Sadiya beckons

A  Bizarre Trip

 It was in the first part of October,on a Monday. The year was probably 2007. There was a heavy downpour the night before. As I lay in the bed listening to the sound of rainfall, I was caught up in two minds whether to undertake the journey the following morning that I had arranged earlier. As I got up in the wee hours the next morning, I found the weather bright and clean and cool. I hurriedly got ready to catch the 5.30 AM passenger train and occupied a comfortable seat by the window. Though it was early morning, the platform was abuzz with passengers, many of whom seemed to be office goers. I was told that the train generally ran on time, a favored means of communication for small traders, vendors, wage earners and office goers alike. The train started more or less in time, it was 5.40 AM. Once it started moving, I closed my eyes hoping to catch the leftover quota of sleep. I had dozed off for quite some time, when suddenly I woke up, possibly due to the absence of rhythmic movement and honk and howl of engine. The train was standing stationary in the middle of nowhere. Vendors and traders with bundles of all types of items on their heads were jumping in and out of the train. After about quarter of an hour, which seemed to be a very long interval, the behemoth slowly chugged along. The ritual continued off and on and by the time the train left Naharkatiya station, it was already 10 AM which was actually past the right time for the train to arrive at Tinsukia. I was to catch the 10:45AM scheduled ASTC bus from Tinsukia onwards further east. Now that was not possible. Why should the train which prides itself of running on time be an exception today? I asked myself. I remained blissfully ignorant of the further pitfalls that awaited me!

By the time the train arrived at Tinsukia, it was already very late. The ASTC bus had long left. There was one private bus due to leave at around 1PM but it was already full, with many a passengers standing in the passageway. On query, I was told that there was one last private bus, but the departure time was uncertain and would depend on passengers availing this last means of travel. Left with no other alternative , I booked a ticket and decided to utilize the waiting time for a delayed lunch, being totally famished. On my return, I found to my utter dismay that the bus was full with people, passageway blocked with assortment of luggage and passengers in between. The hood of the bus was overflowing with crates and baskets full with mixtures of goods, vegetables and paraphernalia, fat cane baskets hanging precariously in the backside. The ticket collector/handyman was shouting “ khali bus khali bus”( empty bus empty bus). I was at a loss to comprehend how the handyman would create empty space to push more people in! Upon boarding the bus,I found that the seat allotted to me was already under occupation . I, very politely, told the person, who was middle-aged and possibly an ‘Arunachali( ethnic tribes of north east India)’, that it was my seat.The person got up without a word and stood stoically on the passageway.  The ‘khali bus’ exhortations seemed to have some effect, as streams of passengers continued to board the bus. I sat immobile in the narrow contours of my seat, legs pulled up to avoid stepping on the luggage of my co-passenger, holding my suitcase on my lap. At around 2:30 PM, the driver got up and started the engine. The shouts of the handyman reached a crescendo, the engine continued to run for sometime, some stray passengers who were loitering around hurriedly got up. At last, the bus, with an angry whine jerked and moved and I was on my way to the ferry ghat at Dhola. The bus ride was comfortable on the smooth highway, ie as comfortable as it could be under those circumstances, in my immobile sitting position. Once near the Ferry Ghat, the comfort of the smooth ride was over as the bus creaked and squeaked down the kutcha ramshackle road, made slippery with mud and silt of the river bank. My every limb was crying for freedom by that time.

    The Ferry was waiting. Ferry means two mid sized boats, with engines in both, joined together with a large wooden platform. As the bus got near the Ferry, two wooden planks were laid for the tyres to roll down. By this time, all the passengers had deboarded. As the bus started to roll down, my heart was in my mouth thinking that the bus might topple down at any moment if by chance the planks shifted a foot this way or that way. The driver, with his long experience, deftly maneuvered the bus onto the wooden platform on the ferry. The ferry exhaled a deep sigh as it adjusted to the massive weight. Triangular wooden brakes were hurriedly laid in front and back of the wheels to prevent them from slipping. Some passengers again boarded the bus, but I preferred to remain outside, all the time praying for the twin boats to hold the massive weight they were carrying, with a few two wheelers adding to the weight!!

The anchors were lifted, the ferry moved out of its moors slowly  with a loud ‘Bhot Bhot’ sound emanating from its two engines. Soon it picked up speed and we were in deep womb of the mighty Brahmaputra. I was spellbound by the serene beauty and the full,deep, resonant roar of the rushing waters downstream. One can very well fathom at such moments, why this mighty river is referred to in masculine gender; the immense power of the rushing waves breaking up on one another at break neck speed, rain waters from foothills of Arunachal mountain range swelling the river in summer, the potential havoc the Mighty Brahmaputra is capable of causing.

I tried to gauze the distance left to reach the other side of the river bank, but all I could see was the vast expanse of frothy waters flowing since time immemorial,with tracks upon tracks of sand dunes looming far away in the horizon. After almost an hour, the ferry anchored in the nearest sand dune. The persons manning the ferry got down with shovels and spades, started digging the silt to make way for the bus to roll up. The wooden brakes were removed, wooden planks were again placed in front of the wheels.The driver very expertly negotiated the freshly made loose sandy slope and lo! the bus was abruptly standing on the sandy bank, the engines running. The conductor started shouting at the passengers to get on the bus, as if he was in a tearing hurry. By this time, it was already late afternoon and dusk was about to set in. The bus started rolling down a muddy track, made deep by the frequently running vehicles. The bus moved on  topsy turvy for some distance, by this time the darkness had already set in.Suddenly the bus refused to move further on, the engine making a horrendous wail as the driver pressed on the accelerator. All the passengers were asked to disembark, the driver again making all out effort with the engine to extricate the deeply entrenched wheels out of the muddy silt. The wheels refused to budge. The handyman got down with an assortment of tools: thick iron chains, shovels, spades, large iron plates etc. I looked on mesmerized, unable to fathom the utility of some of the items. The handyman, wasting no time, started digging the entrenched mud from under the wheels, while the other helper  switched on the huge torch. Once the mud around the wheels were shoveled away, thick iron chains, fit to tie around the legs of a rogue elephant, were bolted around both the rear wheels. Thereafter, iron plates were placed in front of the wheels in a slanting position. The driver, who all along this muddy ritual sat nonchalantly smoking his favorite bidi, gunned the engine in first gear, the wheels screeching steel against steel, jets of mud flying off the rear. The wheels appeared to come out of the deep pit and emboldened, the driver put full pressure on the accelerator. The silent, serene night was shattered to pieces with the cacophony of screeching steels and wailing engines. The bus jumped out and started rolling. In went the chain, shovel etc as the passengers hurriedly got in. But as ill luck would have it,  the bus bogged down again after travelling some distance. The ritual was repeated with chain, shovel, iron plate alike but this time however, the muddy track was more adamant, the wheels paying no heed to the antics of the sweat drenched driver. The driver surrendered and declared that the passengers would have to spend the night there on the bus itself! Quite a few immediately got up in the bus to make room for their overnight stay. They appeared to me to be some experienced people quite oblivious to the ordeals the night was unfolding. I was cursing my stars; what prompted me to  undertake this journey that day when my stars were conspiring against me? I was standing on the muddy track, transfixed, not knowing what to do, dreadful of the very thought of spending the night there in the treachery womb of the mighty Brahmaputra.

A young Ahom youth, whom I had made acquaintance on an earlier trip, was coincidentally travelling in the same bus. Being engrossed in my own misery, I did not particularly notice who was travelling in the bus. This youth saw me and recognizing me, approached and said, “uncle, ami khujkari aag baadhim, apuni ahibo ne amar logot?”( Uncle, we shall proceed on foot, will you come with us)? He was like a God sent Messiah to me! I readily agreed, confident that the other side of the river bank was nearby and within walking distance. I collected my suitcase and walked alongside. He explained that he was returning from a musical function along with his troupe members who had returned by the earlier scheduled bus. He had to stay back for some personal compulsions. I remembered from my earlier encounter that he was a singer of some repute. He informed that such incidents were quite common in these parts, often requiring passengers to spend the night on the sandy dunes of the river. He said that the condition of tracks in these char areas had possibly worsened owing to the overnight rain. All of a sudden, my shoes sank deep into some muddy silt, almost falling down losing my balance. It was pitch dark all around, not able to see what lay ahead. It was possibly new moon. My young companion cautioned,” Leeke leeke ahok! Leeke leeke ahok!!!”( come along hard tracks formed by wheels of running buses). At first I was unable to comprehend the meaning of his words, but as it dawned on me, I tried to abide by his advice, following close behind.

We were about 10 to 12 people walking together in a loose procession. We walked possibly for half an hour in absolute darkness when suddenly in the distance we could see dim light emanating from earthen lamps. We hurried forward and could by now make out the contours of a waiting bus. As we neared, we could see 2 to 3 shanty type huts serving foods to waiting passengers, all these temporary facilities coming up on a sandy highland in the middle of the mighty river!! This was the 1 PM bus that I missed earlier. Most of the waiting passengers, my group included, helped themselves to the last meal of the night, gorging on rice and chicken curry while I  remained content with a hot cup of tea. Quite a few were drinking full glasses of the local variety. I learned later that these very temporary shanties, their positions shifting frequently depending upon the whims of the vast mass of flowing water, came up over time to cater to the needs of the frequently marooned people.

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The driver, fully satiated with apung (the local variety) and supper, climbed onto his seat, started the engine and honked and honked and honked!! He was in a hurry! In a terrible hurry!! The passengers, suddenly jolted out of their lazy torpor, pushed one another in their hurry to get onto the bus. My young friend suggested that we take this bus ride. Agreeing, I tried to get some foothold and somehow clung to the door handle with the suitcase hanging from the other hand. The bus had already started moving! People were jumping onto that door and without knowing how, I was pushed up the door onto a precarious standing position, my shoes stepping on the feet of others. There was little breathing space, my nostrils taking in a variety of mixed up smells: sweat, alcohol, body odor, tobacco, released gas etc all blending into a strange repulsive odor.

The bus moved on topsy-turvy along the muddy track with its headlights piercing the absolute darkness, paying little heed to the acute discomfort of its suffocating occupants. It possibly drove along for 10 to 15 minutes when suddenly the wheels dug deep into some muddy silt. All efforts by the driver only resulted in the tyres digging deeper into the loose muddy soil. The passengers were compelled to disembark again while the handyman labored with the ritual of chain fitting, working feverishly with other tools reserved for such eventualities.

My friend and a few others proceeded to find out how bad the situation was further ahead. They returned after about 15 minutes and declared that the muddy condition was far worse, that there was absolutely no possibility of the bus moving tonight. The youth again proposed, “Ami khuzkarhim, apuni amar logot ahibo pare Uncle, nohole gutei rati iyate kotabo lagibo”( we will walk, you can come with us, Uncle, otherwise you will have to spend the whole night here). He was my NOAH’S ARK!! No question that I would give up his company!!! We trudged along the moonless, starless night in total darkness with only a pencil light in possession of one of the 14 to 15 ill fated travelers. My friend continued to caution me, “Leeke Leeke ahok, Leeke Leeke ahok”(Come along deep hard tyre tracks). Every time I fell behind, the group would wait for me some steps ahead. This time the Ahom youth asked me to take my shoes off and walk barefoot. I followed his advice and immediately felt lighter and easier to walk on the slippery track, tyre marks leading the way. But a new problem arose. With shoes on, so far I was not aware of the thorny outgrowth protruding from the sides. It was another ordeal to save my feat from stepping on the thorns. We walked along in a procession, the pencil torch bearer bringing up the rear. I suddenly became acutely aware that my host would be waiting anxiously for me, not knowing the reason of my inordinate delay. My mobile phone was showing indications of very low charge, yet I took the risk and somehow conveyed my plight and requested him to arrange an escort vehicle to pick me up from where, he would definitely know.

I continued to walk and walk unable to see what lay ahead, pitch darkness engulfing everything around, moving once to the right and next to the left and sometimes in the opposite direction, blindly following the group. They seemed to know their way around and walked on confidently. By now, I was beyond fatigue, my every limb aching, fingers holding on to the weight of the suitcase numbly, sweat dripping out  through out my body. I did not know for how long we walked, it must have been close to two hours but seemed an eternity. We were now across a wooden bridge. I was cautioned to be very careful while walking on it as it was dangerously slippery with mud, made more treacherous with broken holes all along the length and breath of the bridge. I almost bent over at every step to look for the holes in pitch darkness, lest my feet get entrapped, with the bare toes biting on the slippery wood to get some foothold. I somehow negotiated the length of the bridge and landed safely on the other side at Chapakhowa! We were now walking on a gravel road full of pot holes. It was now impossible for me to walk barefoot, sharp pebbles piercing my feet. I decided to put on my shoes, washing my feet in the muddy water that accumulated in the pot holes, drying my feet off with my socks and putting them on again. I was certain my shoes would be in no condition for further use and made a mental note to purchase a new pair once I reached Sadiya. We walked along the gravel road with darkness all around, one or two lamps burning at a far off distance giving indication of human habitation. There was no end to walking on this fateful night, my legs trudging along in a dead weight, whole body numb with ache, utterly famished owing to lack of nutrition and extreme exertion. We possibly continued for another hour, when I saw a vehicle waiting on the roadside. My heart skipped a beat with delight, certain that my escort had arrived. As I approached, it turned to be another vehicle waiting for other passengers. Crestfallen, I again continued walking, unable to contact my host, my mobile being already dead. This time, we possibly walked for another 15 to 20 minutes when I saw a vehicle approaching. The van stopped in front of us, my host alighting to usher me in. My relief was overpowering! I was all goosebumps with pure and unadulterated delight!! That moment on that eventful night, I, for the first time understood the full import of the word ‘Savior’! I asked my friend and some of his co-travelers to take the ride, but he declined saying they were many and therefore preferred walking. I thanked them profusely, knowing a mouthful of thanks would do no justice to their act of selfless help and kindness. It took another one and a half hour to reach Sadiya. By the time I was inside the warm, comfortable quarters of my host, it was well past midnight.

Both the stranded buses reached Sadiya town the following day well after 2PM!!

The eventful journey narrated above, which was rather frequently encountered by people living in those parts, is now vintage. With The inauguration of Dhola Sadiya Bridge, also called Bhupen Hazarika Bridge, joining Dhola with Sadiya, an acutely felt urgent necessity for facilitating communication over the mighty river has been fulfilled, besides of course meeting other strategic reasons. Only the people inhabiting this large area of Upper Assam and Arunachal could truly fathom what a great succour the bridge was to them! for whom a visit to a major town like Tinsukia, which was often an unavoidable necessity for them, had remained a perennially nightmarish ritual. Visit the link below to have a glimpse of India’s longest bridge.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqkFyZHhGrM India’s Longest Bridge – The Dhola-Sadiya Bridge, Assam …

A reference about Sadiya:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sadiya