Tengani 2017

'টেঙানি ২০১৭' পঞ্চানন হাজৰিকাৰ "আন্ধাৰতকৈ উদাস বতাহতকৈ স্বাধীন" সংকলনখনৰ অন্তৰ্গত

Story: Tengani, 2017/ Panchanan Hazarika

Published in translatorsassam, October 04, 2020

Tengani, 2017

 Original- Panchanan Hazarika

 Translation-Archana Gita Saikia

    Chandan was the one who spoke most passionately to me about Tengani. His words painted vivid pictures of the villages, their inhabitants, the worn-out huts, and the toilets, their navy blue fading with time. Tengani's environment was adorned with shrubs laden with limes, overshadowed by a stark slogan: "Our land, our rights."

    Furkating station held a special place in my heart, even though I had never been there. Chandan had carefully described the route: starting from Furkating to Teteliguri, then to Jamuguri, and finally walking along a rough dirt path with sturdy woodland shoes to reach Tengani.

    Amid the swampy clays, unique scenes were seen – girls with alta on their heels dancing to the rhythm of Jhoomoor, a middle-aged man drenched in rain playing the Sifung, and an elderly woman with yolk-yellowed eyes, dressed in a tattered Muga Riha and cotton chaadar, just unpacked from the 'Jopa'. She listened intently to the passionate speech of a mustached farmer leader, her applause resonating through the rain. I tried to capture these moments with my camera, but as the downpour continued, I deeply missed Chandan. His absence was palpable in the crowd. Would I catch a glimpse of him behind the bamboo pillars, sporting his blue-framed spectacles? Would he be among the eager boys running in the rain, with pants rolled up to their knees! Yet, he was nowhere to be seen.

    His exit from the organization was no surprise, yet despite knowing Chandan was my comrade, they remained silent. As I observed them, I realized that I know them from Chandan's explanations. They sat gracefully among the crowd, unfazed by the rain, joining in the chants booming from the bullhorn. Each 'Zindabad' echoed with courage and the spirit of their struggle.

    They listened intently to the dignified yet humble speech of the university professor, even as the discourse shifted from Marxism and Nationalism to the medicinal leech, a metaphorical bloodsucker fattened by their sacrifices. They applauded enthusiastically, especially stirred by the farmer leader’s call to confront ministers with a ploughman’s stick. Their voices unified in solidarity, rallying around the scruffy figure with bright, determined eyes.

    Tengani echoed with defiance. Tales of persecution, betrayal, and oppression formed the backdrop of their collective memory. Revisiting stories from 15 years ago, the people once again felt the agony of their homes reduced to ashes. In a rainy day like this, under the rustic sky, a woman had endured the pain of childbirth and the people remembered her toddler stained with blood from her thigh. The death of this woman, who lost her home and two infants, was a painful memory etched in their hearts. That deep sorrow glimmered in the depths of their scorched hearts like a profound pit left by the trampling of elephants

    Yet, amid the despair, their applause was strong and resolute. In their claps echoed not just strength, but constant determination.

 

 

 

    Although they were unfamiliar with the concept of communalism, they understood how the symbol of the 'cow' had been politicized to create divisions between Rangman and Rahim. While they may not have comprehended Fascism, they were acutely aware of another powerful force, the kanglup, dictating their choices, including what they could consume.

    Among them stood Gitima, whose academic prowess with a 72% score was thwarted from pursuing her master's degree simply because she couldn't secure accommodation in the university hostel. Her father shared in their struggles, as did the elderly grandmother, who, despite her age and need, hadn't received even a single brick dispensed to her under the Indira Awaas Yojana (P.M Gramin Awaas Yojana).

    They wanted to share the stories of Tengani, particularly from the village of Khakandguri, with the people of their state.

    Beneath the fluttering red-green flags, a silent war waged against the rain. As the raindrops fell softly, the voices of the crowd grew louder and stronger. Though the wind got cooler, the atmosphere remained charged with an intense warmth, ominous in its intensity.

(2)

    My mother told me that Rajmedhi had visited the Namghar, and my father had offered some sidhas to him and had lunch there. They had also handed over my horoscope for documentation.

    I was definitely irritated.

    "Why to be bothered with these rituals?" I muttered to myself.

    "We're expected to recite the 'Kirtana' and offer a 'Gamosa' to the Satra, and a silver flower to our local Namghar..." my mother continued.

     I had been eagerly waiting to enjoy the 'Poka mithoi,' a sweet made with molasses, prepared for Rajmedhi's arrival. My mother's words brought back memories of those lively days.

     I stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in my unfinished coffee.

    While stories of Tengani played on the laptop, I wandered out to the balcony. The sky, touched with the hues of dusk, now has blurred the surroundings. Inside my room, clothes hung on a line, were untouched for days. The balcony offered fresh air, free from the damp, musty smell lingering in my room.

    Or was that staleness confined to just my room?

    No, the whole society felt stagnant, moldy. In the midst of it all, our house was busy calculating days, stars, and the positions of Guru, Rahu, and Ketu based on horoscopes.

    Yesterday, Bipin, a reporter from Majuli now working for a Guwahati-based newspaper, called me, saying, "There's an RSS meeting tonight at our Satra. These meetings seem to be happening frequently now."

    Bipin, usually calm, sounded troubled.

    - "I can't do anything. They don't publish such news," he said, frustrated.

    The newspaper’s chief editor had resigned two days ago. The once energetic, confident Bipin now seemed like a tired, helpless warrior who had laid down his sword.

    - "They won’t print it in the paper—post it on Facebook," I suggested.

    These were the conversations people were having. Bipin had seen it all firsthand, and it left him anxious.

    Few days back, a boy named Firoz visited the Barpeta Kirtanghar with his couple-friends and posted the photos on Facebook. Immediately, the authorities of the Kirtanghar  objected and banned the couple and the wife's family from entering for ten years.

    It seems the Satras have forgotten Sankardeva, a figure renowned for his liberal and progressive ideals. Instead, they've been swept up in a saffron wave for some time now, vowing to build bridges for the island Satras, aiming to revive a bygone golden era.

    It's not just the Satras—saffron seems to have captivated the entire population. Festival-goers lose themselves in music, dance, and excitement, celebrating efforts to worship the river and dreaming of bringing the vibrant shores of Varanasi to villages facing erosion along the Brahmaputra.

    Meanwhile, the government is planning to privatize the river, turning it into a commercial route for merchants, yet the public remains unaware. Those who know the truth try to sound the alarm, but their warnings go unheard.

    People are like hypnotized sheep, enchanted by the saffron illusion.

    Rather than confront the issue, they blame the weather, wondering why there's turmoil in this usually calm month. "The embankment in our village still isn't finished," Bipin reminded me.

    A few days ago, a boy named Firoz visited the Barpeta Kirtanghar with his friends and posted the photos on Facebook. In response, the Kirtanghar authorities quickly objected and banned the couple and the wife's family from entering for ten years.

    It seems the Satras have forgotten Sankardeva, a figure renowned for his liberal and progressive ideals. Instead, they've been swept up in a saffron wave for some time now, vowing to build bridges for the island Satras, aiming to revive a bygone golden era.

    It's not just the Satras—saffron seems to have captivated the entire population. Festival-goers lose themselves in music, dance, and excitement, celebrating efforts to worship the river and dreaming of bringing the vibrant shores of Varanasi to villages facing erosion along the Brahmaputra.

    Meanwhile, the government is planning to privatize the river, turning it into a commercial route for merchants, yet the public remains unaware. Those who know the truth try to sound the alarm, but their warnings go unheard.

    People are like hypnotized sheep, enchanted by the saffron illusion.

    Rather than confront the issue, they blame the weather, wondering why there's turmoil in this usually calm month. "The embankment in our village still isn't finished," Bipin reminded me.

    Some even wish the floodwaters would carry them away, hoping for the Brahmaputra’s wrath. Yet amid the chaos, people still find amusement in festivals.

    The more Bipin murmurs on the phone, the more I find myself drifting back to memories of Tengani—the chants of "Zindabad" and the roaring applause that overpowered the sound of the rain.

    At the same time, I feel Chandan's absence more deeply than ever.

 

(3)

    One night, possibly in December or January, I received a late-night call from Furkating station. It was Chandan. Winter had already settled in the cities, and I stood on the balcony wrapped in a Nagaswal, staring at the hill lights that resembled stars. That night, people from various districts of Assam were arriving by train for the land lease movement that was set to begin the next morning. Visitors from Golaghat arrived, including many Bodos, Rabhas, Ahoms, Kalitas, Hindus, and Muslims from Tengani. Once again, Chandan speculated about the procession that was expected to shake Dispur the next day. These were the early signs of tough times ahead. Calls came from Rudra in Dhemaji, Lakshya in Dibrugarh, Kashyap in Dergaon, Madhurya in Duliajan, Aminul in Sipajhar, and many others, all driven by strong faith or conviction, hoping for the realization of the elusive dream of "liberation." The injustice of having their rights taken away had them clenching their fists and tensing their muscles. Peasant lands were seized for resorts in some areas, locals were displaced for cement factories by the government in others, and multinational educational institutions steadily encroached on unsuspecting people's lands, acre by acre.

    "There will be industries, and our boys will get jobs there"—what a horrifying and deceitful promise! Under this guise, the antique Nangal, the bullocks, along with the soft levees and fertile soil, were exploited. In reality, it was a daunting challenge to make the people understand what their rights truly were.

     People like Chandan undertook such challenging missions in the past. They traveled from villages to the alluvial islands, holding meetings to highlight the harsh history of deprivation to the people.

     “Were the people foolish? They were gullible, but not fools,” Chandan remarked. “In a people's struggle, if you see them as fools, you can never truly lead them. In reality, it's the people who guide their own struggle in the way they see fit. Here, leaders are secondary, and the people are the true principals,” he once said.

     Unfortunately, Chandan disappeared from the struggle one day. Although I wasn't in Guwahati at the time, I stayed in touch with my friends who were there. We shared our frustrations over phone calls. Jahnavi di, who lived in a hostel in Ujanbajar, called me from her spot by the window, her short hair in disarray, and lamented, "They've ruined everything."

     Finished!!

     I felt the same way. Chandan's resignation, along with some of my other comrades, and their decision to join a national political party just two weeks later, followed by press conferences where they criticized our past activities under the organization, made me think that everything had come to an end.

     Sitting by the window in the B-4 coach of the Saraighat Express on my way from Calcutta to Guwahati, I found myself reminiscing about those times. The empty fields and the railway huts passing by caught my eye. I reflected on those days that had been undermined by empty slogans and false promises. It felt as if someone had suddenly snuffed out the dream of a thriving granary that was supposed to shine in the eyes of the people.

     However, the reality was quite different. Tengani emphasized the importance and precision of the situation. It wasn't a widespread issue; only a few individuals were impacted, not everyone. Collectivists aren't hypocrites. Tengani revealed that after many conflicts and challenges, people came together by putting aside all their differences.

     This time, it wasn’t Chandan who spoke to me, but the brave souls fighting through the rain, the girls with alta on their heels dancing jhoomoor in the mud, and the wise old granny with yolky eyes draped in a heavy muga riha. They said, "People who don’t know Maoism or Marxism lead their own struggle.

     The applause simply fueled the ongoing struggle, unaffected by the rain and thunder.

(4)

    Pranay, an engineer looking for a job after graduation, shared the balcony in our apartment with me. I had a rattan chair and some flower pots out there. In the evenings, Pranay would sit on a plastic chair reading the Assam Tribune, which the hawker delivered early. Once I finished my tasks, I'd join him with two cups of strong black coffee—one for Pranay and one for myself, as I didn’t like drinking alone.

     "You're drinking from a saffron cup while criticizing the saffron party!" Pranay laughed. I couldn't tell if it was a simple laugh or an ironic one.

     "Violina gifted me this cup"

     "Your girlfriend?"

     "No, we are just friends".

     After leaving the university hostel, I rented a place in Senikuthi with two friends. One day, Violina and Jahnavi di, who shared similar ideologies with us back in our university days, came over for a visit. Being unfamiliar with the kitchen, I accidentally broke our china cups that day. wo days later, Violina brought us three steel cups, each wrapped in plastic: a saffron one for me, a red one for Rituparna, and a blue one for Bhairav, who had returned to Jorhat after completing his studies, while Rituparna had secured a job in Rajasthan. Eventually, I moved to a new place near Navagraha, leaving the shared room behind. These three cups have stayed with me for the past five years. Yes, it’s been five years.

     Today, Pranay unexpectedly reminded me of those old days.

     Pranay and I don’t have much in common. We may not be close friends, but we both make an effort to be good neighbors.

    - I hold back from asking Pranay, "It’s been two years since you finished your engineering degree, and you’re still looking for your ideal job on the second page of the Assam Tribune! Is it your fault or the system’s?"

     He says, "You all oppose river dams, industries; you see plundering everywhere. So how are we supposed to find jobs then?"

     He consistently argues with me on Facebook posts where I criticize the government or the nation.

     - Do you really believe, Pranay, that you'll secure a job if river dams are constructed, if                              multinational companies are offered the lands of the Tholgiris to set up industries? Do you?

     - Gogoi sir reminded us, "ULFA wasn't formed without purpose. Paresh Baruah and Aravind                     Rajkhowa didn't venture into the forests aimlessly. They grew up seeing the oil refinery near their          home since childhood. Yet, nobody benefited from it. They didn't even have ownership over their           own resources."

    - Why wouldn't people feel distressed? Why wouldn't they want to tear down the system? Why?

     - And if we allow the construction of industries, what jobs will be offered to our youth? Gatekeeper?      Security guard? Or a clerical position? Even, thousands of educated individuals will be labeled              'unqualified' and left unemployed.

     - This politics of plundering isn't as simple as it seems, Pranay. It's complex.

     I turn back to Tengani and swap the things round- altering the existing systems, federal governance, special state rights, empowering villages distinctly. I revisit the proposed refined social structure in the manifesto and the democratic aspiration for ownership of our land, water, wildlife, and mineral resources. I revisit the dream of people's liberation, that was long promised.

     The dream haunts both the conscious and subconscious thoughts of desolate villages and decaying cities, or else it ruptures the fantasy unexpectedly.

     Now I know that those who dedicated their lives to hard work without losing faith in their efforts are the ones who made Tengani 'exceptional.' The dream is paramount; revolts, sieges, and politics follow suit.

************

 

Keyword - Tengani: A place in Golaghat district, Assam

Glossary:

🔸  Sifung- A traditional musical instrument of the Bodo tribe

🔸  Muga Riha- A traditional Assamese dress

🔸  Chadar- Upper wear (A dress worn by Assamese women)

🔸  Jopa- A bamboo basket, used for storing clothes

🔸  Namghar- A prayer house

🔸  Sidha- Uncooked eatables offered for worshiping

🔸  Gamosa- A piece of cloth (The great significance of the Assamese people)

🔸   Poka mithoi-  A cuisine in Assamese culture

🔸  Nagaswal- A piece of cloth like scarf, used in Naga society

🔸 Bigha- Measurement of land

 🔸 Nangal- A ploughing tool

🔸 Tholgiri- the indigenous people of a particular place  _______________________________________________