Majuli: Of Rustic Living and Riverscapes
The Brahmaputra, known as the Red River, carves its way through the North-Eastern Indian states as it traverses from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal through the land, a lifeline to those who have revered it for centuries. My destination was an island in the middle of this river called Majuli – the world’s largest river island. Previously, a barge carried people and even four-wheelers across the river. Now, with the newly constructed bridge, fewer people take the barge. Reaching late in the evening, I retire for the day. Being in the eastern most part of the country, even though following the same time zone, the sunsets here occur around late afternoon.
Early morning, I am woken up with the sounds of birds chirping, cows mooing, and ducks quacking – a rare joy that is now almost lost in the big cities. I walk down to the large field that flanks the entrance of this hotel run by a family. In a thatched hut raised on stilts, the breakfast is being prepared by the women of the household. A two-year-old girl dashes around with a broom, eager to help with the chores.
The hut is adorned with various utensils and a cleaning area in the corner. Right in front of the cooking area, in the middle of the hut, is a mud hearth, lit up with a pot boiling upon it. Thin bamboo sticks serving as skewers, holding chunks of fish and meat are stuck around the fire. The hearth serves as the cooking fire as well as a roasting oven. Shafts of sunlight filter into the kitchen through the windows and gaps in the bamboo walls making swirling patterns with the cooking smoke. This kitchen is the very definition of rustic living.
Mornings in this sleepy little island are idyllic with farmers herding their cows to the fields, fishermen preparing the nets for the day’s catch, womenfolk at the weaving machines, young girls carrying pitchers to the village pumps to fill water, and tiny children running amok on the streets chasing after even tinier chicks, ducklings, and calves.
On approaching the river’s banks, we are welcomed with a dense layer of fog that shrouds everything around. It moves slowly and silently over the waters creating a mystical scenery. Through the fog, silhouettes emerge every now and then, revealing for a split-second moored boats and fishing nets on stilts. The fog engulfs the trees around, creating slices of light as the sun cuts through the gaps.
In the fields, mustard plants glow in golden hues adding to the magic. We wait at the shallow end of the river waiting for the sun to set. Ahead is a long bamboo bridge connecting the two parts of the village, which casts a perfect reflection in the waters. As people cross it on bicycles or on foot above, so do cows and buffaloes cross under it along with a couple of fishermen on boats.
In a stark contrast to the mornings, during evenings, the river falls into a silent reverie. The waters become so still that they turn into nature’s mirror, reflecting everything of the world above. Half-submerged boats make for a photogenic setting against the setting sun. In a distance, inside a boat, a tiny flame lights up to guide it through the darkness. It moves across the waters in a mesmerizing trance. The stars in their millions awash the clear skies, as we head back to the cozy hearth for the evening meal.
The missing link to Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa
One of the days, we venture into the potter’s village that is one of a kind. Here all pottery making is done only by the womenfolk and without a potter’s wheel. They beat the soft clay into shapes with hand and small bludgeons. It is believed that this village’s pottery making techniques is the missing link of the Mohenjo-Daro and Harappan civilizations.
Similar to the rest of the island, the houses here are also propped up on stilts – mainly to avoid flooding when the Brahmaputra swells up during the monsoons. When we enter the village, men are busy transferring the baked clay ware from the kiln to the courtyards or loading them in stacks on carts to be transported. Each house has stacks of pottery and wares stored under the houses on empty boats. Courtyards are filled with freshly made ware to dry out in the sun.
We walk into a house’s yard to observe these in action. A young married woman, with vermillion smeared across the middle parting and wearing a cotton saree, squats down and starts rolling the clay dough. She massages them until they are soft and then carves them into large balls. These are carried to another section of the yard where the hand-held tools are kept. She places one of the rolled clay balls on a wooden platform and starts shaping it by rotating it, simultaneously making an indentation in the centre. Within minutes the unshapen clay has been transformed into a crude, small pitcher. She then picks up a tiny wooden bludgeon and starts beating the outside, while providing support with her palms on the inside, all the while giving it a shape. Slowly but steadily, the pitcher turns smooth from both the outside and inside. I cannot help but marvel at the technique.
As we head back to our homestay, I ponder about how simple living is still very much alive in these remote parts of the country. The island is a slice of serenity that I will carry with me for a long time, a return to simpler times—the kind that city life forgets but the soul always longs for.
