The Assam Trails: Adventure for some

The reason for my relative (and apparently conspicuous) absence these last couple of days has been a little stay in a nearby village "to rough it out" (as Sunil uncle put it with a glint in his eye). How different could it be from my previous experiences with roaming, working and living in the villages of Gujarat, I asked myself. I was soon to find out.

An hour-long exhilarating bike ride later, I am dropped off at the house of the coordinator of the biggest cluster that Aagor works with- the Mangolian cluster. Abo Dipali, the petit, soft-spoken and diligent (as I was to later find out) coordinator greets me with quick questions, "How long would you want to stay? Do you know how to ride a moped? Should we go?" I barely gasp for breath, and answer her the best I can. Owing to my inability to ride mopeds ("on those roads!" I'm tempted to say), and her lack of confidence in riding doubles, we're left with having to walk. It works out well for me because it reduces the difficulty in communication while on the move, and I agree cheerfully. She looks a little suspicious about my ability to walk the distance, but says nothing of it, and we're on our way.

Of course the Assamese weather decides to be unpredictable yet again and- for the first time since I'm in Assam- the sun beats down mercilessly that day. We walk long distances, and I chatter with her for the most part. Abo Dipali is in her early thirties, and has been working with Aagor for seven years. She has been married for three years, and has a young son of two. Noticing her relatively good spoken Hindi, I quiz her about her education. "I've studied till ninth standard. We were too poor to afford education beyond that. My father died when I was young, and my mother struggled to support her five children," she says matter-of-factly. I ask whether it is fairly common for women in her village to marry this late. She nods, and then quickly adds, "Of course there are the really good-looking girls who end up eloping or marrying early. Most do it because they are not educated or have no value for it." I laugh. Clearly, the "beautiful and dumb" stereotypes are not just restricted to the urban set-up.

We talk about her life and she quizzes me about mine as we walk through several villages. The huts here in Assam- much like the rest of it's landscape- strike me with their simple beauty. What exactly it is, I fail to put a finger to, but something about the clean, simple exteriors coated with white mud and the abundance of greenery around is aesthetically pleasing. I can't stop clicking pictures, and Abo looks at me with a bemused expression. "How different are the huts in Gujarat?" she asks. "It's not this green there," is all I can manage. Maybe that's what it is, I think to myself. It's this generous greenery that infuses everything here with an almost ethereal beauty.

As we enter a village, I notice how most of the huts closely surround each other, sharing walls, often even courtyards. Wherever we go, people come to find out who this differently dressed young girl is, and unabashedly shower me with questions. Unfortunately, most of these are in Bodo or Assamese, and I shake my head to indicate I do not understand a word. "Delhi," I say. And they understand. Abo Dipali then fills them in about me, every single detail I have shared with her, and they all respond with appropriate expressions. Most even try to tell me how sad it is that they do not know Hindi, and their genuineness is heartbreaking. Try finding this sincerity and curiosity in the city, and you'll go round in circles.

I am offered tea everywhere, and having already let them down on the language front, I give in. I'm usually not a big fan of chai, but the delight with which they offer it to me is quite irresistible. As a result, by the end of our walk, I have downed about eight cups of chai, more than I've consumed in my entire twenty years of existence. That, coupled with the my recent rate of intake of betel nut, is going to have my mum seriously questioning how much 'good' this might be doing to me!

Often, the problem with not knowing the language of a certain place, apart from the not-being-able-to-communicate bit, is the constant feeling of being the topic of conversation. Even worse is when your fears are confirmed. As we sit around in one of the houses, the ladies animatedly talk for a while, and occasionally burst into laughter. One of them asks me a question that I cannot comprehend. After looking around for some translation and realising I wouldn't get any, I take a chance and shake my head, hoping against hope this isn't some fatal flaw. There is collective laughter, and guessing I haven't done half badly, I breathe. As we leave, Abo Dipali finally translates. "She said you should drink some sharaab, alcohol!" I am totally puzzled, but decide against asking why. I figure some things are best left alone. I don't want to know.

As we finally walk back home after the long day's work, Abo tells me about the impact Aagor has had on the lives of these weavers. "They are able to earn a living more easily," she says. She goes on to tell me how a majority of the women we met during the visit didn't have husbands. They were either dead, or had run away in the fear of all those to whom they were heavily indebted. My instinctive question is to ask what the alternative to weaving would be. Daily wage labour, she informs me. Mostly paddy, grown from about May to December provides ample opportunity to earn daily wages. But it is mainly a hand-to-mouth existence. Weaving, on the other hand, allows them to save. They form groups of about five to ten members, save money on a regular basis, and give loans to members whenever the need arises. It is microfinance at its most basic.

As we walk back, another thought quickly strikes me. I recall being told about the villagers' love for meat. And it has been playing on my mind for a while. I look for a way to subtly weave it into the conversation. I start by asking about their daily diet. And while she describes it to me in detail, I quietly break the news. "You don't eat meat?!" she exclaims, "Not anything?!" "I eat egg," I say. "Oh," she says with a remorseful sigh, "We love feeding our guests meat. I was thinking I would make some for you tonight." The sadness is palpable in her voice. Heartbreaking. For the first time in my life, I wish I ate meat.

By the time we get to her house, I am starting to look forward to a nice bath. It has been a long exhausting day, and a long bath would be heavenly. Little do I know I'll get more than I bargained for. Sure enough, almost on cue, she asks, "Do you want to take a bath?" I nod. "We don't have a bathroom. Do you mind bathing in the river?" I smile, memories of my childhood crowding my head. "Not at all, I'd love it," I say.

As soon as we get to the bank of the river, a fair distance from the house, I realise there's a bigger problem. With the entire river bank being a never-ending plain, getting in and out of clothes was going to be an issue. But it's just a process of letting go of your inhibitions, I figure. And once inside the water, I'm ready to forget everything. I prance around for a little bit, dive in and out, feel the sand beneath my feet and between my toes, and rediscover the me that has always lived up to being a 'fish in the water'. Before I know it, half an hour is up, and the sun threatens to disappear and leave us in darkness. I rush out, sheepishly apologizingly for losing myself, and we head back.

Back in the house, Abo enters the kitchen to start cooking. I follow. No cooking gas, she informs me. No electricity either, she adds apologetically. I smile and offer to mince the onions. She refuses and tells me to sit. We get chatting while she cooks on the little hearth. I ask how she stays away from her son while working. "My husband takes care of him. He doesn't work because someone needs to take care of him" she informs me while feeding more wood into the fire, "he even cooks when I get late." I'm mighty impressed. How often do you hear of the woman being the sole bread-earner of a family by choice while her husband chooses to stay home and rear the child? It's a heartwarming role-reversal, radical even by urban standards. Even as we chat about other things, it keeps playing at the back of my mind- would I ever find a guy who could support my passion like that? Even by the low light of the oil lamp, I can tell she is happy, contented.

We then eat, and since it's too dark to do anything else, fall asleep soon afterwards. I look at my cell phone. It is 7:30pm. The time I'd usually get up from an afternoon nap at in Delhi. My biological clock, having endured so much abuse in the last month during the exams, was being turned upside down. Yet again. For some reason, homesickness chooses to hit me at the most unsuspecting moments- moments such as these. Most often it hits you like a freight train going downhill- and you're a wreck before you know it. One more month, I tell myself. Thankfully, sleep comes soon enough and I drift into dreams of home and family.

I wake up the next morning to a cacophony of sounds. The rooster, the baby, the dogs, the pigs, the chicken, and drowning them all out, pouring rain on the tin roof. I lie in bed and take it all in for a while. The rain soon subsides, and ultimately stops. I then head out, clean myself, and Abo proudly shows off the bicycle she managed to borrow for the day so we each had one to ride. Soon, a steaming hot cup of tea and a very burnt tongue later, we're on our way. The rain is gone, but has left huge puddles that need to be navigated around, and I can tell it's going to be an entertaining cycle ride.

As the day before, we stop at several weavers' houses. And this time we get to observe them in the different stages of weaving before the yarn even ends up on the loom. There are several stages, each incredibly monotonous and time-consuming. And so it is no wonder that setting up the yarn to be put on the loom becomes a community-building exercise. All the neighbours come together, chat, sing, and get the work done. "If you don't go to help someone else, they won't come to help you," Abo informs me. Clearly, 'to each his own' is an alien concept here. Here, everybody's business is everybody else's. They weave together, eat together, live as one.

When we are done with the last village and are heading back, dark ominous looking clouds gather, and before we can take shelter, the heavens descend upon us. When it rains in Assam, it pours. Unapologetically, wholeheartedly. Abo asks me to open the umbrella she's fixed to the back of my bicycle, and I gladly follow her directions- constantly concerned about my camera. However, riding with one hand on the bicycle and the other holding the camera proves to be more of a challenge than I earlier imagined. There still are the puddles to be navigated around, and now there is a steady gust of wind. I nearly topple over a few times, but manage to save face overall. I am so engrossed in my difficulties, I forget to look around. But when I finally do, it takes my breath away. Just when I thought it wasn't possible, Assam gets even more beautiful. I have to fight the temptation to get my camera out and click away, but I try to drink it all in. And suddenly, I feel a rush of overwhelming happiness. What an adventure, I think. I could do this many times over. All of this.

As I lie in bed that night I think about my adventure. And in a sudden moment, I realise what is an adventure to me is everyday reality for most here. Would it still be as appealing, I wonder. As beautiful?

The Assam Trails: An Acquired Taste

Waking up to the sound of rain isn't exactly 'normal', nor is being up at six thirty and having the world around you already in motion.

It's been two days at 'The Ant' for me. And if the appetizer is anything to go by, the whole meal promises to be pretty unforgettable. And very out of the ordinary. The Ant (the Action North East Trust) is a voluntary organisation set up by Sunil Kaul and his wife Jenny near the town of Bongaigaon in West Assam that focuses its work on the poorest and most disadvantaged sections of the northeastern region of India. It works in several ways and on several levels, and I'm currently interning with its daughter organisation 'Aagor' (meaning 'design' is Assamese)- which is a weaving enterprise that aims at providing a sustainable livelihood to disadvantaged women by engaging them in several weaving projects that incorporate local traditions and aim at making them marketable as modern apparel. The collaborate with several other organisations, including FabIndia, to market their products. So if you see a gorgeous translucent silk stole at FabIndia, it might well be made of Eri silk (or what they call non-violent/ahimsa silk) manufactured in these very areas.

One of the biggest things that strikes you about the campus (where the main office and hostel is located- and where I stay) is its quiet, unassuming beauty. There is nothing about it that's been decorated for the outside world, but it pulls you in through it's rickety wooden gate- into it's dedicated, hardworking world. The smiling faces of the staff, most of whom don't understand a word of Hindi but are eager to let you in, welcome you. There is a river at the back that quietly flows- and which I'm determined to dive into several times before I leave this place.

This morning, my initiation into it's working began with a tour around campus and especially the weaving block-- where about 24 women work away at the looms from six am to six pm, creating a familiar, comforting drone of wood softly hitting wood. This morning is also the weekly coordinator meeting of Aagor that I'm expected to attend and absorb something from. These coordinators are the the ones who connect a specific set of villages or a specific geographical area (called a 'cluster') to the main tailoring and marketing departments of Aagor. They take it upon themselves to distribute the yarn according to the order, and collect the fabric from these clusters to give them back to Aagor.

To further understand the intricacies of the system, I am asked to accompany Abo Bina- the coordinator of one of the clusters. 'Abo' means 'elder sister' in Assamese and is usually used as a term of respect. As a result, I now have to quickly get rid of 'didi' and 'aunty' (usually met with blank stares or I-don't-know-what-you're-saying-but-you're-sweet smiles) from my vocabulary.

The next question, that of how to get places, is quickly taken care of before my mind starts wandering places. I'm handed a pair of keys to a bicycle with a smile and a "I hope you know how to ride one!" Getting all excited about possibly riding a bicycle on these beautiful roads, I quickly dash, get my camera and my ever-trustable jhola. And with that, we're off. The bicycle ride is more heavenly than I could ever find words to describe. As we go along the road, a gentle breeze blows across the lush green of the paddy that surrounds us, and the joy of riding on a road without worrying about any kind of traffic is just indescribable. The sun peeps through warmly on occasion, but it is mostly overcast in the most wonderful way. This, in the peak of the the afternoon. Thinking of how we'd be hiding for cover in Delhi at this hour, I chuckle to myself.

We soon wander off the road into areas with a thick undergrowth and a small trail leading us along. Seeing all the moisture and the grass, my first question to her is almost instinctive, "Are there snakes around?" She laughs. "Too many," she says, "But they're harmless if you don't do a thing." A slight shiver passes down my spine as I think of the unwelcome slimey reptiles, but thankfully the surroundings are overwhelming enough to drown the worry for the rest of the ride.

We start with visiting several houses and the resident weavers. Weaving, I'm told, is intrinsic to the Assamese culture. Everyone has at least one, if not more, weaving looms in their houses. They weave their own clothes at home, and lead a very self-sufficient existence overall. I notice this as we stop from house to house. Everyone works on these looms-- with colours that can catch your eye from a distance. Pink, yellow, blue, green, purple. Each in several shades, with several confusing local names. Each helping create a piece of fabric that entices customers to buy it nationwide.

The first thing we're offered as we approach a house is freshly-cut betel nut and some betel leaf to go along. At first, I find it peculiar, and not having ever been a fan of desi pan, I hesitantly make myself a pan with elaborate directions from Abo Bina (take a leaf-apply the white powder- fold it- but some betel nut into your mouth- and eat the leaf next). As soon as I eat it, the bitterness of it floods my senses, and I wonder what hit me. The pan made in the cities, even the non-sweet ones, have more condiments put in to cushion the impact of the betel nut. All I have here is a flimsy leaf, and some barely-there white powder! Even as we drive away after chatting with them for a good ten minutes, the taste of the pan refuses to leave my mouth, practically having coated it with a nonperishable layer (or what seems like it at the time). It's an acquired taste, I tell myself. It'll take getting used to.

My next opportunity to 'get used to' comes soon enough. The next house we stop at offers us the same. And the next, and the next, and all the ones that follow. The only thing that varies is the container- often indicating how well-off a family is. Otherwise, it's the same overwhelming bitterness, the same flooding of the senses. After a couple more, I decide I'm done trying to 'acquire the taste', and start politely refusing. It works well, and my stomach stops grumbling as much as it did earlier.

As we get back, I start quizzing Abo Bina about the various designs on the textiles. She informs me- in very adorable broken Hindi that starts getting hard to follow when you lag behind with your bicycle- that all the designs Aagor does are inspired by nature. There are the hills (Pahar), the wink of a peacock (Daorei Mekhrip)- and even the fern (Dinkhiya). Apparently, these are not kept just to the weaving looms- and sometimes carry over into the kitchen. As I sat for lunch earlier in the day, I was served suspicious looking green vegetables (I thought they were beans, initially), and was informed they were actually the locally available ferns. Having only seen these growing in wild abandon everywhere-- and between the pages of the thickest books in our library back home (Mum is incredibly fond of pressing these pretty things to later use to make cards etc), you can only imagine where my shock was coming from. I reluctantly ate some, and it tasted nothing like anything I'd eaten before. Acquired taste, I told myself.

As we came to the end of our long cycle ride-- over bamboo bridges, through open meadows and flooded fields, and on endless concrete roads-- I was almost sad it had to end. However, my stamina was telling, and I knew I couldn't stretch much further. It had been a good three hours of cycling, and I walked back with a surprising spring in my step.

However, now that I'm here, finally on my bed, I can feel my calf muscles groan and complain. They need some getting used to of their own.

The Assam Trails: Love at first sight

[Disclaimer: The build-up, I realise, is a tad bit long and dragged out. Feel free to skim over the rant and get to the substantial part]

By the time I had barely gotten through 12 of the 36 hours I was to spend on the train, the train ride had already begun testing my limits. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for long train rides all by myself, I go advocating them with the annoying enthusiasm of door-to-door sellers, complete with the perma-grin and the cliched “You should try it once and you'll be left begging for more” dialogues. But this one was getting especially difficult to bear.

The start was to blame I guess. The whole thing began on the most annoying note. As soon as Brahmaputra Mail noisily rolled into platform 1A of Old Delhi station at 11pm on the 24th of April, it looked like a situation tailored for chaos. The compartments were either not numbered, or haphazardly so- so that S3 came after S8; and so forth. In the resulting clamour, I ended up traversing up and down the platform, looking for someone who could give me reliable information. Finally, I chanced upon a TT (Ticket collector), and asked him where S10 would be. He confidently pointed to one of the compartments and strode off without a second glance. I then managed to gather up all three of my bags, and made my way to one of the doors. I had assumed getting on would be fairly difficult, given my experience with Indian Railways in the past. I hadn't accounted, however, for the agitated, ruthless young men who were milling around the same door, almost climbing over one another to get on first. The fact that the lights inside the compartment weren't switched on wasn't helping the cause either. Finally, somehow, after major amounts of hustling, cursing, elbowing and stink-eye-giving, I was on board. I quickly harnessed my new-found energy and almost steam rolled over to my seat-- with a God-help-whoever-dares-come-in-my-way attitude. Once there, I realise I'm in the company of seven other very lecherous looking men. Tired, frustrated, and now scared, I'm all but on the verge of tears. Just let this damn train start, I tell myself, I'll climb to my seat (a side upper, quite thankfully) and be dead to the world. Not to be so, apparently. After the train finally sped off and out of Delhi, the chaos refused to die down. The constant traffic of people ruthlessly trampling all over my feet and bags had now driven me to a point of infuriation I didn't quite know I was capable of. And just when I thought things couldn't get worse, a man nonchalantly walked up to me and said “That's my seat.” Working hard to prevent myself from punching his face, I ask for his ticket. It's the same seat number! Then, some rational part of my brain asks me to check for his compartment number. S8. Big sigh.

With a benevolent smile I go, “You're on the wrong compartment, bhaiyya.”

And he goes (practically yelling- so much for the benevolence), “Hello madam! Get your facts right first! This is S8.”

Holy crap. “Which way is S10?”

He point it to me. And I drag my weary, sleepy self there- with my three bags in tow- each becoming heavier by the minute.

However, the night adventures seem to have stopped by then. The TT comes, checks my ticket, and I plonk my luggage on my upper berth and quickly fall asleep cuddling it.

The miseries seemed to transfer on to the next day, however. By the time I wake up, my entire body is lathered in sweat, and I feel like I'm being cooked alive in an oven with no escape door. My stomach grumbles, reminding me there's more to surviving than just lying there waiting for the heat to pass. I decide brushing and generally cleaning up might help the cause, and I walk to the sink, splash the boiling hot water on myself and rinse up a bit. Getting back, I realise lethargy has set back in, and looks like it has come to stay. I forget about the whole hunger thing and try to fall back to sleep. No help. One part of my brain also tells me I'm probably dehydrated and need some ORS (in whatever form) at the earliest. I wait (not so patiently) for the next vendor to come along. And soon enough, one does. Buying a lemon-based aerated drink, I let him go. Its temperature matches that of the surroundings, but I gulp it down in a hurry, and instantly feel better. The wonders sugar can do! The next couple of hours follow the same pattern-- stopping vendors, buying whatever drink they sell, and sustaining myself till the next one comes along. A call from mum also reminds me I need to eat something substantial. And so begins the next stage of project 'Keeping myself alive'. Now, every vendor selling everything is stopped. And so my stomach ends up at the receiving end of everything healthy and unhealthy; tasty and 'ugh' that passes through compartment S10.

Thankfully, evening finally comes along and takes with it the unrelenting sun. And also my general irritation. I brighten up a little, finish reading one of the three books I brought along for company, and make phone calls to apologize for all the collateral damage (read foul conversation) the heat had caused. I then sit and wonder why I'd ever want to get myself in this situation. It was filthy, hot, uncomfortable and (to my mind at that time) absolutely unnecessary. I mope around a little more, eat a lot more, and then troop back up to sleep. Halfway through the second book, I'm fast asleep- with dreams of mum's food and my bed calling out to me.

The next morning, I feel like I've woken up on the wrong train. Or am still in some fantasy. There is a cool breeze coming in through the same windows that were spewing fire the precious day, there is no sun-- or at least not the unrelenting kind, and there's a nip in the air that makes me cover myself with the blanket that's being used as a pillow so far. I spring up, my embarrassing equivalent of pinching myself, and try to figure out what's wrong-- or finally right.

I jump down and look out the windows, and pleasant green paddy fields dancing in the breeze greet my eye. The slight moisture in the air fills my senses, and I rush to the door. I catch the therapeutic wind all over my body, and look out at the surroundings. Dozens of paddy fields interspersed with little bodies of water accumulated from the frequent rains, little thatched huts cozily nestled between an overgrowth of palm trees all around, and the faint outlines of hills in the very back. I rush to get my camera, wondering just how beautiful nature could get. Without realising, the next two hours were spent clicking away and generally taking in the loveliness that surrounded me. Nothing seemed enough. I lapped up more and more of it as it came, growing more delighted by the minute. I finally realise I am overwhelmed. And in love. It is as fitting an example of 'love at first sight' as there could be. I cannot tear myself away. It finally takes a police-man, concerned about this girl hanging on the edge of the train for such a long time, to come and drag me away. Even then, I get back to my seat with a smile that refuses to fade, and an impatience to get to my destination and get working.

And, with the same intensity with which I wondered why I ended up here, I wonder how I will ever be able to wean myself away.

I am head over heels.