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Assam, India: Valley of Tea and Temples
Assam, India: Valley of Tea and Temples
Assam, India: Valley of Tea and Temples
This is the story of Assam Valley, the easternmost region
of India, as it was during the 1930s.
Amrit Baruah tells of growing up in an idyllic place—a
remote land of tea plantations, ancient temples, and the
Brahmaputra River, perhaps the least known of the seven
longest rivers of the world.
And he describes how World War II opened up the isolat
ed eastern portion of the valley to soldiers from outside,
followed by construction of the legendary Burma Road.
Today, sadly, Assam Valley has acquired such ills as politi
cal turmoil and even terrorism. But its vanished past and
unique character, and promise for the future, come alive
in this brief but evocative memoir.
Copyright © 2008 by Amrit Baruah
baruah@starpower.net
Assam, India
Amrit Baruah was born and raised in the eastern part of
Assam Valley, in the heart of the teagrowing region. He
Valley of Tea and Temples left at the age of sixteen to attend Presidency College in
Calcutta (now Kolkata), where he stayed on after gradua
tion for employment with jute industry laborers during
the last few days of the British Raj in India.
In 1952 Amrit left for Boston, to study at Boston Univer
A Personal Story by
sity and Harvard. He has been in the U.S. since then, one
of the earliest immigrants from India. He has worked in
Amrit Baruah the fields of mental health and community organization
(in precivilrightsera South Philadelphia), and has
taught at universities. Currently he is a parttime writer,
psychotherapist, and organization consultant located in
Maryland.
amrit baruah
The Dim Past—British India—1930s
Cheuni Ali was an important road of that valley. Mostly,
Contents it just lay there with its dusty surface. After a rain, it would
turn to mud. Occasionally, a bullock cart would pass on it
carrying a family or hay. On special hut (fair) days, a small
crowd would traverse it carrying baskets on their heads.
Then there would be the two hanging baskets supported by
The Dim Past—British India—1930s 1 a rod across their backs. These contained vegetables, eggs,
bananas, or pigeons that would later make the puro curry
World War II Comes Home 13 which was a delicacy unique to the valley. From time to
time, a car would pass, either a black Ford or a creamcol
Recent Past—New Independent India 24 ored Chevrolet, the two cars that were usually seen in those
days. If the road was muddy, then the car tyres would have
Uniqueness of Assam Valley 25 chains. If there was a heavy rain, plastic windows were
hooked onto the car doors.
Temples Although cars rarely traveled on the road, there were
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bicycles. Either the PWD clerk or the fat Daroga would
come along on a bike. The Daroga was a junior police offi
Life Today—The New Millennium 31 cial and he was always fat, dressed in khaki with a leather
belt across his chest. Rarely would one see a Daroga who
Tapestries 32 was thin or who smiled. Just as rarely would one see a child
that was fat or who did not smile.
Sometimes a clerk called mohori would walk on the road
carrying an aluminum tiffin carrier with its four compart
ments that had been filled that morning by his wife—one
for rice, one for dal (lentils), one for fish curry and the last
for a vegetable dish called dulna.
Unlike the formidable highways, freeways, and beltways
of America that make a deliberate attempt to bypass human
habitations, Cheuni Ali went right through the daily lives
and dramas of village people. Rice fields with that necessary
stagnant water were only ten feet away; the family pond of
the villager was only some yards from the road.
Distinct from other parts of that vast country, the fami
assam, india amrit baruah
ly pond in this valley was placed right in front of the house. lamp filled with mustard oil with a liquefied wick dipped
It was as though to assure the guest that, during his visit, in it would be placed in front of a plant considered auspi
he is sure to get a fresh fish—a magur, a kaoi, a barali and cious—the Tulasi plant. On some mornings, the wife would
if he is lucky, may be a pabho. light a similar lamp (saki) if her anxious husband was going
Cheuni Ali was a witness to a variety of daily scenes. to town or important business. The lighted lamp was sup
Maybe someone taking a bath in his pond, rubbing his posed to protect him.
body with the shell of a gourd (bhol)—the same shell that But overwhelming all of the scenes of the valley—day or
is today a luxury item in American bathrooms, with the night—exploding with songs and dances, were two Bihu
fashionable name “earth therapeutic”; or maybe someone festivals that were held in the valley every year. These were
stopping at the roadside stand to buy a bidi (a native ciga joyous occasions, pastoral, social beyond all religious or eth
rette of simple rolled tobacco). He may not have had the nic considerations.
extra two paysas to buy a matchbox but it did not matter. During each of the four seasons, life and scenes around
He can light his bidi at the lighted end of a rope that hangs Cheuni Ali changed. But the old man road Cheuni Ali, the
on the side of that shop—a shop that has on its top a blue road for all seasons—knowing all and seeing all (the tall
metal sign saying in the local language “Good tea is avail Ahot tree and the tiny Manimuni plant, the elephant and
able here.” Sometimes a riceplanting woman would straight the ant); sharing the one fabric of life—kept moving at its
en her back to look curiously at the only passing car of the own pace, neither hurried nor slow. It kept going east and
day. farther east through the silent good earth of that valley in
These were the scenes during the day. The evening the early 1930s until it ran out of miles and lost itself in the
brought others. Evening arrived in the rural valley differ dense teak woods of “Borma,” as Burma (now Myanmar)
ently from evenings in America. Here, they arrive with their was then called by the local people.
own busy lengthy agendas. In the villages around Cheuni But “Borma” to the people of the valley was not so much
Ali, the evening had only one agenda—a silent night. a place as an idea. No one had gone there—dense forests
The mosquitoes would come out but also the fireflies. made that impossible. It was not a border that one could
Sometimes the children would catch some of these bright just walk over. The only time that “Borma” became real,
dancing dots. One of the children would collect a few and and then in a frightening way, was when people talked
hold them securely in his fist, while another would hold the about the muun. These were hordes of attackers who had
stem of the papaya tree (amita), shutting one end with his poured into the valley from Burma two centuries earlier
hand. The first child then very carefully empties his fist of and who had savaged the valley in a manner reminiscent of
fireflies into the transparent stem of the papaya, immedi Genghis Khan. Otherwise Burma just quietly remained
ately shutting the other end with his hand. Thus appeared inside the geography book, ruled by the British and not ter
the early native fluorescent tube light. rorized by a thuggish military junta as is the case today.
There were other scenes that came with the evening. In This valley of which Cheuni Ali was the backbone was
some houses, someone would blow on the conch shell for the Assam Valley, named after the easternmost state (then
religious reasons; the dhuna (burnt smoke from crystals) called a province) of the vast undivided subcontinent of
would drive out the mosquitoes. Its smell was much more British India.
appealing than the smell of the Flit mosquito spray used by Assam Valley was so remote from the rest of the world,
some modern people in town. In some houses, a small earth and even from the rest of India, that it was never in the
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news. The world just did not pass it by; most of the time in one’s impressions, how one would eat, talk, dress, cele
the world even did not know that it existed because the brate, or mourn.
world is only aware of places that make noise. And Assam And so I envisioned this nurse dressed in a white sari
Valley was a silent valley. with an orange border, her face of bold, dark color topped
And it had to be treated carefully. The legendary Indian by long black hair with a red hibiscus flower tucked on the
Railways—the longest railway line in the world—shrunk left side. I saw her earnest eyes and dazzling white teeth and
into narrow gauge to enter the valley and even then after a heard her laughter that filled my mother’s bedroom once I
while, it was interrupted if it wanted to enter deep inside was born. Her hands, the first hands, held me up in the air.
the valley. At the same time, she must have shouted those words,
It was interrupted by the least known of the seven longest which are triumphant ones in that boyexalting Indian cul
rivers in the world (least known even today): the river ture: “It is a boy.”
Brahmaputra. Passengers would get off the train, cross the Some years after that night, I was impressed by the long
river in a steamer, and then pick up another narrow gauge road that this nurse had taken to get to our town and traced
train on the other bank. her route in my mind.
That is where proper Cheuni Ali started. As it proceed She left her town and somehow arrived in the city of
ed eastward, Cheuni Ali would pass long stretches of green Madras; there in the train station, she hurriedly followed
shrubs. These shrubs were so carefully trimmed that from the porter who carried her bedroll and suitcase on his head
a distance when the sun shone on them, they looked like a while she walked shy but focused with an aluminum tiffin
green field. And in these fields here and there were sariclad carrier in one hand and a flask of tea in the other. After
women—the blue one, the red one, and the yellow one. twentyfour hours, the train reached Calcutta. She got out
These were the female workers, with wicker baskets and repeated the activity of following a porter, who settled
strapped around their heads. They would pick the leaves her either in a hackney carriage or a rickshaw. In this con
from those green shrubs and put them inside that basket— veyance, she went through the big city on Harrison Road,
preferably two leaves and a bud. through the gold merchants’ area, and took a train for the
During the last one hundred years, wherever people have east on the other side of Calcutta in Sealdah station. She
gathered for a warm social occasion, the hot, black liquid changed to a narrow gauge train after ten hours and head
that made the gathering possible—the elixir called Assam ed towards my Assam Valley. After another eighteen hours,
tea—could be ultimately traced back to those wicker bas she arrived in our hometown of Jorhat. If she had gone on
kets on the backs of those women in blue, purple, yellow for another seven hours, she would have left India.
saris. By the time the nurse arrived in our hometown, she had
In Jorhat, the main town of this region, I was born about been traveling nonstop for almost three days. This was in
four in the morning on the first day of spring in 1924. the early 1920s and she must have traveled alone, perhaps
My mother had talked about the nurse who was present the only woman so traveling along the entire route.
in her bedroom when I was born. The nurse was from I was intrigued by the fact that she was not in our town
southern India; and that was enough for me to know—I as a part of a Christian mission, although that was her reli
could envision her clothes, color, smile, and walk. In the gion. She represented no organization. My mother had also
vast subcontinent of India, with its supposed chaos and said that she had no friend or relative in that town. I was
confusion, one’s native location determines, in actual fact or intrigued wondering what had brought to my town those
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hands that held me so softly as I arrived on this earth. files on another side table all standing in a straight line
Much later, as I became aware of the different ways in alphabetically arranged. Order, system, and rules.
which some people run away from hurts, heartbreaks, and At 7:00 Barada Babu would arrive. He was one of the two
cruelties, I asked myself if this nurse was doing the same. I stenographers in town (the other being assigned to the
felt deprived that I never met her. My mother ended her British Deputy Commissioner). At 9:00 father would have
story by saying that the nurse suddenly died. She was his bath, then sit down for the morning meal. That was
buried in the one, small Christian cemetery in that town. I when my mother would join him—not for the meal but for
heard that the nurse’s dog used to visit her grave and sit conversation. This was followed by him getting dressed in
there for hours. I had wondered what had happened to that courtroom attire. At 10:30, the driver brought the car, stop
lost dog. ping near the front steps and holding the rear door open.
Not all of my mother’s breakfast stories were sad like this My father walked in, the door closed, and the car proceed
one. Occasionally, she talked about her dreams of the pre ed towards the courthouse.
vious night, which she remembered vividly. As I look back Usually around that time, four Gurkha soldiers in
on our childhood with our mother, I recall that dreams and starched khaki uniforms would be escorting the prisoners of
the dream world were a steady part of our conversations. the day from the Barbheta jail about five miles away. When
Sometimes, mother would get up to go to the garden they passed my father’s car, they would abruptly turn right
while we patiently waited for the next story. She would and shout in unison “Eyes right!” Our driver told us that
return with some fragrant, white kharikajai flowers, which when the car stopped in front of the courthouse, a relay of
she would put in her cup of hot tea. We three then smelled Assamese words would pass from mouth to mouth: “Ahiley”
her tea, which had the fragrance of the flowers. In that “Ahiley” (he has just arrived).
unique way of children, although they would find the right When I was in high school, I had heard from numerous
words to describe it only years later, we felt that our moth people that my father was respected all over the valley. His
er, Kanchan Lata Baruah, similarly spread her fragrance name “Iswar Prasad Baruah” meant justice, integrity, and
throughout our lives. And it was soft like the fragrance of acute legal knowledge. He was that judge about whom a
the white kharikajai flowers and not overpowering like the prisoner who was just sentenced for a long prison sentence
smell of the yellow keteki flower inside the folds of clothes. would say, “If Iswarjoj sentenced me, I know I deserved it.”
Where did my father fit into this magical world of white He returned all the wedding gifts that were given for my
kharikajai flowers? My father lived a life of discipline and elder sister by different merchants in town because one of
decorum. We respected and loved him but in a different them might appear later in his court either as a plaintiff or
way. With our father, we smiled. With our mother we as a defendant. Almost all of those gifts were jewelry of high
laughed. He got up at 5:30 in the morning when the but quality diamond.
ler brought a tray of tea and Huntley Palmer biscuits. My But the ultimate glory came in 1938 when an
father then mixed his tea. By 6:30 he is in his home office. Englishman appeared in his courtroom as a defendant.
This was the room where we children seldom went. We What? An Englishman in the courtroom of an Indian
were not forbidden to enter it but it was a forbidding room. judge? After all, this was the mighty British Empire with the
Rows of leatherbound law books, black teakwood table Englishman as the ruler and the Indian as the ruled. It was
with matching chairs, every pen, every pencil in its allotted the mighty British Empire upon which the sun never set.
place, the cases for the day on the table, and with rows of The Englishman had a secret mistress—a young Indian
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female worker in the tea plantation where he was the young name on it and occupied the room. Then later on that day,
bachelor Assistant Manager. He really loved her but one my father arrived and the drama started.
night, the night of his return from England where he had My father could have easily moved to one of the few
gone on vacation, he learned that she had been unfaithful vacant rooms in the Circuit House that day, and he would
to him during his absence—an occasion forced on her by have if an Indian had occupied his favorite room. But it was
another Englishman, a planter in a neighboring tea planta Mr. Walker and so suddenly the simple matter became an
tion. But not knowing that her infidelity was forced on her issue of national honor. My father stood his ground, and got
and not bothering to get the facts, he whipped her to death. an apology from Mr. Walker and not just a casual, verbal
The British community in the valley fought to have the case apology but an official, written one. Mr. Walker learned
transferred to the court of a British judge because they were that there was one Indian whom he could not push around.
shocked that one of them would appear as a defendant in Gardening was one of our father’s hobbies. Once our gar
the courtroom of an Indian judge; but they failed because den was the best in town, setting a record as more attractive
it was impractical, the nearest British judge being far away. than those of the British officials. Sometimes, father would
We were told that there was a sensation on that day—in escort a visitor through his garden with the gardener quiet
the courtroom and amongst the crowd that had gathered ly following him. Names of flowers from the western por
outside the courtroom—when it became known that twelve tion of the garden would float in the air—dahlias, phlox,
British jury members had stood up in a straight line when petunia, and cannahas—as the visitor followed in admira
the Indian judge had entered the courtroom and had tion. Then the names from the Indian portion of the gar
remained standing until he had sat down. This was a very den—narji, champa, juthi, and kharikajai. We had the only
ordinary event that had very extraordinary importance, Eucalyptus tree of Jorhat in our garden. That is when I
because during the previous generations in that valley, learned that it is the tallest tree in the world, and that there
almost always in public, it was the Indian who stood while are many in Australia. That sent me to the letter A of the
the Englishman remained sitting. Book of Knowledge set, to read the entry on Australia.
One evening the town was thrilled to hear that the My mother, on the other hand, spent time in the garden,
Englishman had been sent to prison from an Indian court. walking slowly and stopping by different flowers. She
People felt that at least that evening, the sun did set on the picked up the white kharikajai for her morning tea or the
mighty British Empire. marigold for her meditation and pujah. Again, in that spe
Then there was the Dibrugarh Circuit House incident. cial way that children know, I realized that my father’s joy
The Circuit House was the place where the British was in creating the perfect garden and my mother’s in
Governor and top officials stayed when they went on tour. smelling its flowers.
My father was going on tour to the eastern town of My father’s roots were in the western part of the valley.
Dibrugarh and had reserved his favorite room. It was the While my mother came from the eastern aristocracy of tea
secondstory—the best and largest room there, overlooking plantation wealth, my father came from the western valley
the river. So far all was routine but soon it would not be so. aristocracy of learning and power. His uncle Anandaram
The British Commissioner, Mr. Walker, in charge of the Borooah belonged to the pinnacle of power in the late
entire valley—a powerful official with no respect for 1800s, early 1900s, as a member of the stellar Indian Civil
Indians—arrived before my father did, with no prior reser Service, which was made up almost exclusively of British
vation. He tore off the paper on the door with my father’s graduates of Oxford and Cambridge. He was a barrister
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educated in England and was the first Indian District At other times, three of us inseparables (my elder broth
Magistrate. He was also a renowned Sanskrit scholar and er Pona, my younger sister Punu, and myself, each separat
author of books on ancient Sanskrit texts. My father rose to ed by one year) would go for a walk. As soon as we got out
be a superior judge, the highest position at that time for an of the front gate, Pona took charge. He had to keep a strict
Indian in the valley. eye on me because I liked to scare the two of them by
Mother had to work out her own place between these embracing the electric poles on the road. Pona kept up this
two wellknown circles in the valley. She did not let her own affectionate guardian role as long as he lived.
world claim her fully; and although some in my father’s Sometimes there was tennis on the front lawn with Pona
family welcomed her affectionately, a few others, though and close friends Anil, Shafiqul, and Inam. And then bik
traditionally religious, lacked the real spiritual vision and ing in the neighboring villages with another close friend,
depth needed to value the essence of a person like my moth Bhabani.
er. To them, she was merely a daughter of a wealthy Upper Ah! Jorhat High School summer vacations. At night, I
Assam tea planter, although a highly respected one. went to bed with books and I woke up with them. I laughed
(My maternal grandfather was also an attorney and in at the tales of Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse, and marveled at
the early 1900s, a member of the Indian Central Assembly my first sonnet by Keats. Books were mostly hardcover
in Delhi. This was the forerunner of today’s central Indian books then, the first Penguin paperback having appeared in
Parliament in New Delhi. Currently, there is a Women’s the valley only a few years earlier. But these books were
College in Jorhat named after him.) heavy also in other ways. They were heavy with the stories
But the opinion of my mother held by a few of my pater and sorrows of the ages.
nal relatives did not matter in the least because my mother That is when I first read about the 19yearold Joan of
possessed her own brand of aristocracy—the best brand. It Arc and learned what those knights and religious leaders
is the brand so nicely summed up by E.M. Forester: “the did to her. Nearly twenty years later as I stood at the spot
aristocracy of the sensitive, the considerate and the plucky.” in Rouen, France, where she was burnt to death, my mind
In the town of Jorhat where I was a high school student, went back to that distant Jorhat bedroom. That was the
a male high school student had two fathers: his biological bedroom where I first met the illfated Tess in Tess of the
father and the caring, very strict headmaster Zahiruddin D’Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy. I was a little too young
Ahmed, who ran his school like a commander running an then to know that Tesses came in different colors, with sim
army and whose mission in life was to produce students ilar hopes but all ending up with the same ill fate because
who could hold their own anywhere. they trust so much.
These male students were delighted by looking at the My father encouraged my reading passion. He ordered
waves of black, white, and gold that flowed over the streets through mail the complete set of Charles Dickens novels,
at ten in the morning on weekdays. These waves were the George Bernard Shaw plays, novels of Jane Austin and
combination of black hair, white blouses, and golden skirts Hardy, volumes of short stories by different authors, poems
(mekhela) worn by female students going to their high of Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and that volume of Shake
school. Each male student had his own favorite black, speare. All were leather bound and smelling important. If I
white, and gold combination, which he would search for in am grateful to my mother for her reverence for life, I am
that wave with the black pigtails swinging in unison like the grateful to my father for his reverence for learning.
marching batons of American high school girls. This is the town where, once upon a time, I had parted
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with the early magical chapter of my life. That was sixty because it kept taking me away, away, and away.
five years ago and the season was summer. It was just before As I looked at the sunwashed green Assam Valley, I did
those heavy rains that sometimes brought white hailstones not know that starting with the next morning, as a broad
in the front yard. It was also just after that big, fat kathal gauge train passed through East Bengal carrying me, I
(jackfruit) had ripened in the backyard. The last scene of would turn into a permanent visitor to Assam Valley. That
the morning that remains with me happened as I was leav I would never live there again.
ing for the train station. I looked back through the rear win
dow of the car. My neighbor and friend Bhaitok was stand
ing looking very sad and tearyeyed as the car moved on. I World War II Comes Home
would never see him again. I have heard that about thirty
years later, he was in a fatal train accident. It was the end of November, 1941. That was the pleas
That was summer for the world; but for my life at age six ant season in Calcutta. The Pujah season had just ended,
teen, it was the spring season with all of my life stretched leaving happy memories; the heat had subsided two
ahead of me like a road that was so long that I doubted if it months earlier, and everyone was enjoying the Diwali, or
ended. And that life’s spring had the green color of my festival of lights. Calcutta would now ready herself for the
Neem toothpaste. Raj part of the year. Britishers, AngloIndians and West
Green was also the color of the Assam Valley countryside. ernized Indians began to look forward to Christmas. The
That fresh morning years ago, I kept looking at its fields, season had a political layer to it; Christmas in Calcutta also
forests, and the small ponds with tall betel nut trees and the meant that the mighty British Viceroy would come to the
allpurpose banana trees in the front yards of village city for his annual stay. The horse races would go on.
thatched houses, which expressed the simple contentment Esplanade and Chowringhee and the New Market area
of a people who had little and yet quite a lot. became festive, and even traditional Indians looked forward
It was in the front yard of one of those thatched houses to eating cakes on Christmas day. Ferrazini's near the New
that the woman dressed in her golden skirt was sweeping Market did brisk business in cakes during the season. So,
the yard, perhaps sweeping away sewali flowers. This was as December was about to arrive, Calcutta became special
the soft small white flower with a light pink center that cre ly enjoyable.
ated those fragrant early mornings in the valley, sometimes I was a sophomore and was coming home one evening in
carpeting the yards. early December when some students said that Japan had
She was that universal morning woman all over the world bombed Pearl Harbor. We did not know where that was
in different dresses, speaking different languages, arising until someone said Hawaii. It meant America was at war
out of different dreams, who get many millions of homes with Japan. I realized that this bombing brought the war
started every morning for a new day. from the west to the east, but Japan was so far away, the
Later on during that morning, some barebodied chil Pacific was on the other side of the world. The war was still
dren came running towards the train and then, with the far away.
confidence of children, began to run by the train hoping to All that changed within three months. We could not
overtake it. As that narrow gauge train kept going, I thought believe what we read every morning in the newspapers. It
it was taking me only to Calcutta’s Presidency College. I did was a tidal wave of disciplined, machinelike soldiers. The
not know that the train had some secret plans about my life Philippines fell, then the Dutch East Indies, then the Malay
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Peninsula, then the mighty British base of Singapore. The We went with our father, who dressed in a black suit, to the
Japanese army was approaching Burma, which was next Judge's field for a ceremony. We sat in the front row; the
door to the Assam Valley. Suddenly, the remote, hidden, only Indians in that section of the crowd. At exactly eleven,
quiet, almost primitive Assam Valley was at the center of we stood up, the guns were fired and we were silent. War
news and planning. Assam Valley became like the sudden meant peace for a minute. That was the extent of the mean
ly exposed hidden cottage in the forest that was torn down ing of war.
for a superhighway. War now meant many things in daily life. It meant trains
Till then, war meant the faraway London blitz. We crowded with soldiers when I returned home during college
wondered how the Britishers in Calcutta felt about all of it, vacations. It meant a shining car for someone in town who
whether they were petrified that England would fall— was thought of as a loser for years. This man paid ten
there was no way to know. While some Indians felt that it rupees when one rupee would have done; he was the one
was “their war,” there was admiration for the way with new money. He was a military contractor who got the
Londoners were standing up to the constant bombing. contracts for building quarters for soldiers that were need
Although Indians knew about the imperialist views of ed almost overnight. War meant taking out that old bicy
Churchill, there was appreciation of the fact that he was cle because petrol was rationed and the car had to be put
“taking the English language to war.” After all that was said away. It meant not being able to move freely at night
and done, it was still “their war” to the nationalist Indians. because of blackouts; it meant rations, and soon censorship
Now it became “our war” by becoming “their war” of letters that went from or to people near the frontier
because we were linked with them. Indians were as suc which was part of the Assam Valley. Now war was not a
cessful in keeping both contradictions together as most remote and sometimes romantic concept; it spread into
people. Some Indians were fighting in the Middle East and every area of life.
other frontiers with the British, just as some Indians were Soon we felt that there was one strain that went through
fighting against the British and were for boycotting the war all of these new trends—that a way of life was shaken to its
effort. But that was when the war was being fought in the roots. The chief casualty was predictability. In India, and
trenches of France and Italy and the deserts in North Africa; especially in the Assam Valley, life in all of its aspects was
now the war was here and, like it or not, support it or not, predictable. Shoe meant Bata, ink meant Quink, butter
there was no choice. It was here and it was entering into meant Polson, books were hardcover items to carry, neck
many of the aspects of life. ties meant hard and uncomfortable collars. The few color
Until 1939, the word “war” appeared only in history ful people who had cameras carried black boxes called
books. War meant the Great War. That was the name of Brownies. Magazines meant the Illustrated Weekly of India,
that war until September, 1939, after which it came to be or for a very few, Punch.
called World War I. But the Great War was history. It If Assam Valley was a faraway hidden outpost for India,
smelled of mustard gas, brought up images of trenches and, the valley’s easternmost portion, where it touched Burma,
for book lovers, the classic All Quiet on the Western Front or did not even arise in people’s minds. It was a blur on the
the poetry of Rupert Brooke, “Wherever there was a dead map as well as in people’s imagination.
soldier, would be a part of England.” What appeared was a vague impression—mountain
It was even romantic and we thought of it at 11 a.m. on range, dense forests, bamboo, teakwood, jungle—a world
every November 11th, which was called Armistice Day. on parts of which human footprints had not fallen.
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Then came Pearl Harbor and its effects: the soldiers; the from the Indian’s side because the latter was not used to
trucks, bigger than what people had seen; a new vehicle social conversational giveandtake with a white man.
called the jeep. And then the jungles really came down, Soon the ways of this new white man, the American,
makeshift airstrips appeared and planes looking like the were noticed and talked about. If the GI wanted a taxi, he
“raths” or sky chariots (which the scriptures talked about did not mind crossing the street to get into the taxi, unlike
when describing the war between some gods) and which the British tommy who demanded that the taxi driver come
local people had not seen till 1942, began to fly in and land. around, cross the street and stop where he was and open the
At the same time, a phenomenal work of building a road door. If the only way to go in that hot sun was a human
started. It started beyond the towns of Lido and Marghareta pulled rickshaw, the GI was privately uncomfortable sitting
—remote towns with Italian names because the British had on the rickshaw being pulled by a sweating human being,
brought in an Italian architect to take care of a daunting and a frail one at that. His way of handling it, perhaps even
construction job. without any psychological analysis, was to get the rickshaw
American equipment, the kind not seen before—big driver to sit and be pulled by the GI for a short distance,
tractors, tall cranes looking like birds that went up to the thus making the situation a comfortable one. Now he could
skies, and tools that were models of efficiency, before which sit and be pulled.
the forest did not have a chance—soon brought to life two Occasionally there would be some humorous story that
roads, the famous Burma Road and the Stilwell Road. circulated in the city. A GI reluctantly stood up at the end
A massive war effort of men, material, supplies and of a movie in Metro when “God Save the King” was played
trucks began to climb up these roads towards the enemy. and it was compulsory that the audience stand. It seems
It was an amazing feat. All the building materials had to that he said under his breath, “God won’t save their king,
come from outside the state from whichever port was con we Americans will.” The Indians loved it.
venient for the landing of these materials. From the port it Indians commented that these are good guys, not
came by train and towards the end of the journey, it was a haughty like British soldiers who thought it was beneath
narrowgauge train. And then GIs continued to arrive. their standard to be seen in Indian neighborhoods. Some
The GI was not part of India’s history. The British GIs visited the Bengali artist Jamini Roy in his studio, and
tommy, even that 21yearold who arrived for the first time bought his art creations exquisite small pieces to send
in India from a small town in England, automatically home as Calcutta souvenirs.
became part of the Raj. Somewhere in his past, it was like Like Americans at home, the young GI knew practically
ly that he had a connection with India. His nephew, his nothing about India. Back home most of his countrymen
granduncle, the brother of his brotherinlaw may have did not have the direct experience of India the dust, heat,
served in India in any of the civilian or military operations. spicy food, comfort of servants, the customary “koi hai”
Or at least a neighbor was similarly connected. British brand of power and prestige. India, for most
Now comes the GI. To the common man in India, he is Americans, was a poor but exotic place, which gave
a soldier but he is not to be feared. A white man who was Hollywood Elephant Boy, with Sabu in the lead role. It also
friendly, in spite of the language barrier, he seemed to want gave Hollywood a few other movies; with the Taj Mahal,
to talk more than just ordering a drink or a taxi— the extent tigers and turbans. It was a playful connection that
of the British tommy's verbal connection with this Indian. America had with India just as for the Indian, America
If there was keeping of a distance with the GI it was more meant Hollywood.
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In some quarters, the connection was more serious. It It was the spring of 1943; there was a large GI base out
was known that while Churchill and Roosevelt agreed on side of my home town Jorhat where an airport had sprung
most matters, one of their major differences was indepen up within a few months. In the blackedout town, I was
dence for India, which Roosevelt used to argue for. That returning with a couple of friends from a late night movie.
was a matter that used to evoke from Churchill “over my We were walking on the Trunk Road. It had begun to rain
dead body,” or something in more dignified language. and suddenly there was a streak of lightning. At that
But there was one thing about India which this young moment, we saw a young GI, apparently drunk, unsteady
GI had known from his parents. India had Gandhi and on his feet, crying and shouting, “Guys, don't leave me.”
whatever Gandhi was doing was great. As a soldier he was We did not know what to do; feeling helpless and sorry for
apolitical and he did not know the details; but instinctive him, we kept walking.
ly he was for Gandhi’s movement. He had occasionally The other scene was during the day and in the hot sun
heard about it from his parents. of summer when the temperature went up to 120 degrees.
Considering the comforts of home from which this boy, A group of GIs were constructing an extension of a road
hardly out of high school, had been plucked, to be put in near their camp and they had nothing on but their short
the jungles of remote Assam, his adjustment was remark shorts. That was the first time anyone in the town had seen
able. It was not easy, what with heavy monsoon rains, a white man with his body almost bare. In that one noon
leeches crawling up their trousers, malaria, dysentery, and time, those guys shattered a westerner’s heritage of always
Japanese bayonets. When not involved in marches and appearing in public fully dressed—the men in suits and
action, his refuge was the soldiers’ camps, behind mosqui ties, the women in long dresses, and always dressing for din
tonetted verandahs, to his Life and Time and Lucky Strikes ner while being waited upon by the “native help.”
and Philip Morris and listening to bigband music from Through the GI, the American image—shiny, informal,
home over the shortwave radio, courtesy of the USO, and comfortable and convenient—began to spread. The big
“pinup girl” Betty Grable. wrench; suit carrier garment bag instead of the bulky suit
There was a third refuge but that could happen only dur case in which the suits had to be carefully folded; the
ing his R and R trip to Calcutta. He was prized by the Ronson cigarette lighter instead of matches; the leather toi
AngloIndian girls who loved not just his generosity but his letkit bag; the shoulder bag, out of which the shiny Life
outgoingness and cordiality, contrasted with that of the magazine came; the long cartons of Philip Morris cigarettes,
British soldier; and he had something which the British the pack opening in a different way than the English and
tommy could not give these girls —as one of them worded Indian cigarettes did; sunglasses with green lenses, whereas
it, the GI could give her “those Clark Gable accents” com the lenses that Indians had seen until then were always
ing out of the dark when the two of them were together. black. An entire mystique grew up around this young
They were thrilled by that. American. It seemed to people that war could be hell but
The war brought America with a human face. This Americans knew how to make the road to hell at least com
country that was associated with glamour and celluloid fortable.
suddenly appeared in flesh and blood and a vulnerability The incessant movement of supplies, trucks, people,
that England had not shown all during her two hundred jeeps on the famous road, as well as in another front some
years in India. There are two scenes remaining from that what to the south of the road, finally stopped the steam
period that illustrate this human face. rolling march of the Japanese before which countries in the
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Pacific and Southeast Asia had fallen. and down U street as if he owned the town. Young women
Slowly it became clear that Japan was heading for defeat. swooned over Herman Perry in those preWorld War II
Action was slowing down in the Assam front—the “India days. He liked silk suits and white shirts, soul food and
BurmaChina” front as it was called, started becoming dancing at night. The war, as it had done to so many oth
quiet. ers, caught him up in in midstride.”
As time went on, when people talked about the Second He was shipped out to the IndoBurma theater. The
World War, they would bring up names of famous battle 849th Engineer Aviation Battalion (750 black soldiers,
fields, invasions, fronts. Once in a while, the mention of Herman Perry among them, and 50 white officers) headed
the “IndiaChinaBurma” front would come up but not as towards that frontier from Staten Island in July of 1943.
often as the other names. And yet, this was the front, which None of the black soldiers were told their destination. That
included an area south of the famous road known then as destination was a massive building project—the building of
the Naga Hills, where the steamrolling Japanese army that the Stilwell Road to connect with the future Burma Road,
swept over countries, some in a few days, was finally to ferry supplies to aid the Chinese.
stopped and the tide turned. For all these years Perry’s family—a surviving sister—
The British felt it specially because they were afraid that had been bewildered about his death. His remains never
the Japanese army might enter India, which was their came home.
“jewel in the crown.” The fact that the “IndiaChina And now the story is out due to the zeal of a 33yearold
Burma” front seemed to take a back seat in World War II firsttime author: Yale graduate Brendan Koerner, whose
conversations made some people refer to it as the “forgotten book on this story, Now the Hell will Start: One Soldier’s
frontier.” Flight from the Greatest Manhunt of World War II, has just
The happygolucky noncolonial mood that the GI con been published. Some critics refer to it as a “Heart of
veyed to the Indians in contrast with his fellow white sol Darkness,” “Apocalypse Now” type of story. To make it par
dier, the British tommy, had a coveredup ugly fact for ticularly arresting, Koerner’s book utilizes army documents
which of course the individual GI was not responsible. That and records that he obtained through the Freedom of
was segregation—not only in the American South, which Information Act. He became obsessed with the case, and
we had read about in high school, but in the U.S. armed left his Manhattan apartment for the Burmese jungles—
services as well. where he became ill—looking for traces of Perry’s past.
For one thing there were no black soldiers in India and Here is what he has put together:
certainly not in my corner of Assam Valley. It was not until Like many of the black soldiers in the unit—men who
nearly 65 years later, while reading through the Washington swung shovels and pickaxes and broke rock all day—Perry
Post of June 4, 2008, that I learned not only that racial seg complained of mistreatment. In his case, it was quite spe
regation was alive and well even in my remote IndiaBurma cific. He had already served two weeks beyond his original
frontier, but that there had been an ugly episode in my own 90 days in the stockade without any explanation.
backyard. So one morning he just walked out to the jungle. Within
Here is the gist of the story as reported in the Post of June hours Perry was confronted on the road by Lt. Harold
4, 2008—at times in the words of Will Haygood, Washing Cody, who was unarmed and intended to arrest Perry.
ton Post staff writer: Sweating and sobbing, Perry kept shouting at Cody, “Get
“He was a smoothie and a cad, walking and swaying up back, get back!” But Cody was inching towards him.
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It was then that it happened—the incident that would old military police officer who finally had charge of this
seal Perry’s fate. He took his rifle and shot Cody in the chest manhunt, received a letter from Perry’s halfbrother, who
and then the stomach and immediately ran towards the was trying to find out what had happened to him. Cullum
jungle, which he seemed to know quite well. replied: “If he had used the right attitude and if the army
What came after that is even more unreal. Perry arrived had used his abilities, he could have been an excellent jun
in a village of Naga tribesmen—headhunters who were at gle scout. But in the 1940s he was a road builder.”
first puzzled and soon charmed by him. Perry stayed on, Edna Wilson, 83, is the sole survivor of the Perry sib
married a young woman of the Naga tribe, and fathered a lings. A retired nurse’s assistant, she says that she knew her
child. “I intended to spend the remaining years of my life brother had been disappointed with his treatment in the
in the jungle,” Perry later confessed, “and live with the military. “It was tough for him all along. Going overseas in
Naga girl whom I claim as my wife.” the bottom of that ship like that. The colored soldiers were
The manhunt that had been given up was resumed once treated like a bunch of animals.” The family knew nothing
word spread about a black man in a Naga tribal village. about her brother’s precarious emotional state or ineffective
Cornered and bleeding from a gunshot wound inflicted by legal counsel, she added. Then she said: “He didn’t have
U.S. soldiers, he was taken to a makeshift army hospital, nobody on his side.”
where he was given blood. It was blood from the black sol The family came to know of Perry’s resting place in a mil
diers; the army would not allow blood from a white soldier itary cemetery in Hawaii. Wilson scrounged up a thousand
to be given to a black. dollars to have her brother’s body dug up and cremated.
Now the story shifts to the sleepy town in my own child Just seven months ago, there was a knock at the door at
hood backyard that played a crucial role in the story—the Wilson’s home in Washington, D.C. The mailman had
town of Ledo. Perry’s court martial began in early delivered a box containing her brother’s ashes.
September, 1944, at a tea plantation there. His military “He is home now,” she says of the Jungle King, who used
lawyer, Clayton Oberholtzer, had been a smalltown attor to glide up and down U Street.
ney in Ohio. It was his first murder case. The verdict: By autumn 1945, the busy airstrips, the makeshift open
guilty; the sentence: death by hanging. air giant movie screens, the mosquitonetted camps, the
Perry awaited his fateful day in the Lado stockade, shack jungle hospitals, the mess halls gradually became deserted.
led to a log “like a chastised dog,” according to Koerner. Buffalos literally came to roam the region once again.
The weeks rolled by because an appeal was automatic. In All that was left in that area that associated it with the
December Perry escaped, thanks to a pair of pliers someone Second World War was a cemetery for fallen soldiers.
had slipped to him. The Assam Police Gazette had an arti Nearly fifty years later, I visited this immaculately main
cle titled “A colored Houdini from the USA, aided by a few tained spot of green that I entered through a gateway.
Naga tricks, is sure playing ‘hobs’ with the traps that have As I was walking slowly, stopping every five feet or so,
been set for him.” the caretaker mentioned, politely and hesitantly, that it
Days later, sitting at a campfire and surrounded yet again, would be dusk in another half an hour and that the gate
Perry was out of energy. “You got me” was all that he had to would close.
say to his captors. I thanked him and noticed a small metal eagle on one of
On the morning of March 15, 1945, Perry was driven in the graves. I realized that the grave was not for a British or
the dark to his date with the gallows. Cullum, the 89year an Indian soldier.
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I stopped and read. When the Assamese people finally woke up to their con
dition and cried out in terror, that terror was confused with
31115894 terrorism. This happened because people heady with
Sergeant A. S. Oja power had not learned how to hear the voice that is inside
United States Army Air Corps most cries nor touch the pain that is inside most angers.
7th August 1944 Age 23. These were the advisers, the courtjesters of Indira Gandhi.
All of this could have been avoided. There was a moment
that was not seized; there was a “road that was not taken”;
Recent Past—New Independent India there was a boldness that did not appear because of the
degree of rashness. Both sides bungled the matter and lost
Within a mere two years, India became independent and valuable time. One side did not read the big picture and
the country was divided into India and Pakistan. The com seize the opportunity, however limited; the other side
munal carnage, savagery that had overwhelmed all of North played tough and rough.
India, had not spilled out to the valley. There was no com By treating and labeling a peaceful, civil movement as
munal outbreak in Assam Valley during that prepartition terrorism, the authorities gradually turned it into one. The
period. Assam Valley remained as it was—a remote part of movement that had mobilized hopes in a civilized manner
India. But now an ominous sound filled the air in the val became contaminated. It gradually turned into terrorism,
ley. It was the sound of endless footsteps crossing the bor and then to extortionism.
der between the valley and East Pakistan.
These were footsteps first of Hindu refugees and later
many poor people, illegal entries from the overcrowded Uniqueness of Assam Valley
impoverished East Pakistan and later from Bangladesh to
the more spacious, green Assam Valley. The locals, the After I left the valley to study and then kept moving, I
Assamese, have always been a simple, trusting people and would look back at it from a distance. And I would be sur
it was not until they found that in many respects—small prised how so few people outside the valley knew about it,
business, housing, and ordinary employment—the self despite its rich and lengthy history.
described refugees have overtaken them that they rose up. This valley had the potential to become a unique bridge;
When a steady stream of foreigners crosses a country’s for it is one of the few places in the world that joins two of
border at will, it is a national problem. When Mexicans ille the three basic and great civilizations. With its left hand, it
gally cross the border, Washington does not look the other touches the Caucasoid, which stretches all the way to the
way, say that it is a Texas problem, and blame Texans for banks of the Baltic Sea. With the right hand it touches the
being inhospitable to those illegally crossing the country’s Mongoloid, which reaches all the way to the sea of Korea.
border. But that essentially is what happened to Assam. The And yet, despite this great geography, it became powerless.
people in power in New Delhi explained it away as mainly The doors became walls, closing off the valley.
an Assamese “Bangal Khedda,” “Drive out those Bengalis,” That happened because the present after pushing away
issue. To set the record straight in this unfortunate saga, I the past, went elsewhere. The dead end was intensified by
have to state this in spite of my long endearing communion the impenetrable eastern frontier with Burma (Myanmar).
with that soft precious Bengali soul. Assam Valley became the exception to the rule that says
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“morning shows the day.” Actually, its decline started with before they could recover from ruin. Girls in India have
the British arrival. become doomed to an unwanted status; in some extreme
Location has worked splendidly in the case of Calcutta cases, orphaned girls have been sold into prostitution or the
(Kolkata), which in a mere four hundred years out of three sex trade by greedy relatives (so much for Indian family loy
combined villages has become the delightful place of today. alty).
But it acted against Assam Valley. Calcutta grew up fast Assam Valley has no such oppressive dowry system.
because it was fed a wellbalanced diet which Assam Valley There is another important matter where the valley shines
did not fully get—a diet which, amongst other things, con —weaving. Mahatma Gandhi, who had made spinning
sisted of an active port, commerce, and the seat of British and weaving a central concept in raising India’s selfesteem
intellectual and political life. The city being the capital of and selfreliance in the British days, remarked when he
India until it was replaced by Delhi, Calcutta got both landed in Assam Valley for the first time: “You people have
Shakespeare and ships. been ahead of me.”
In those days, the valley could neither thrive as an Unlike in some other parts of India where weaving is rel
exposed port city, nor display to the world its jewels, capi egated to certain lower castes (like the tantis of neighboring
talizing on its remoteness. Bengal), weaving was a badge of honor in every family in
It did not take people on tours starting at the scenic base Assam Valley, from the regal to the ragged.
where the big river entered the Valley, or take them to the During my early years, after the children had left for
oil fields that preceded those in Texas and Oklahoma, or schools and the husbands for their offices, a unique Assam
show them the Ranghar, the oldest openair amphitheater Valley sound began to be heard in different houses.
in Asia, or show them the ruins of the Ahom kingdom. The It was the constant sound of the wooden mako, the spin
onehorned rhino did not prove to be enough. dle in the family loom that raced back and forth with every
Assam Valley remained too shy to appear before the foot movement. And it happened in every family.
world holding its trophies. It did not realize its potential to During my high school years, I heard that mako sound
be the Nile Valley of India—with relics underground from coming from my mother’s backyard loom. Those bunga
the confluence of two civilizations, the artifacts of the Ahom lows had huge grounds so our British neighbors in that
and preAhom dynasties, which had ruled the valley and British island of Jorhat missed out on that authentic and
had had early contacts with China. It did not try to invite unique Assamese sound. It was comparable in its tradition
the ecotourist to see the twenty different Assamese medic to the hissing sound of all those teakettles—filled with
inal edible greens—natural products in search of which Assam tea leaves—from one end of England to another at
ecotourists go to the rainforests of the Amazons or to four o’clock every afternoon.
remote islands. My mother went to extremes with her weaving. Once
In addition to its geographical stories, the valley is spe she decided to give me a shirt of pure silk—in her own way.
cial also in sociocultural matters. Assam Valley has avoid She reared some silk worms in the back yard; in due time,
ed one of the social cancers of India—the dowry. Families through a long process, she spun thread out of those silk
with daughters have felt a chill every time they heard that worms; then she arranged those threads in the right weav
evil word. They have fallen beneath the weight of this curse, ing wheel, and the threads were put in the loom. In time
and either never recovered from the financial burden the shirt was stitched from a golden cloth.
caused by dowry or had to wait for two more generations Any merchant in town would have gladly come over with
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amrit baruah
samples of such pure silk shirts if called and she could have Temples
easily bought two such shirts. But it would not be that spe
cial shirt. The temples of the valley are not aweinspiring like the
Every Assamese woman achieved a special kind of self majestic temples of South India that soar towards the heav
esteem from her ability to pull together one of those bright ens. Here one experiences not awe but affection, along with
designs over white cloth in the backyard handloom. Yes, it reverence.
was the gamocha, the Assamese towel. The Kamakhya Temple to the goddess Durga has an
There was a time when everyone in the valley started his important role in Indian scriptures. Yet even this temple,
or her day washing the sleepy eyes and drying them with a like the valley itself, has an offbeat, offthebeatenpath feel
gamocha—no matter what religion, or whether one lived in about it. During my childhood, we would climb the hill to
the hills or the Valley. You could never go away from the this temple, to be greeted by a priest, or panda. Most fam
Assamese gamocha of red designs on a white cloth. Towels ilies in the region were connected with a special family of
were for the Britishers and for the westernized Indians. panda, who had taken care of the pilgrimage needs of these
The Bengali world also has a similar item—the gamcha; families for generations.
but that is a mere towel. By putting the letter O precisely Our panda was named Somhu. I still remember—I was
in the middle of those six letters—by making the gamcha a probably twelveyearsold at the time—Somhu Panda hov
gamocha—you instantly give it history and tradition. It is ering over us for the entire day as he shepherded us through
no longer just an Assamese towel. Instantly, it becomes also the temples. He would tell us when to bow down, or where
a banner. to place the flower, or bel leaf, which was supposed to have
The gamocha is a regular presence in the ceremonies in an auspicious meaning. Then, after a few hours, he would
Assamese prayer halls known as Namghars. Amongst the guide us to his home where the entire family was waiting
simplest prayer halls in the world, often without walls, com for us with a special lunch, the fragrance of which filled the
pletely bare except for a certain spirit that you can touch if house. I don’t recall what we did after a heavy lunch and a
you are open to it, these halls dot the rural Assam Valley. rest—most probably, we simply climbed back down the
Sometimes a Namghar appears right in the middle of a hill, completing a day of pilgrimage.
wet rice field; a family drama may be going all around it— Then there was the Nobograha, or “Nine Planets,”
the husband dragging the plow, the wife following him Temple—perhaps the only temple in India that is dedicat
planting the rice seeds, the children dragging a wooden bas ed to the zodiac. And yet it is almost unknown outside of
ket (jakai) where they have put the minifish they have the valley. That is another example of how remoteness has
picked up on those streams. Such a setting is apt for this been a disadvantage for the bucolic valley, whether for pub
type of prayer hall because it symbolizes a solid spirituality licity, industry, or economic growth. (Since I left the valley,
grounded in the rice, mud, toil, sweat, and hopes of farm though, more oil has been discovered and extracted. But
people. otherwise, the famous Assam tea, with its ups and downs in
All of these spiritualculturalartisticmusical expressions the export market, has remained the dominant agribusi
can be traced to a phenomenal Vaishnava saint of the 15th ness.)
century: Sri Sankardev. But perhaps the most unique temple of the valley is
Umananda. Dedicated to the god Shiva, it is the only river
island temple in the world. This temple in the midst of the
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valley of the lahe lahe (slowly, slowly) spirit. I had seen tions. Actually these cultures have been more complete
time’s hand at work in Bangalore, Hyderabad, and Cal than what the term “tribe” implies.
cutta, but in my hometown? In recent years, the cultural uniqueness of some of these
The city has all the hallmarks of modernity—computers, regions has been given political legitimacy by giving them
email, carryout food, cell phones, people recovering from a political identity. Some of them are now selfgoverning
heart bypass surgery, and even irritation if a visitor sudden states within the Indian union.
ly arrives when one is about to start viewing a favorite tele The new term that accurately reflects this new arrange
vision program. Yes, Guwahati has arrived. ment is “Assam Valley and the Seven Sisters”—sometimes
One day my youngest brother Ishan, who is a talented described simply as the Northeast.
actor and film director, and I drove from one end of the city This is the metaphorical meaning of “tapestry.” But also
to another. the valley literally produces tapestries of creative design.
After a while I felt that the compressed energy of the val Three years ago I ran into an American female fashion
ley, where there are no big industries or factories, had burst designer at a cocktail party, who said to me after discover
out making this road a tribute to small industries. Not even ing that I was born in the valley: “I have just returned from
in America have I seen 20 miles of continuous small shops. Sualkuchi.” And to think that I have never visited Sual
A few thousand stores, at times in a four or fivestoried kuchi, hardly a hundred miles from where I went to high
building, a different store on every floor and several on one school. Always I had heard about the exquisite Muga cloth
floor with colorful sign boards—red, yellow, purple. From (pulled out of a special, locallygrown silkworm) that
a distance the façade looks like a huge artgallery wall. Sualkuchi was famous for.
Tea stalls, wine stores, small pharmacies, s.t.d./xerox, Back in those days before the uniformity of globalization
clothing stores, tea stalls, barber shops, s.t.d./xerox, stores and industrialization had flowed over the valley, the typical
selling books and newspapers and magazines, tea stalls, female dress was not the onepiece sari but a threepiece col
more clothing stores, toy stores, s.t.d./xerox, still more orful dress—the blouse, a skirtlike long piece, and a shawl
clothing stores, sweetmeat stores, fried garbanzobean like upper piece covering the body. All three were of differ
stands, s.t.d./xerox, tea stalls. My mind got dazed. And I ent colors and usually of handloom cloth made by women
felt the energy even though there was a frantic quality about in their backyards. “What, you bought it?” connoted
it. It was almost the energy of shocktherapy. “What a lazy woman.”
This female dress further shows how the valley connects
India with Southeast Asia—especially Thailand—not only
Tapestries geographically (which someday will have significance) but
also culturally. The Ahom kings who ruled the valley for
This valley is a tapestry of different minicultures that are several hundred years and who assimilated with the locals
actually indigenous cultures in their completeness. And traced their origins to Thailand.
during my childhood this situation manifest itself in spe Recently some intellectuals and activists who reside in
cial dress wear, songs, dances, and social customs. This the valley joined with similar people aboard who have
sociocultural tapestry has been woven out of both the hill formed a think tank (FASS—Friends of Assam and the
and plains populations. Different hills have been known for Seven Sisters—friendsofassam.com). These people are
their tribal populations that have been there for genera eager to bring new ideas to the valley, followed by action
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that will take the valley to fuller realization of its potential
ities.
Their range is wide—from new forms of rice cultivation
to programs for encouraging young writers to the adoption
of more effective methods of conflict resolution. These and
other likeminded people want to see the valley become a
more progressive and developed region in the 21st century,
after the last century of quiet isolation—and some would go
so far as to say benign neglect.
34