said, well, in the unlikely case of them getting too tired
to complete the distance, they could always depend on the river dolphins to
lend a helping fin.
There was a small country boat that was getting ready to leave
for the other side. Against my better judgment, my father asked the boatman
whether he’d be able to transport us to the other side. Along with the scooter.
The boatman readily agreed. For a small fee, of course. I remember asking him
whether the scooter will fit. Or more importantly, whether the boat will be
able to bear our combined weight. The boatman smiled reassuringly and said he
has transported fish on this boat that could have swallowed me in one gulp. We
crossed the stretch in absolute darkness. Without making any distress calls to
dolphins.
This time, I did catch the last
ferry to Luit-Khabolughat, the port on the Lakhimpur side. And once again, I opted for the open-air experience.
I’d recommend it any day. Chances of spotting an elephant herd
are not good. Spotting dolphins, meeting interesting people and falling into the
river are.