Tripping Solo

Turning 30

30 is slightly on the heavier side. It’s the point on the life curve at which you unwittingly slide over to the riper half. They say age is just a number yet its repercussions are inescapable. But like anything else, you have the power to choose how you deal with it. My life has been a roller coaster ride for a very long time now. So I am kind of proud about the mere fact that I’m alive and living on my own terms at 30. I have neither an enviable career nor a fat bank balance and I’ve tortured myself many times in love. But I survived. I found an understanding partner to share my life with. I have a loving dog who makes me smile on the roughest of days. And that’s worth celebrating. I felt that there was no better way to do it than set out on a solo backpacking trip.

The North East comes calling!

Though I have a lot of friends from the North East, I had never travelled to that part of the country until this May. Verdant and untouched, the pristine beauty of nature is something that attracts many travellers to the comparatively less explored states of the North East. Guwahati is the entry point to the seven sister states – Assam, Meghalaya, Tripura, Manipur, Nagaland, Arunachal Pradesh and Mizoram. Of these, the last three require an Inner Line Permit to enter. The ILP can be obtained at the state house in major cities like Delhi and Kolkata. One can apply even after arriving in Guwahati or Shillong. I took the help of some Couchsurfing friends to plan my itinerary. Online forums like Indiamike.com and Tripadvisor are also extremely useful resources for independent travellers.

I boarded my flight from Bangalore to Guwahati on Friday, the 13^th of May 2016. My tentative itinerary for the following 10 days was as follows:

Bangalore - Guwahati - Shillong - Cherrapunji - Shillong - Mawlynnong - Dawki - Shillong - Kaziranga - Majuli - Kohima - Guwahati - Bangalore

I stuck to this plan to a large extent. But there are some things that are better left to chance. I did just that. Simply by allowing my best laid out plans to take a backseat as the journey gained momentum and by letting it evolve into something I’ve never imagined, I created the space for surprise and spontaneity. And that made all the difference.

Couchsurfing in Guwahati

On my first night in Guwahati, I was hosted by Rupali, a vivacious and independent lady in her late forties. My flight landed at 7:30 pm and it was past 9 when I arrived at her apartment. The house was colourful with contemporary décor and was adorned with the idols of Buddha and Ganesha. Music played on in the background as we exchanged pleasantries. A sumptuous meal consisting of rice, roti, dal, palak paneer and Naga style pork with bamboo shoots, was laid out on the table. I gave up my one-month vegetarian challenge the very night I stepped foot in the city that is aptly called the Gateway to the North East.

Rupali works for the government and leads a very affluent life, gladly embracing her quirks and openly acknowledging her eccentricities. Unabashedly true to herself, she admits having walked out of a sixteen year-long love marriage because she fell out of “love”. Yet, she calls the ex-husband, her best friend. They work together, go out for coffees and maintain a healthy relationship. After they split, she took the initiative to find him a bride and chose the no-strings-attached lifestyle for herself. She talks endlessly about her four-year old granddaughter, and life in general. She is a moderately religious Brahmin, her ex-husband is Mongoloid and her daughter is married to a Muslim. She has travelled to many different countries and has friends around the globe. Generous, beautiful and intelligent, she has a lot to keep her going. In her own words, “marriage is a wonderful institution, but who wants to live in an institution?!”. Another line that amused me: “There’s no right or wrong path. When you’ve lived your life and look back, you find a path. Well, that’s your path – nothing right or wrong about it.” Though she is contemplating on moving to Singapore where she has a successful fishing business, she has already shortlisted the best old age retreats in India.

Next morning, going by Rupali’s recommendation, I visited the well-known Kamakhya temple. I had to switch buses and wait around to get to the ancient rocky temple situated on a hillock. It made me wonder why I chose to go there. I would have probably dropped the idea if I had known that getting there was so tedious. Nevertheless, it was amusing to watch the antics of religiosity. The Kamakhya Temple hosts the annual Ambubachi Mela – a festival to mark the menstrual cycle of the presiding Goddess and celebrate fertility and procreation. The legend is rooted in the Mahabharata. It is said that Goddess Sati committed suicide by jumping into the holy fire because she could not bear to see her husband, Lord Shiva, being insulted by her father, Daksha at the great Yagna. When an aggrieved and enraged Shiva – the Destroyer wandered aimlessly with his wife’s dead body on his shoulders and embarked on the Tandava (the dance of destruction), Lord Vishnu intervened and cut up Sati’s body with his Chakra. The parts fell at 108 different places which came to be known as Shakti peeths. It is the Yoni or Vagina that fell in the Kamakhya region. The Goddess is believed to be having her cycle three days a year and the Brahmaputra assumes a blood red colour during that time. The temple remains shut then and on the fourth day, reopens with great festivities.

On my way back from the temple, I met Rupali and family at a popular restaurant in the city called Terra Maaya. Unlike her mother, Rupali’s daughter was more poised and reserved with an affable charm. Her granddaughter could easily become the life of any party with her irresistible cuteness and intelligent demeanour. I felt completely at ease in this new company. The buffet spread comprised of both Indian and continental cuisine accompanied by a drink. The corn and cheese tart almost melted in the mouth. Later that evening, there was a party in the house. Friends came over at dinner time and the booze and chat session peppered by the choicest delicacies stretched way into the night. I was briefed about each one of them before they arrived – two men worked in the army and the third man accompanied by his much younger girlfriend was a business tycoon. The topics of discussion ranged from love and infidelity to travel and adventure. They found me intelligent, they said. After all, the subject of the conversation was something I have delved into in great detail.

Scotland of the East

I left Rupali’s house at 10 am after a hearty breakfast comprising of onion paratha, kheema mattar and egg and toast. Shared taxis plied from Khanapara to Shillong throughout the day. I didn’t expect the journey to be so testing. It was just a two-hour drive and the scenery was picturesque but I had to wait more than an hour in the taxi. Since it was a Sunday, there were less passengers and it took a very long time for the taxi to get filled up. I was squashed in the front seat between the driver and another girl. Akhir, an acquaintance from the CouchSurfing community met me at Police Bazaar, the central part of Shillong city. Though he was about 25, he looked much younger. Akhir belonged to the Khasi community. A school drop-out, he came from a poor family and worked hard to create a good life for himself. He was exceedingly courteous and helpful, and altogether a dependable guide if you pardon his tendency to succumb to boyish frailties. I was eager to try the Khasi cuisine and so we went around looking for restaurants serving authentic local food. It seemed Chinese, Bengali, and even North Indian food were more easily available than Khasi and most of the shops were closed since it was a Sunday. Eventually, we spotted a small restaurant named Rice Bowl in the Police Bazaar area that served Khasi food along with other cuisines. We ordered Jalieh (rice), Doh Khleh Sniang (Pork cooked with sauted onions), Doh Kha Khylla (fish curry with cauliflower and green peas) and Jamyr Doh (tangy veg salad). It was a hearty meal – lightly spiced and meaty. 

Meghalaya Tourism Development Corporation (MTDC) organizes day trips to nearby tourist spots like Cherrapunjee, Mawlynnong and Mawsynram. The only caveat is that these trips can get cancelled when there aren’t enough tourists to fill the bus. I booked my Cherrapunjee tour for the next day by paying half the fare amount of Rs.350 at the MTDC office in Police Bazaar, and visited the Shillong Golf course later . The vast green lawns at the golf course have become a picnic spot for locals and tourists alike.

We had dinner at Café Shillong in Laitumkhrah, a posh locality in the city with a number of schools, colleges and churches. When we arrived there, the weekend revelry was on with live English music. It is one of the most popular hangouts in the city with pleasing vibes and tastefully decorated interiors. I spent my first night in Shillong at a Youth Hostel. I got a four-bed room to myself for a price of Rs. 570. Though the room was poorly maintained, it seemed like a good deal considering the fact that I only needed a safe place to sleep for the night. I had booked hotel Lakeview Inn beside Wards Lake for the following day.

When I got to the hostel that night, the place was thumping with a jazzy Bollywood orchestra and a Muslim wedding was happening in the background. The nostalgic fragrance of freshly prepared Biriyani made me feel that I was at some place in sync with my Calicut upbringing. Though that was nothing pacifying, the ambience had a striking familiarity with that of the place I could never belong to despite being an integral part of.  My night at the Youth Hostel was quite unnerving at first with people banging on my door while I pretended not to hear. A while later, I heard a group of men singing “Malare” at the top of their voices. I felt funny - weirdly relieved. I had read somewhere that Shillong is the coolest city in India and I’d been longing to visit the city for quite some time. But somehow, it fails to impress me. Sure its hilly and green with colonial buildings and purple flowers, but there’s something about the place that doesn’t appeal to me. I had read in many places about the rampant drug abuse problem in the North East and I got a first-hand glimpse of it in Shillong – I saw at least three people smoking up or rolling a joint out in the open. The population is mixed and I felt that one needed to be wary especially while strolling in the Police Bazaar area after dusk. However, I was impressed by the ease with which men and women, girls and boys mixed and mingled in this part of the country. I also felt good seeing the jovial faces of the meat and vegetable vendors in Bara Bazaar.

Moving from Rupali’s eccentricities and extravagance to Akhir’s simplicity and struggles, was a long leap for me. I felt I’d not found the core of my travel just yet – something that moved me and resonated with my being. I hoped for better things in the days ahead. A monk sat next to me during my onward flight to Guwahati. Perhaps, that was a sign – his innocence and cheerfulness were contagious.

The Wettest place in the World

I left the Youth Hostel at 7 am and dropped off my luggage at the Lakeview Inn before reporting at the MTDC office for the Cherrapunjee day tour. There were all kinds of people in the bus – lovey-dovey couples and bickering females, over-sized families and a couple of men celebrating their exclusive freedom to roam carefree in a biased country like ours. There was a tall handsome man carrying a high-end camera, going about his business with a solemn air. We were welcomed into Sohra aka Cherrapunjee by steep rocks covered in dense green bushes with clear waters spurting down, their beauty enhanced multifold by the tarrying drizzle. Every few kilometres there was a clearing where a road led on to a village and in some places, you could see white cemented houses with a blue or green or red border. The tour covered some of the major tourist attractions in Cherrapunjee such as the Mawsmai Caves and the Seven Sister Waterfall. The only misfortune was the poor visibility levels due to the rising fog, preventing us from witnessing the magnificent splendour of some renowned waterfalls. The people were pleasant and content in their settings and they did not feel the need to be excessively hospitable. Nor were they overly interested in outsiders and their world where they looked and felt like strangers with their exquisite Mongoloid features and sparing exposure. My fellow travellers – some down with motion sickness and some engrossed in taming their kids – made so much noise that it ate into the serenity of the journey. Most people seemed to be amused at the sight of a solo woman traveller.

Back in Shillong, I checked into the hotel and later, had dinner with Akhir at a popular Khasi restaurant called Trattoria. As per my itinerary, I was supposed to go to Mawlynnong the next day and proceed to Dawki from there. There are not many public transport options to get to places  like Mawlynnong which is just 80 km away. The easiest way is to hire a taxi for the day and that costs roughly Rs.2500. Since it was way beyond my budget, I thought about changing my plans. My mood was not at its best and the presence of my new friend sometimes irked me. I felt stung despite all his care and generosity. I was visibly rude and offended when a guy tried to pick a conversation with me, using the most untactful openers like “Are you traveling alone?”. Back in my room, I tried to distract myself by switching on the television, but it failed to captivate me. I started wondering why it was such a taboo for a woman to entertain herself by taking solo trips or for that matter, even stay in a hotel. Realizing that I was getting exceedingly disheartened, Akhir came up with a plan. I could take a shared cab to Pynursla, halfway between Shillong and Mawlynnong, where his cousin Andrew would pick me up. Andrew worked as a tourist guide. He would also arrange a homestay at his relative’s. And that would cost Rs. 900 – 400 for the pickup and 500 for the room. Not a bad deal at all. I was relieved.

The Cleanest Village in Asia

And so it happened. The next morning, Akhir diligently seated me in a shared cab starting from Bara Bazaar. The drive was fun – squeezed in the front seat with three others as the car sped through hilly roads. It was amazing how everyone, regardless of gender and age, cooperated to get to where they wanted to go, smiling along the way. It was pouring heavily when I reached Pynursla and I took shelter in a shopfront, chit-chatting with the locals as I waited for Andrew who soon showed up in his car. The second half of the drive was beautiful with the surroundings flushed alive by the downpour, white smoke escaping from the mountain peaks and winding roads leading to greener lands, as soothing Khasi music played on. There were many “tea and rice” shops along the way, which are the Khasi equivalent of modern day coffee shops. The cute little homestay that awaited me in the ‘cleanest village in Asia’ was far above my expectations. The hospitality of the family and the innocent welcome by the kids erased all the ill-feeling of the previous night. After a hearty lunch, I proceeded by foot towards the world renowned Living Root Bridges. The walk took a toll on my weak heart and frail legs. To add to the adventure, the skies decided to switch from “sunny” to “rainy” and a little later, “rib-ticklingly rainy”.

The Khasi people in Meghalaya have developed the unique skill of shaping the aerial roots of living banyan trees to form bridges across rivers. These have come to be known as the Living Root Bridges and are declared a World Heritage Site by the UNESCO. A narrow path through the villages led to the root bridges. I got down the rocky stairs, umbrella in one hand, trying not to slip. The bridge was fenced on either side by root formations and the walkway was made of stone. It was not quite what I expected to see but the stream gushing below in full vigour was a treat for the eyes. I have heard that the one in Cherrapunjee is better formed and it requires a strenuous trek of about 2 hours to reach the bridge. A flight of steps led from the bridge to the view point further high up. Not very much a trekking enthusiast, taking on physically challenging tasks isn’t really my thing. The climb became particularly trying in the rains and there wasn’t anybody around to give me a hand if I slipped and fell. I followed the signboards leading to the viewpoint and kept going despite the torrential rain and thunderclaps. To an onlooker, I would have appeared a crackpot with a screw or two missing. I was alone, completely drenched and belonged to the fairer sex (whatever that means). I laughed at myself for doing what I was doing. But I was determined not to go back halfway. It gave me a strange sense of satisfaction – the very fact that I was totally out of my comfort zone, searching for adventure. I braved the storm and arrived at the view point where a young lad led me on to the edge of a narrow bamboo walkway jutting out into the sky. The view was breath-taking – smoky mountains with dashes of waterfalls that appeared like chalk drawings. It was at eye level but I stood far, very far. When I turned around to leave, I saw two guys roughly my age who were there in search of the same things I was after. It gave a sense of camaraderie. One of them was very handsome and I felt like a high schooler. I requested the boy who guarded the viewpoint to accompany me to the bridge. He showed me his village and spoke to me about his passion for football and the upcoming tournament in Kolkata he was going to participate in. The two guys were right behind and we got talking. They were from Delhi – school friends who set out on an adventure trip to take a break from their hectic lives. They dropped me back to the homestay in their car.

I showered in the Khasi style bath room which was half open. You need to sit down so that people don’t see you in your full glory through the gap between the roof and the sidewalls. Nangroi, my new host soon made me a cup of tea and crisp rotis. I told her that I wanted to try on the kind of dress she was wearing, hearing which Nangroi disappeared into her quarters and came out in a jiffy with a piece of black and white checkered cotton cloth. The costume called the jain-kyrshah is draped around the body and knotted above one shoulder. She put it on me and felt happy with what she saw. It rained cats and dogs as I made friends with the kids – two girls and twin boys. The little ones were naughty and playful, kissing my hand and goofing around while the older girl acted mature and sensible for her age. They invited me in as one of the women in the house cleaned the jackfruit plucked from the garden. The power lines were down. Neighbours and relatives got together carrying hand lanterns and sat around the kitchen fire, exchanging stories and chewing betel leaves. Areca nut is the most widely grown crop in the area. When the power was back, Nangroi handed me her diary and asked me to pen a few lines in there. I asked her to write in mine too. She did but in Khasi. Now I need to find someone who can translate it for me.

Life at the Border

The next morning, I bid good bye to the beautiful little village that had presented me with such great memories. The shared taxi to Dawki left at 7 am. I was back on the road again. The route from Mawlynnong to Dawki, at the Indo-Bangladesh border, has many striking waterfalls along the way. The Umngot river with its mirror-like green waters running deep and clear, welcomed us into this busy town as the taxi lugged its way across the suspension bridge hanging over it. Standing on the banks of the river it was difficult to know where our country ended and another began. The lines of separation drawn by man creating nations and identities seemed flimsy. Taking a boat ride across the river was the best way to experience its spellbinding beauty. The river flowed between steep rocks enshrouded by dense shrubbery and hanging roots. Water dripped down like crystals in the crevices near the ends of the bridge. The landscape reflected in the waters created a transporting aura.

At the river bank, a BSF soldier offered to safe-keep my rucksack while I enjoyed the boat ride. He even said that I was similar to a soldier – moving about with a heavy backpack. I smiled. On my return, he took me around the women-dominated paan market and the main bazaar where vendors from nearby villages gathered to sell their wares on market days. A market day is held every four days and that’s when this quaint little town comes alive. A lot of buying and selling happens on this day and public transport to and from adjoining villages is available in plenty. It was easy to identify the most popular restaurant in the area by the rush of customers thronging in and out. We bought a plate of momos and drank tea. The Delhi guys I met at the Living Root Bridges in Mawlynnong had recommended a night stay by the river at Shnongpdeng, a remote village about 8 km from Dawki. Since I was hard-pressed for time, I cut it down to a quick visit to the river front. The BSF soldier helped me get on to a passenger cab going to Shnongpdeng. The river, wider and clearer, was a better version of the one in Dawki and the village itself was tucked away in a corner without much intrusion from the border town. I returned to Shillong after lunch in a shared cab starting from Dawki market. We were dropped off at the taxi stand in Bara Bazaar, Shillong. A co-passenger, a middle aged Khasi woman working as a teacher, helped me get back to the hotel. Later that evening, Akhir treated me to a local delicacy called boiled cake at Palace, one of the popular hangouts in the city. It is made from milk cream and has the consistency of cottage cheese. Before saying our goodbyes, we tried the Chole Batura and Shilling mango pickle at Delhi Mishtan Bandhar, an old and iconic eatery in the heart of Police Bazaar. The next morning, I hopped on a bus back to Guwahati and bid ‘Khublei’ to the Abode of Clouds.

Becoming an EcoTourist

The bus stopped for a quick break at Nongpoh, about 40 km from Guwahati. The homemade pickles sold there are quite well-known. They have everything from fish and prawn to jack fruit and bamboo shoot, besides the world’s hottest and the locally grown chilli pepper known as bhut jolokia or ghost chilli. I got off at Khanapara, on the outskirts of Guwahati, where a man was kind enough to help me cross the highway, jumping over the divider with my bag to get to the bus parked on the other side of the road. I can’t emphasise enough the kindness of strangers that often come to our rescue in times of need, like a Godsend. These are the moments when our closest friend or next of kin can do little to help us and we are compelled to rely solely on the goodness of humanity and our presence of mind. And so, thanks to a stranger belonging to the dangerous other sex, I was on my way to Kaziranga – the land of the one-horned rhino. My stay for the night was booked through Makemytrip at Dhansiri Eco Camp in Bokakhat, on the edge of Agartoli, the eastern range of the Kaziranga National Park. The views from the bus window had become predictable by then – vast stretches of paddy fields glistening in the sun, oozing the most succulent hue of green, as cows and goats in variegated coats grazed unhurriedly on them. I had authentic Assamese lunch consisting of rice, dal, aloo sabzi and chicken curry, at a roadside restaurant in Jakhalabandha, the point where all the buses plying that route stop for a midday break. As the bus passed through the National Park in Kohora, we sighted a couple of elephants by the roadside and a few rhinos further away. The proprietor of Dhansiri Eco Camp picked me up from Bokakhat bus stop. We drove down to the camp in his run down gypsy, taking in the charm of bucolic life. It was 10 km off the main road, quietly nestled in the midst of rice fields and adjacent to the settlements of the Mising tribe along the banks of the Dhansiri river. Dhansiri originates from the Laisang peak in Nagaland and ultimately joins the Brahmaputra. The camp housed four to five bamboo huts built in the traditional Mising style, raised a few metres above the ground. There were cows, goats, chicken and geese apart from a gang of dogs that assumed the responsibility of welcoming guests and guarding the cottages.

The area was bathed in a natural abundance so refreshing that it wiped out all the ill-effects of urbanization which have become an intrinsic feature of city living. I went on a short gypsy safari later in the afternoon and through the binoculars, caught a glimpse of elephants taking a dip in the river, rhinos ambling by the side and some rare birds perched on the edge of the fields. There was also the option of taking a boat ride from a nearby point but that costed Rs. 2000 for five people and being all by myself, I would have had to pay the full fare. The camp was powered by solar energy as a conscious move towards environmental conservation. The huts were comfortable with all the basic amenities and the food served was simple and traditional. Plug points were available only in the dining area. The owner, a wildlife filmmaker in his forties, had set up his studio in the camp itself. He led a laidback life in the company of nature and his family lived not very far. He was uncomfortable with my plans to visit Kohima because I had to go via Dimapur, which was notorious for political unrest and violence. I didn’t quite enjoy his company but he seemed to be a decent man. After breakfast, he announced that the pickup/drop and gypsy ride were chargeable and I had to pay Rs. 600 for the service. Food cost Rs. 130. Well, that costed as much as the room itself.

The whole business model of Dhansiri seemed like a rip off. The place was far away from the Bokakhat main road and if you did not have your own vehicle like me, you had to depend on the owner to go anywhere. The National Park was a good 30 km away and getting there from the camp costed a bomb – Rs. 1500 for coming and going alone. I didn’t know this because in all the reviews, people listed Kaziranga National Park as the main attraction of the place. So I assumed that I’d be able to visit the park and do the touristy things around it. Unless you have your own vehicle and want to spend some quiet time in the green hamlet watered by the Dhansiri river, it didn’t make much sense to stay there. If you want to visit the National Park, a practical alternative would be staying in Kohora, closer to the main entrance of the park. There are many budget hotels and luxury resorts around that area. But if you are intent on exploring the rustic life of the tribals and soaking in the serenity of nature with little interference from the developed world, Dhansiri is the place to be.

The Largest River Island

The next destination was Majuli – the largest river island in the world. To get there, I needed to take a ferry from Neemati Ghat, about half an hour from Jorhat town. Ferries operated every hour until 3pm. Jorhat was roughly 35 km away from where I was. My host at Dhansiri offered to drop me at Jorhat the next morning when he went to pick his daughter. Though he seemed a bit old school, he was genuinely concerned about my safety and proved to be quite resourceful. At Jorhat ISBT, he confirmed that there was no direct bus to Kohima, as he had told me earlier. The only way to get there was by changing buses at Dimapur. Since I hadn’t arranged an inner line permit, I would have to do it at Dimapur. That’s when I remembered Deb – our new Assamese friend from DLG Farm. I had an open invite to visit his village. So I got in touch with him and agreed to meet him and his family on my return from Majuli. I got dropped off at the ASTC bus stand, from where I boarded the bus to Neemati Ghat. In the bus, I was seated next to a man about my age. He had come to Jorhat to see a doctor but had forgotten the slip at home and so, was asked to return the next day. He seemed a little clingy, even offering me a room to stay in his mother’s house. Unlike what I had gathered from the internet, there was a direct ferry to Kamalabhari, the main town in the island. There was also a ferry to Dakhinpat Ghat but getting to Kamalabhari from there would be difficult.  The bus arrived at the Ghat just in time for the ferry. My new self-appointed guide insisted that we have lunch at one of the run down shacks outside the Ghat. The derelict condition of the shack and the compelling tone of the guy irked me so much that I quickly escaped and found myself a seat in the crowded boat. The ferry ride lasted about 45 minutes. The guy hopped on the ferry just before it departed, located me in the crowd and signalled with his hand that he would meet me at the alighting point. I wished he would just run out of sight. The Brahmaputra was a placid expanse of endless waters, a myriad stories hidden in its depths. Once in Kamalabhari, the passengers swarmed out of the boat like entrapped chickens experiencing freedom. The guy appeared at the exit as he promised and we took the first bus to Kamalabhari town. I politely refused the invitation to visit his house explaining that I wished to stay in a guesthouse at one of the Satras or Assamese monasteries. He accompanied me to the Satra and proceeded to wait outside till I freshened up. I thanked him for the help and assured him that I could manage on my own. He left.

Having read many raving reviews about Majuli, my expectations from the island were very high. But baring the Mising homes along the river edges with its legs steeped in water, nothing seemed so extraordinary. After all, Majuli is the world’s largest river island and that’s what you should expect to see, I consoled myself. My room at Kamalabhari Satra was a very basic double-bed room with an attached bath and toilet. The guesthouse was deserted with narrow and dark walkways. The stained bed covers looked like they hadn’t been washed for ages. The bathroom was run down and unkempt. I managed to shower and get out before the sick feeling got to me. As I walked towards the main road, I rang up the CS friend who had suggested that I visit Majuli. He said I should go to Garamur, which has a tourist information centre and try to find a guide. He mentioned about Haren Da, a much loved and respected man in Majuli who also ran a guest house. I hailed a shared cab, popularly known as Magic after the brand of the vehicle, and got off at Garamur Satra.

Satras are important socio-religious centres and the epicentre of Assamese Neo-Vaishnavite culture that evolved from the teachings of Srimanth Sankardev and his disciples. They house hundreds of celibate and non-celibate monks and serve as the hub of religion, culture and art in Assam. I arrived in Majuli not fully aware of its significance. All I knew was that it is a renowned river island, home to monasteries and exotic species of migratory birds. It is only when I started digging deeper, I began to understand the wealth of tradition that is enfolded into the history of this landmass encircled by the Brahmaputra. At the Garamur Satra, I interacted with monks – both young and old, sitting on flat, wooden stools which stood a few inches above the ground, and sipping freshly brewed tea. As my friend suggested, I introduced myself as a journalist who was there to study the heritage of Majuli. Before leaving, they urged me to get the “darshan”, which meant I inadvertently bowed before the presiding deity as the monk chanted a few indecipherable mantras. I also gobbled some paan offered by the devotees and my head started reeling. I didn’t know that the white lime stone paste smeared on the betel leaf, was so potent. I walked to Garamur town and enquired about the tourist center. One of the men asked me where I was put up and Haren Da’s name almost fell from my lips. He immediately dialled Haren Da’s number and the “God of Majuli” (in my friend’s words), soon appeared on his scooty. My love for Majuli blossomed at that very moment.

My scooty ride to Kamalabhari felt like a breeze – a welcome change from getting squashed in shared taxis. I enjoyed taking in the different sights – stretches of immaculate green fields, marshlands with black wooden boats floating on them, bamboo forests hovering over narrow lanes. As Haren Da proceeded to leave after dropping me at Kamalabhari Satra, my heart sank. He said that he was just helping me get to wherever I wanted to go. So I explained that I had only one night in Majuli and wanted to make full use of my time there. I asked how much he charged for his guest house services and added that my budget was low. But he refused to quote a price, assuring me it was alright and money didn’t matter. I sighed in relief, ran to my room and packed my bag in a jiffy. I locked the room and left the keys at the reception. The place looked forsaken and the man who received me when I went in earlier, was not around – the same guy who reassured me that the Satra was truly safe – yahan pe koi bura nahi hota (nothing bad ever happens here). I felt like a run away.

The Mising Adventure

On my way to the guest house, I found out that Haren Da belonged to the Mising tribe and they worshipped the Sun and the Moon (Donyi Polo). The twilight sky was a motley of colours – a slow intermingling of blues and oranges and whites and greys. I saw a myriad hues reflected in the solemn waters of the Brahmaputra and I experienced the goodness of the Supreme Power reflected in the form of man. It was dark by the time we reached the resort where Mising style cottages were spaced out on a huge lawn. It was off-season in Majuli and there were hardly any tourists. The resort was a stone’s throw away from Haren Da's basthi or native village. He consoled me saying though the place looked like a jungle at night, it was not really so. His wife welcomed me in with the sweetest smile. Clad in a blouse and waist cloth, and another wrapped around her bosom, she was remarkably beautiful with delicate feminine features, flawless skin and an hour-glass figure. As if to guard her from all evil, her eyes were squinted. Instead of overshadowing her beauty, it lent a particular innocence to her face. She readied the hut for me and told me many stories about her tribe. They had a solution to all my problems. She promised to send one of their boys with the Scooty to take me around Majuli, the next day. My Kohima plan was cancelled eventually and I decided to stay two nights in Majuli before visiting Deb’s village.

In the Mising community, two people with the same surname cannot get married. If they do, they are expelled from society. But eloping had become the norm and parents were prepared for that. It didn’t matter much though if they stuck to the different surname rule. Haren Da’s wife said that her sisters had eloped too. So when she fell in love with Haren Da, who she ran into at a Mising student body meeting, they decided to get married with their parents’ consent. The Mising people lead very simple lives, very much in tune with nature. The society is patriarchal, the oldest male member being the head of the house. The main Mising festival called the Ali Aye Leegang celebrates the beginning of the sowing season. The traditional weaving setup is an integral part of every home. The hand-woven garments are an exclusive preserve of the Mising woman, gifted to her at the time of her wedding. She has to wear these at the wedding. The lady of the house weaves clothes for the entire family and passes on the skill to her daughters.

I showered and went out to the dining hall for dinner. A wholesome meal comprising of rice, dal, leafy vegetables, potato and fried fish was laid out on a brass plate. The dishes cooked in the traditional way with minimal use of spices, retained the true flavour of its ingredients. I flipped through a coffee table book about Majuli, published by the Information Service and Public Relations wing of the Assamese government. Haren Da promised to meet me around six in the morning to watch the sunrise by the riverside. The events of the day were so overwhelming that it made me ponder over the existence of the Force that’s beyond human control or comprehension. It also enhanced my faith in humanity. The whole experience seemed like an analogy - a very personal lesson.

As promised, Haren Da met me in the morning and after a refreshing cup of green tea, we proceeded to the riverside. Though we could not see the sun rising, it was very pleasant to be up and about so early and in such a picturesque setting. Breakfast was milk, rice and jaggery had just the way you have milk and cereal. More than a hundred varieties of rice are grown in Majuli and the one served for breakfast was smaller and crispier. Later, Haren Da took me around his basthi and I watched their daily life in action – the women weaving traditional garments and dehusking the rice harvested from the fields, the livestock moving about in the courtyard and the men out on their boats, fishing for the day’s meal. When it started drizzling, we went inside one of the homes. They served one of the best teas I’ve ever had – it tasted so different, almost like spiced tea. There were no separate bedrooms in the house - just a huge hall and a kitchen. Rice beer popularly known as Apong was packed in black polythene bags and placed in a corner of the hall.

A couple of hours later, my guide for the day came around on his bike. He took me to some of the main Satras – Uttar Kamalabhari, Dakhinpat, Auniati and Shamaguri. The Satras have an air of sobriety and austere reverence that is unique to religious institutions. All of them have a prayer hall in the central area known as the Namghar. Some of them housed museums with relics from the past. At Shamaguri Satra, we got a brief introduction to the mask-making craft for which it is famous. These masks made from bamboo frames, paper pulp and natural colours are used in religious drama performances held during the festivals. The Raasleela is one of the main festivals of Majuli when the whole island comes alive in jubilation. It drizzled all morning and I perfectly enjoyed my morning ride through the inner lanes of Majuli. We even spotted a rare stork standing tall near the paddy fields. The tour ended at noon with a hearty meal from a restaurant in Kamalabhari – the delicious Masor Tenga or the Assamese sour fish curry and rice was delightful. The afternoon seemed to crawl away as the skies shed their burdens. Nobody was around till night. For dinner, the boy in the kitchen served apong, fish and rice with dal and vegetables. It tasted wonderful. He also gave me a book about the Mising tribe since I’d been asking a lot of questions about their tribe.

I began to understand why people fall in love with this beautiful river island and how Majuli casts its spell over unsuspecting tourists with its pristine beauty and laidback lifestyle. The rich culture, strong religious roots and exotic flora and fauna add to the charm. Majuli is known to be a bird watcher’s paradise with rare migratory birds flocking to the island every season. The crafts of mask-making, pottery and boat-making practised here have been kept alive for generations, garnering global acclaim. Another reason Majuli is treasured is because there is a high possibility that the river island would be fully lost to soil erosion in the next 15-20 years. A large portion of the island is already gone and the land is shrinking. The government has taken up serious conservative measures to protect this river locked landmass generously bestowed with nature’s bounties.

To the Heart of Chungajan

I took the 7:30 am ferry back to Neemati Ghat. It was raining like crazy when I left the resort. The boat was jam packed with little breathing space. In the midst of all the chaos, people pushed their way around to buy tea and roasted peanuts from the store set up in a corner of the boat. The lady standing beside me carried a baby in a sling tied around her body and held a huge bag in one hand. She spat on the floor and even changed the baby’s clothes in all this commotion. When I could take it no longer, I went out to the open deck where a few men stood, talking and watching the river flow. I felt better at first but it soon turned quite unpleasant when my back got fully wet in the rain.  The wind was strong and that made things worse. One of the guys started talking to me in broken English. He belonged to the Mising tribe and worked as an English teacher. Another man caught everyone’s attention with his outlandish behavior. He was dressed in a flashy red t-shirt that hung close to his lean body and fancy denim pants. The look was completed with a pair of multi-coloured sunglasses and worn out sneakers. He was nearly bald with a few white hairs sticking out on the sides. He talked endlessly about the places he visited and the national level football match he played. Howrah bridge and Gurgaon came up in his monologue. He knew a lot more than the others around him and ensured that everyone else knew that he knew so much. He got me a pack of roasted peanuts to make the ride easier.

When we finally got to the Ghat, I hailed a shared taxi to Jorhat town where I switched to an auto that took me to the ASTC bus stand. By then, I had become used to the clumsy rides. The dearth of cleanliness no longer bothered me. Deb had agreed to meet me at Golaghat bus stand which was about an hour and a half away from Jorhat. The bus to Golaghat was stuffed to the edge of suffocation, yet the conductor managed to let in more passengers. It was five minutes past twelve when I reached Golaghat. I met Deb at the bus stand and we bought tickets to go to Saru Pathar, the town closest to his village. I had just missed the only direct bus to Deb’s village. My phone was dying and my charger had conked off. We bought a cheap Chinese charger from a mobile store near the bus stand. It lasted less than a month. The bus pulled its weight through remote towns and villages, forests and tea districts. I realized that I was in one of the more interior regions of Assam. We had tea and momos at Saru Pathar and I bought some Golaghat tea from one of the exclusive tea stores. We hailed an auto to get to a neighbouring village called Naojan. Deb lived in Chungajan, which was further away. From Naojan, we had to hire a car to reach there. From the main road where we got off to the neighborhood where he lived, was roughly a kilometre-long stretch of slushy mud path that was best traversed by foot. It had been raining continuously till that day and the earth was soggy. The village was scenic with deep hues colouring both land and sky and the villagers were eager to meet Deb’s friend from Kerala.

Deb’s family welcomed me into their little mud-house with a lot of love and warmth. Mud houses are usually built by plastering mud and cow dung on bamboo frames and smoothening the surface with fresh clay, giving it a cool, earthen touch. It felt refreshing to walk on. The makeshift toilet and bath facilities at Deb's house are made from tarpaulin sheets, with a curtain for a door. A trip to the bathroom made me realize how much we take for granted everyday. I began to appreciate the luxury we experience in our daily life. I felt that this trip was a way of taking me back to the beginning of civilization, one step at a time. There are two houses in the same compound, Deb’s parents live in one and his wife and kid, in the other. His sister lives with her husband and two daughters, a short distance away. Deb’s mother and sister are tall and sturdy while his wife is demure and pretty.  At the time, she was nine months pregnant and her bump protruded out like the baby would jump out any moment. But that did not deter her from carrying on with her chores. I wasn’t carrying any gifts, so I gave them the Makemytrip travel kits I got at the hotels I stayed at. Deb’s family was so hospitable and sweet, taking genuine care of me and ensuring I was comfortable in their modest settings. I had a sumptuous dinner comprising of chicken, rice, roti and dal with the accompaniment of a local brew. Deb and I went for a stroll around the neighbourhood and we also visited his sister’s house. Located near the border of Assam and Nagaland, the culture in Chungajan is mixed, with both Axomi and Naga influence. I also got to visit a Naga home and chit-chat with the elders there. The key difference between Assamese and Naga cuisine is that the Nagas hardly use any oil in their cooking. They usually boil their meat and vegetables and spice it up with herbs and chilli. The hottest chilli pepper called Bhut Jolokia grows in abundance in the village.  They are also known to hunt for frogs in the rainy season. The Nagas are more stylish and well-dressed, and they also speak better English. I thoroughly enjoyed the last leg of my journey; it was like the finishing stroke to my masterpiece – a solo trip to celebrate the fact that I survived 30 long years on this sometimes, ruthless and sometimes, benevolent planet.

I had booked my return train ticket from Dimapur to Guwahati even before I started on my trip, keeping the Kohima plan in mind. Dimapur is just 35 km from Chungajan and there was a direct bus in the morning. Deb dropped me to the railway station and I boarded the train back to Guwahati at 11:30 am. In the seat across mine, sat a woman in her mid-thirties. She seemed dejected and angry at the whole world. Her vacant expression was discomfiting. A young boy of about five slept on her lap. She was evidently rude to the man traveling with her. He attended to the boy’s needs without much thought. Realizing that I was observing them, the woman started talking to me. And she smiled for a change. In between, she began to tear up. It had been only three months since her husband passed away and she was going to her mother’s house. The man by her side was her brother-in-law. I felt sorry for her. She came across as a strong woman. Since she had never worked before, she was confused about what jobs to look for. We talked a lot during the course of the journey.

My room for the night was booked at Hotel City Palace in Paltan Bazaar, right next to the railway station. The receptionist at the hotel suggested that I leave early in the morning to get to the airport in time as our Prime Minister, Narendra Modi was visiting Guwahati. The election results were announced just a few days ago and BJP had won in Assam. I was supposed to stay at Rupali’s house that night but she couldn’t host me as she had to travel to Delhi for work. With the formation of the new government, Rupali’s official duties had changed. I was planning to buy bamboo shoots and organic tea from the supermarket near Rupali’s house. Now that things had changed, I went around looking for bamboo shoots in Paltan Bazaar but to no avail. Some even said that it was not sold in Guwahati. Tea was available in plenty, both loose and packaged. For dinner, I had fish thali at a local dhaba. It was so watery that it reminded me of the floods in Assam. That brings to mind Haren Da’s words, “We wait for the floods every year. It doesn’t feel good if there’s no flood.” Truly, they are a people who have learned to dance in the storm.

I took the airport volvo shuttle from Paltan Bazaar at 6:15 am. The boarding point was roughly a kilometre from the hotel I stayed at. I reached the airport way before time, checked in and waited at the boarding gate. Next to me sat an old lady traveling by flight for the first time. Her daughter who lived with her husband in Bangalore, wasn’t keeping too well. The jittery lady turned to me for assurance. As we were chatting, the airport personnel announced that the boarding had begun. I flew back to Bangalore and took a Volvo bus to HSR Layout where my husband picked me up and transported me back to my reality – a cosy home we were about to vacate where our cute little dog anxiously waited for us.

And thus, my North East saga ended, gifting irreplaceable memories and valuable lessons to last a lifetime.