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.