Chronicles of the Road & River

It all began in the summer of 2003. Quite hesitantly, I joined a trekking expedition organized by Turista Travels, Kolkata, through my school, Kendriya Vidyalaya. The expedition took place in the mountains of Kalimpong, located in the northern part of West Bengal near Darjeeling.

A total of eleven students and one teacher from our school participated. We began our journey on May 2, 2003, departing from Jagiroad to Guwahati at around 2:00 PM. I had packed all the necessary items listed on the participation form, including a raincoat, a sweater, three pairs of jeans, and a few shirts.

On the way to Guwahati, our bus halted briefly at Sonapur. There, we were joined by students from Kendriya Vidyalaya, Digaru, who were also taking part in the trek, and I was excited to meet them. We later stopped at the ASTC bus station in Paltan Bazar to rest and grab some food before preparing for the overnight journey to Siliguri.

At around 6:00 PM, our bus set off. It was my first long overnight bus trip, and I found the experience blissful. We stopped for dinner at Barpeta Road. Later, somewhere between Kokrajhar and Cooch Behar, our driver decided to wait for other buses due to the dense, isolated forest area known for bandit activity. Once three other buses arrived, we resumed our journey together in a convoy.

The next morning, at around 9:00 AM, we arrived at the Siliguri bus stop. From there, we took rickshaws to the New Jalpaiguri (NJP) Railway Station, where we were pleasantly surprised by the warm arrangements made for us. We were accommodated in a small hotel named Balajee, where we met other students and spent the night.

Later that evening, I strolled around the NJP station with a friend. We enjoyed some ice cream before returning to our hotel. I was slightly disappointed to discover that most of my friends had gone shopping without informing me, while the few who remained were too exhausted to go out.

On the morning of May 4, after breakfast, we were assembled into rows and columns to be formally introduced to the head of the organizing team and our expedition guides. A senior guide delivered a briefing about the expedition and the challenges that lay ahead. Following attendance and a group prayer, we began our bus journey to Kalimpong. The morning scenery was breathtaking; rivers flowed serenely, and nature greeted us with its calming beauty.

Suddenly, the bus stopped in the middle of the road at a place called Thirteen Mile. One of the guides announced that we would begin trekking from that point. Our first trek had officially begun! We walked from Thirteen Mile to Pedong—covering nearly 18 kilometres—and then an additional 2 kilometres to reach our Major Camp. Altogether, we trekked about 20 kilometres in a single day.

During the walk, a friend and I stepped out of line and started chatting with three smart, cheerful local Nepali girls who were on their way to Algara for grocery shopping. They were friendly and engaging, and we walked together for some time. However, I felt quite uncomfortable when they began smoking and even offered me a cigarette, which I politely declined. Soon, one of our guides spotted us. He scolded us and reminded us that any form of attachment or interaction with locals—even casual friendship—was strictly prohibited during the expedition.

When we finally reached our Major Camp, I was flabbergasted to see many students from other schools lined up along the narrow trail, welcoming us with applause and smiles. That warm reception instantly washed away all my fatigue.

It had been a tough trek with a heavy backpack, and I was utterly exhausted. However, after a brief rest, I saw some boys playing cricket while the girls cheered them on enthusiastically. The joyful atmosphere around me quickly revitalised my spirit.

On May 5, we trekked uphill along a winding trail to Shaheed Park, which our guide noted lies at an elevation of approximately 6,000 feet above sea level. The park was calm and serene, and I thoroughly enjoyed the surrounding natural beauty.

At the camp, we lived freely, away from the usual restrictions of home. However, that did not mean absolute freedom, as we still had to follow the protocols laid down by the expedition team. Since it was quite cold in the evenings, especially after sunset, we gathered around a campfire every night from 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM. We played Antakshari, shared stories, and reflected on our daily experiences. These moments, especially the opportunity to interact with students from other schools, became some of my most cherished memories from the entire trip. The excitement of the campfire magically erased any lingering exhaustion.

After spending three days at the Major Camp, we moved to another camp in Kasweram, about 6 kilometres from Pedong. The site was stunningly beautiful. We took a day of rest, and the next morning, we visited a scenic river viewpoint. From a considerable height, we could see the majestic, blue Teesta River flowing below.

After two days in Kasweram, we returned to a camp near our Major Camp at Pedong, where we completed a rope-crawling course. We spent two more nights there before heading back to the Major Camp for our final activity: rock climbing.

In summer, Kalimpong's daytime temperatures remain moderate—around 20–23°C—but at night, they drop significantly to about 7°C. The natural beauty of the region is truly picturesque and captivating. I was deeply touched by the simplicity of local life, and especially by the grace and kindness of the Buddhist monks.

I visited two Buddhist temples near our Major Camp, which was an entirely new and enlightening experience. Each temple had prayer wheels attached to its outer walls. Visitors were expected to walk around the temple three times, spinning the wheels before entering. It was my first encounter with Buddhists. I had brief conversations with some monks; some were from China, while a few could speak Hindi and English. I also met foreigners who had come to enjoy the peace, culture, and scenic beauty of Kalimpong.

Those ten days passed by in the blink of an eye. I enjoyed every moment and fell completely in love with the place. It was heartbreaking to say goodbye to Pedong, its people, and the many friends I had made. On the morning of May 11, 2003, at 6:00 AM, we packed our belongings and began our return journey. We stayed one more night in Siliguri at the same hotel and then resumed our bus trip back to Guwahati the following morning. The heat felt oppressive since our bodies had become accustomed to the cool mountain climate. It truly felt like stepping out of an air-conditioned room into a furnace.

Before leaving Siliguri, I bought two watches as souvenirs, though unfortunately, they didn't last long.

We reached Guwahati on May 12, 2003, and I arrived home in Jagiroad at exactly 12:00 noon.

Even today, I fondly remember those beautiful and unforgettable days. I must admit, though, that I missed my parents deeply during the journey. Still, having the privilege to meet students from different schools and bond over everything—walking, talking, eating, napping, and playing—was incredible. It was a time of joy and friendship that I will treasure for the rest of my life.

I consider myself truly fortunate to have had such a wonderful opportunity, and I remain deeply grateful to my school and the organising team for making it all possible.

The flood of July 23, 2004, remains etched in my memory as one of the most harrowing natural disasters I have ever witnessed. Never in my life had I seen such catastrophic devastation. Vast stretches of the Morigaon district, along with large parts of Assam, were completely submerged.

It was the first time I had come face to face with such destruction. Until then, I had only seen images of flooding and its consequences on television—stories of submerged homes, displaced people, and tragic losses. Witnessing it in person, however, was an entirely different experience. I took it as a solemn lesson, an opportunity to truly understand the pain, struggle, and helplessness of those who live through such calamities.

In my view, no one can truly grasp the scale and suffering of flood-affected regions merely by watching or listening to news reports. The reality on the ground is far more disturbing.

At that time, the town of Jagiroad, where I lived, stood as one of the last dry regions. All the surrounding areas—Polahguri, Khetri, and Morigaon—were already underwater. Jagiroad felt like a lone island, watching the waters rise on all sides.

This unprecedented flood was the result of multiple converging factors: the overflow of the Killing, Kopili, and Brahmaputra rivers, combined with the sudden release of water from the Barapani Dam in Meghalaya. These events unleashed devastation on a scale the people of Assam had rarely seen.

All schools and colleges were shut down and converted into relief camps. Road and rail connectivity to and from Jagiroad was entirely cut off, halting the supply of food and essential goods. A long line of stranded trucks could be seen parked along the highway, frozen in time due to the severed transport links.

Despite the despair, there was also a profound sense of solidarity. Many residents of Jagiroad, including myself, visited the nearby flood-hit areas. The relief camps were doing their best, and several individuals and groups came forward selflessly to help those in distress by offering food, clothes, and shelter.

The scale of the damage was heartbreaking. Human lives were lost, and entire families were rendered homeless. Livestock—including cattle, pigs, and buffaloes—perished in large numbers. Essential household goods were simply swept away. The agricultural loss was staggering as entire rice fields were destroyed, leading to a sharp rise in the prices of essential commodities that affected every economic class.

Due to relentless rains throughout June and July, most of Assam's low-lying areas turned into vast lakes. Regions like Hajo, Nalbari, Tihu, Pathsala, Barpeta, Guwahati, and parts of Nagaon, Jorhat, and Sivasagar were severely affected. It was reported that nearly 60% of Assam's landmass was submerged.

The flood also wreaked havoc on wildlife. In Pobitora and Kaziranga National Parks, many animals—including deer, wild boars, and rhinoceroses—were lost to the rising waters. It was a tragedy not just for humans, but for nature as a whole.

The mighty Brahmaputra River, one of the largest in the world, flowed menacingly above the danger level. It was the chief force behind the disaster. Seeing families living in makeshift shelters along the roadside moved me deeply. The image of small children clinging to their mothers under plastic sheets still haunts me today.

This calamity reminded me of an undeniable truth: our ecosystem must remain in balance. When we exploit nature through deforestation, pollution, and irresponsible development, disasters become inevitable. Floods, once purely natural phenomena, are now worsened by climate change and environmental negligence.

Ultimately, I thank the Almighty for sparing our home, but my heart still aches for those who lost everything. That flood fundamentally changed my understanding of human vulnerability, resilience, and the urgent need for environmental awareness.

The Departure

I was a mix of excitement and nervous energy as we prepared for our trip to Dharmanagar. As someone who values optimism and the beauty of simple living, this journey felt significant. When my cousin, Subhra, returned home from Bangalore on a ten-day leave, the family decided to visit his maternal home in Tripura. Our families share a bond so profound that it is hard to believe how quickly it developed.

I felt deeply indebted when they invited my mother and me to join this majestic expedition. It was to be my mother's first long-distance road trip. My father graciously provided our car and arranged a driver to ensure our comfort. However, my sister, Aparajita Misra, was unable to join us, and I found myself missing my uncle throughout the drive; I knew his presence would have made the experience even more memorable.

The Road Through Meghalaya

Our journey began in the quiet, early hours of Thursday, August 18, 2005. We departed Jagiroad at 5:30 AM, setting our sights on Dharmanagar. The route took us through the breathtaking, mist-covered hills of Meghalaya. While the summer temperatures there are wonderfully moderate, they are known to plunge drastically during winter nights.

Around 9:00 AM, we stopped for a refreshing tea break at Ada Basti. As we travelled, I observed the local Khasi culture, noting their predominantly Christian faith and the local preference for beef. By 11:45 AM, we reached the iconic Umiam Lake (Barapani). We paused there to capture photos and videos, soaking in the view of the lush green hills and majestic pines.

The road itself was a marvel—a winding, zigzag path flanked by vibrant tea gardens and cascading waterfalls. At 12:45 PM, we crossed Jowai, reaching Ladrymbai by 2:00 PM for a hearty, filling lunch. Later, as we neared the border of Karimganj, I even caught a fleeting glimpse of the Bangladesh plains. We reached Badarpur at 5:30 PM to visit a relative of the Bhattacharyas before finally arriving in Karimganj at 6:30 PM to rest for the night.

Dharmanagar: A Discovery of Warmth

The following morning, Friday, August 19, we resumed our journey at 10:00 AM, arriving in Dharmanagar by 1:00 PM. While I did not see the capital, Agartala, the three nights I spent in Dharmanagar left an indelible mark on me.

I was fully immersed in a Bengali environment—staying with a Bengali family, sharing their traditional meals, and observing their way of life. I recall the abundance of fish and the heavy, delicious feasts they prepared. I also had the fascinating experience of watching rubber being extracted from the white sap of trees using specialised machinery. My aunt and I spent time sauntering through the town, visiting rubber plantations and calling on her relatives.

Yet, looking back, it wasn't the scenery that defined the trip—it was the people. The family I stayed with was not only exceptionally courteous but also deeply intellectual. Our grandma was incredibly sweet, carrying herself with an integrity and intense love I will never forget. My Mama and Mami showered me with such care that I felt like a true member of their family.

Relationships and Reflections

During those few days, I strengthened a bond of trust with my Masima and her daughters, Guddu and Putul. Subhra-dada and I enjoyed ourselves immensely, and I began to realise how deep the word "relationship" truly goes. When I first saw Guddu, there was an immediate spark of infatuation—but as we talked and connected, that feeling matured into a beautiful, genuine friendship, the kind shared between a brother and a sister.

The time to leave was heartbreaking. In the early hours of Monday, August 22, 2005, we departed Dharmanagar at 4:20 AM. We reached Karimganj by 6:00 AM, where Masima's family quickly prepared a final breakfast for us. We said our heartfelt goodbyes and hit the road at 6:30 AM. After a lunch stop in Ladrymbai and tea at Jorabat, we finally reached home at 7:00 PM.

The Return

I returned to Jagiroad with a heavy heart, missing those two girls terribly. The bond we formed in such a short time was so strong that for days after, I couldn't speak to anyone without a woebegone expression on my face.

Looking back, I realise that as a young, emotional person, those feelings were natural. In our Assamese culture, and particularly within my own circle of relatives, we are often more reserved with our emotions. We don't always express ourselves with the same outward warmth I experienced in Tripura. That contrast made the love I felt there even more spectacular. It was a journey of beautiful sights and wonderful food, but most importantly, it was a journey to meet beautiful souls who will always hold a place in my heart.

Monday, 11 July, 2005

It was a quiet morning when I was suddenly startled from sleep. The wall clock showed five. I rose, brushed my teeth, and took a quick bath. By then, Prasanta Dada had arrived to take me to his home—Majuli, the river island that had long whispered to my imagination. Embraced by the flowing arms of the Brahmaputra, Majuli is the world's largest river island, nestled in Upper Assam within the Jorhat district. Its mystique lies not only in its geography but in its soul.

At 7:00 AM sharp, we left home and caught a bus to Nagaon. Our journey began from Jagiroad, and within two hours, we reached Nagaon town. From there, we boarded another bus to Jorhat. The road stretched on, and we travelled from 9:00 AM until 1:50 PM.

The ride, though long, was full of wonder. The landscape of Upper Assam unfolded like a painting—lush, open, and expansive. Tea gardens rolled toward the horizon like green waves; Assam, the largest tea-producing state in India, proudly flaunted her bounty. As we sped past Kaziranga National Park, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a rhinoceros grazing in the distance. The population density thinned noticeably as we moved northward, giving the land an air of quiet contemplation.

The bus dropped us at the ASTC station in Jorhat city, a sizable terminus brimming with travellers. From there, we walked a short distance to board another bus to Nimatighat. This final leg to the ghat took nearly an hour.

At 3:00 PM, our boat journey to Majuli began. The monsoon was in full reign, and the Brahmaputra swelled with the season's fury. Water had risen over the first two embankments, submerging the fringe forests that hugged the island's edge. As we glided into this watery realm, my heart beat with childlike wonder. I felt as though I were entering the Amazon, venturing into a forest where serpents might lurk and secrets slumber.

The branches of rain-drenched trees arched low over the boat; at times, we had to bend to avoid being struck. Though the ferry ride usually takes under an hour in the dry months, that day it took two hours of joyous, rain-soaked travel. At last, we reached the sacred soil of Majuli at 5:00 PM and walked another hour to reach Prasanta Dada's home. It was nearly 6:00 PM when we arrived. The family welcomed me warmly, and in that moment, all weariness melted away. Their kindness wrapped around me like a shawl.

Later that evening, we had tea and biscuits. Just as we began to settle in, a group of local boys—friends of Dada—appeared from the dusk like shadows rising from the paddy fields. They insisted that Prasanta Dada and I watch a Bhaona (a traditional Vaishnavite drama) being held in a nearby village.

The village lay just across the fields, so they decided to take a shortcut instead of circling through the main road—a quicker path, though waterlogged, soggy, and treacherous from the recent rain. It was dark and uncertain, and we carried only a torch made of dry crop residue. The light dimmed halfway, leaving us groping through the blackness with little more than each other's breath for comfort. But the journey across the field, though eerie, was exhilarating. It took us about half an hour to reach the village.

I watched the Bhaona with utmost patience, and though I understood little of the dialogue, I admired its devotion and rhythm. Before we returned, I captured photographs of the performers using my Kodak KB-10. They were surprised to see a young outsider come all the way to witness their art—and even more amazed to be photographed.

I had hoped to explore more of the island, but relentless rain and poor communication left us confined indoors for most of the trip. On one such rainy day, we ventured out regardless, determined to see the ancient Satras—the monastic institutions central to Majuli's spiritual life. We visited Kamalabari and the famed Uttar Kamalabari Satra. That day, a long-held wish came true. I met the students, spoke with the Satradhikar, and shared quiet thoughts with him.

The peace of Majuli is not just in its landscape but in the hearts of its people. The island breathes devotion. Namghars and Kirtanghars are everywhere—simple yet sacred halls of prayer. The people, mostly adherents of the Sankari tradition, sing Borgeets with a sincerity that stirs the soul.

Life with Prasanta Dada's family was warm and enriching. His elder brother, a gifted woodworker, crafted exquisite sculptures in his spare time—evidence of Majuli's creative heartbeat. They sold their handiwork in the local markets, quietly carrying forward a tradition of aesthetic simplicity.

I spent only a few days, visited only a few corners of this immense island, and met only a few people. I do not claim this as a comprehensive account of Majuli, but everything I have written here springs from the sincerity of my own experience.

Eventually, it was time to say goodbye. On the return journey, we passed through Tezpur and stayed overnight at the home of Prasanta Dada's sister. The next day, we returned home.

Majuli—its rain, its soul, its timeless rhythm—left a mark on me that no monsoon could wash away. I remain grateful to Prasanta Dada, for had he not invited me, I might never have seen the world's largest river island with my own eyes. Majuli is unique because of the people who call it home. Back in those days, before the noise of social networking sites and the endless cycle of short "reel" videos, people spent true time together. Today, mobile phones have become the primary medium of passing time, constantly dragging our attention away from the present.

Yet today, Majuli stands in peril. Each passing year, floods wreak havoc. The Brahmaputra, once a giver, now erodes Majuli's banks like time erodes memory. Land disappears; people are displaced. If we do not act—if we do not protect this fragile heritage—Majuli may one day live only in stories like mine.

Saturday, 22 October, 2011

It was a grim day when the incident took place. Around 4:00 PM, thunder crashed across the sky, followed by a torrential downpour. I sat in my office, debating which route would be safest for my commute from Dispur to Chandmari. I had two options:

(a) Through AIDC via Zoo-Tiniali (b) Through Christianbosti via Bhangagarh

I chose the first—the route I usually take—and that proved to be a major mistake.

At 6:00 PM, I left the office and started my bike. My journey home began in deep water. Initially, the silencer pipe was a few inches above the surface, but both disc brakes were almost entirely submerged. I eventually reached Ganeshguri and, thankfully, the road there was dry. I gave my bike a moment's rest before heading toward the next leg of the journey.

I was about to shift from 4th to 5th gear when I suddenly saw the road choked with buses and cars. Once I navigated through the congestion, I was met with "artificial floods" once more. I held the clutch and downshifted to maintain a smooth crawl through the deluge. You cannot drive fast in knee-deep water; the water pressure is too great, and the people walking on the dividers will shout if your tyres spray their already-soaked clothes.

As I neared AIDC, the situation turned critical. There was no longer a visible footpath or divider—only a vast expanse of water. I was surprised by the performance of my Hero Honda Hunk. By now, the water reached my leg guards and touched the fuel tank. I couldn't see the silencer at all, though I could see bubbles rising to the surface where the exhaust was fighting to stay alive.

I knew if I stopped even once, the bike wouldn't start again. I was trailing a Karizma, which in turn was following a Pulsar. Suddenly, a massive, muddy yellow wave—displaced by a passing TATA Sumo—slammed into us. All three of us bikers were knocked over into the water. In an instant, our engines died. We stood there, helpless, shouting at the Sumo driver who had caused the wake. Despite the frustration, a surge of adrenaline left me with a strange, mild smile on my face.

In previous floods, I had often stood safely on a footpath, watching other "poor souls" struggle with stalled engines. I had even found the spectacle somewhat interesting. Now, I finally realised their pain as I became the one hauling a heavy machine through the muck.

The three of us pulled our bikes to the Doordarshan Centre Gate to join a crowd of fellow victims. I waited for an hour, but the water level showed no signs of receding. Determined to get home, I rejoined the struggle.

Pulling a heavy 150cc bike against the current of flowing water requires immense strength. I honestly couldn't have done it alone, but I was surrounded by other bikers in the same predicament. Some were even joined by their girlfriends, who helped push. In that collective effort, I barely realised when I had crossed Zoo-Tiniali.

The flood created a strange micro-economy: local boys were earning good money pulling stalled cars, and rickshaw-pullers were charging ₹25 to ₹50 just to ferry people across the street. For them, it was a profitable day; for us, it was a disaster.

While still in the water, I tried several times to start the engine, but it remained silent. However, after walking a bit further toward drier ground, I tried once more—and it roared to life. I literally kissed the oil tank in gratitude. As I rode away, the others looked on with envy. By the time I reached Chandmari, the road had turned into a thick layer of sludge, but my Hunk and I finally made it home.

I immediately bathed and turned on the news. I was horrified by what I saw. Two people had been swept away near Zoo-Tiniali during the very flood I had just escaped. They had fallen into an open manhole; one was recovered, but the other was still missing. Landslides had also struck several areas. I realised then how lucky I was that my bike hadn't betrayed me.

That day, the people of Guwahati gathered to protest. Effigies of the MLA and Chief Minister were burned, and a procession marched through Zoo-Tiniali. Akhil Gogoi, General Secretary of Krishak Mukti Sangram Samiti, supported the movement, promising to join the fight for a flood-free city.

Holidays can feel stagnant when spent entirely indoors, endlessly flipping through TV channels. On January 31, 2017, I decided I wouldn't let the day go to waste and opted for a spontaneous bike trip. I turned to Google Maps for inspiration and found a thin road cutting through a deep forest. Zooming in on the satellite view, I discovered beautiful, secluded lakes hidden within the jungle like blue jewels.

I took my motorcycle and followed the digital trail, eventually covering about 60 kilometres. I began my trip at 10:30 AM after a quick breakfast of tea and snacks at home, driving from Chandmari toward the Narengi VIP Road. To reach the village and the forest beyond, the road passes directly through an Indian Army camp. This is the only available route, and as is standard for such areas, there is routine checking at both the entry and exit gates. Passing through the camp felt like a quiet transition from the city's bustle toward the silent, untamed landscape ahead.

I kept driving until I reached a settlement that felt more like a village. Most of the residents are Nepali, and the area was quite familiar to me, as I had visited a friend there several times in the past.

Checking Google Maps one last time, I pressed deeper. The reliable concrete soon gave way to broken pavement, which eventually dissolved into a raw dirt track. As the forest began to close in, the riding became a physical challenge—difficult, risky, and demanding my full attention.

As a passionate rider, I savoured the isolation. I occasionally ventured off-road or parked my bike in the middle of the empty path to take self-portraits. This road leads through the Amsing Forest, an area known locally for its tigers. Some villagers have even claimed to see them roaming the shadows of the tall trees. While I made sure to smile for my selfies, the truth is that I felt a genuine sense of dread. I was entirely alone in a remote, hostile environment, far from any help. Inside the thick canopy, my phone signal vanished, leaving me completely disconnected from the world. Every rustle in the undergrowth felt like a pair of eyes watching from the brush.

But the real thrill of adventure lies in those moments of fear. The true beauty of those natural lakes—something the cameras of that era could never quite capture—was a reward earned through solitude and nerve. Those are the memories you face and overcome all on your own.