A hundred thousand Bhupen Hazarikas - A narrative of the day when Assam stood still (as appeared in www.enajori.com)

As the airplane circled the sky over Guwahati I peeked down to watch the Luit. Unlike always, this time the sight of the mighty river filled my mind with pity and anger. Its most famous lover had died three days ago, and there it was flowing by, as he sang, shamelessly and languidly. Maybe I was expecting it to cease its flow when the clock stuck 4.37 PM on the 5^thof November, 2011…when Dr. Bhupen Hazarika breathed his last in a Mumbai hospital. He was flown into Guwahati two days later where he received a hero’s welcome. In fact, the welcome he received will remain as one which has been paralleled only a few times in world history. On my ride in the familiar red bus to the, now hallowed, Judges Field, I could see flower petals that lay strewn over the road at several places, as if testifying the historic and emotional scenes that took place the day before.

 Judges Field and its surroundings were over flowing with what seemed like an ocean of people. Finding out the loose end of the queue that formed to see his mortal remains was quite a task in itself. I rambled around Cotton college hostels, Meghdoot Bhawan, Reserve Bank and adjoining areas for half an hour until I found the place where I should stand in queue. It was 11 am of 8^th November 2011, and I could see three clear lines snaking its way into the Judges field, one from the direction of Machkhowa, Fancy Bazar and Pan Bazar. At its longest, it supposedly went up to Bharalumukh! Another line came from the direction of Gauhati Club, Dighali Pukhuri and Handique College. I stood on the third line which circled the hostels of Cotton College and went towards Meghdoot Bhawan before taking the eventual right. It seemed the shortest at first sight but would have to circle the Cotton College hostels three times before reaching Meghdoot Bhawan. Meanwhile at around this time my plan to attend his funeral was dashed when it was declared that the funeral was postponed till the next morning due to the massive crowd gathered around Judges Field. I was scheduled to fly back early next morning. I would miss what I came to attend at the first place — the funeral. However I was to be left with little to regret as the day passed by.

 The hawkers carrying flower garlands were doing brisk business whereas the florists had earlier claimed that they had sold more wreaths and garlands in Guwahati than they had ever done. The day was declared a holiday, which meant that every shop and commercial establishment was closed. People were relying on a few street hawkers for food while the boys from the surrounding hostels of Cotton College were serving drinking water to all those who stood in the line. “I hope you went to see him?” I enquired to one of them. They had paid their visit last night. And today they have come out spontaneously, placed their music systems by the road that played his songs and they stood by. As I found out in my three revolutions of the hostels, they served water to the visitors all day and night. I asked them if this service was a part of the College’s or any student union’s plans. The slightly built 20-year-old just shrugged and smiled, he said that it was something that they decided to do then and there, no strings attached. Another group of girls were doing the same in front of the Cotton College main gate. And there stood a desk outside another Cotton College hostel; it had a harmonium and a pair of tabla. If you knew to play them and/or sing one of his songs you could join the jolly group of hostellers’ who had been playing his songs for three days, nonstop! As the queue proceeded past them, the singers changed, so did the players. But the paeans remained the same. Processions regularly circled the Judges Field, holding banners and pictures and singing his songs as they marched by. Someone in the crowd would suddenly start out a stanza of one of his songs and hordes of crowd join in unison. This crowd represented every nook and corner of the society. During my eight hour long vigil there, I saw the mekhala chadar clad grandmother, the neatly dressed retired septuagenarian Bengali, the skull cap wearing devout Muslim, men and women in traditional Bodo, Mishing, Karbi and other tribal attires, the members of Nepali Sahitya Sabha, missionary nuns from some convent and young punks in rock band t-shirts. It was not necessarily a representation of the Assamese speaking people, instead this crowd represented all who had stayed or were connected to or maybe happened to pass by the banks of Luit at any point of time in their life.

As the queue I stood in slowly moved forward, I stood amazed by all that I was witnessing. Never in my past or future life would I expect to see something as magical as this day. The air resonated with his voice, hidden teardrops rolled down drenching the ground beneath and words from his compositions hung like a halo above us. Someone lost a father; someone lost a brother…a friend, a soul mate, an uncle. But everyone had lost their source of inspiration. For those living outside Assam, Dr. Bhupen Hazarika was also an identity. Before asking questions about ULFA, illegal migration and one horned rhinos, people would mostly ask, “You are from Assam, the land of Bhupen Hazarika?”

A few curious ones looked around for shortcuts to Judges Field though most of those assembled were not bothered by all that. “I have come to see him, not to a ration price shop”, as one sneered viciously. “For all that he gave us all his life, standing in this line decently is the least we can do”, he mumbled later. That probably summed up the sentiment of the day. A couple who stood behind me with their young son had arrived that morning from Jorhat. They would catch the late night Inter City express back to their home. A young couple drove from Tezpur that morning to be here. I was surrounded by people from Guwahati and all over Assam and beyond. Some sobbed, some sang, while some recalled that night when he went to that town to play in that show. I had come to see a man whom I saw only once, at the Axom Xahitya Xobha, Diphu session in 1982. I was a four-month-old in my mother’s lap. I had to see him one more time, one last time. The million people who came down also had to see him one last time, more than anything else. It was something everyone felt they had to do.

Against these backdrops Dr. Bhupen Hazarika’s compositions seemed to have found new connotations. When Gauhati University requested that his final resting place be the university premises, one would have recalled his song, Jilikabo Luitore Paar, where he hoped that GU would “sparkle by the Luit’s banks”. GU now in turn wanted him to sparkle on by the same riverside, indeed a fitting tribute. The second line of his song, Moi Jetia Ei Jiwonor, when loosely translated, meant, “After I am gone, I would expect you by my funeral pyre”. A million seemingly took it as a personal request from the maestro and turned up. The events leading up to his funeral drew parallels with songs like Mur Geetor Hejaar Shrota which was another directly addressed to his audience, making it a clarion call of that moment. It is noteworthy that in spite of such a huge gathering, the crowd was very dignified and conducted itself remarkably. I would link that to the humanitarian anthem Manuhe Manuhor Baabe. It was definitely on everyone’s mind, and as I noted, it was the most sung song that day. And the much translated Moi Eti Jajabor proved to be fittingly autobiographical when Dr. Bhupen Hazarika returned home for the last time after a life of a vagabond. Lines from his timeless songs, probably written years and decades ago, came back to emphasize their relevance that day, and as they would, every day. So maybe it would be untrue to say that Dr. Bhupen Hazarika has died, maybe it was the magician’s last vanishing act whereby he transcended his body and entered the mind and soul of each of his admirers. And on a day when people exclaimed that he is immortal, I, standing there that day, felt that his immortality was beyond any doubt. As I looked around me, I saw that we were a hundred thousand Bhupen Hazarikas…carrying his essence within us, carrying it along for posterity.

Cheap Wallets (as appeared in www.enajori.com)

I had to meet him one last time. While I was packing my belongings to leave this city forever, his face flashed past my thoughts. Much like the way he actually walked past me many times in these seven years. I pondered over, romanticising the idea of going there to meet him. I tried to even ridicule the idea, but by then I was sure that he couldn’t be overlooked. Was it self pity or was it an eye for street poetry I didn’t care to know.

It was almost seven years ago when I first saw this man. I had just arrived in this city, leaving behind the red river and the blue hills. His was a face tanned by the hot Delhi summer and riddled by its winter’s merciless pricks. His voice was gruff like a folk singer, minus the artistry. I remember the first time I saw him. I was on a bus and he walked down its aisle carrying dozens of cheap wallets. For a living he sold those wallets to interested passengers, in the buses that stopped for the traffic lights at the bustling Income Tax Office square. “Check it for free, buy it for ten rupees”, that’s what he announced in a rhyme. I watched him intently, just like I watched everything that was new to me, from tall buildings to polythene huts, sharp dressed girls to limbless beggars. It was neither a moment of truth nor a baptism of fire for me. In fact, one moment he was there and the next moment he was gone. Except that, that chance meeting repeated itself for seven years. I found myself a place to work and he found another regular face to entice. On my first day to the office, I instantly recognised him as he boarded our bus with his handful of wallets. However I was not the one who would be tempted by his ten rupee wallet. He, on the other hand, did a brisk business. Apparently there were people who figured out that his’ was a fair deal. Soon I was getting used to seeing him more often than not. I would feel sorry for him when, occasionally, he missed our bus because of the traffic lights’ turning green, a minute too soon. There were times when I wouldn’t even notice as he came and passed by, while at other times, I would look forward to see if he boards my bus or not. Sometimes he would disappear for a month or so, only to resurface thereafter. I felt curious about his absence, but wouldn’t ask him for the fear of being snubbed publicly. I wasn’t sure what kind of a person he might be. And his appearance didn’t help either. After one such absence, he returned skin head. So, I thought, one, he must be a Hindu by faith and two, one of his relatives must have died. But on second thought, it could also be his way of beating the Delhi heat. Besides he didn’t look particularly sad. He looked over his potential buyers expressionlessly. That reminds me that he always had an expressionless face. On any given day, he was neither very happy, nor too sad. Maybe the city robbed him of his emotions, much like the weather rips off the paints of a concrete wall. But optimistically gauging, maybe his story is not a sad one after all. It’s quite possible that he earns well enough to afford a decent accommodation in the suburbs of this city, educate his children and silence his wife. Anyway, I thought of asking him about his shaved head but by then didn’t care about his affairs like I earlier used to. That’s my share of lost goods in this city. It makes you indifferent, it makes you oblivious of your surroundings, and it makes you more concerned about your own wallet...putting it more agreeably, it makes you a professional.
At the end of another one of his disappearances, he returned wearing an immaculately hand knit cardigan. I wanted to believe that his wife lives in his hometown and I tried to imagine her giving it to him as a parting gift. She must have had a lonesome tear in her eye. I couldn’t quite imagine what his expression might have been. Just then I thought I saw that his eyes were uncharacteristically warm that day. Or maybe I wanted to see that in his eyes.
After a point of time, my learning curve at my workplace dipped, indicating that the time was ripe for me to switch my job. There after, my visits to that part of the city became less and less regular. However the nature of my work meant that I frequent that place every now and then. I would often stick my neck out of the window to see if that man was around. And sure as the day and the night, he would be selling those wallets to the familiar strangers. Over the years, his hairs turned salt and pepper and his wallets changed designs, but he hung around. For me, he grew from a stranger to an unlikely inspiration for me to fight the odds, loneliness and failure, tedium and fatigue...
My new found indifference ensured that I don’t feel sorry for his petty trade, his loneliness or his hardship. Instead I saw in him the spirit of the city that moves on and on. Maybe he is the ghost of the city itself, wandering restlessly to make sure that thousands daily throng its squares and also make sure that it’s business as usual.
The thought of going to that square only to see that man seemed very ridiculous to me. If anyone asks me the purpose of the visit I would promptly lie. But I did board a bus slyly and paid my fare. Train of thoughts shunted in my mind as I recalled how things have changed in my life in these seven years. I came as an unemployed, became an underpaid, turned well paid, became overworked, and at the end of it all, grew inevitably disenchanted. Acquaintances were made, friendships blossomed and glasses were raised....but in the end, time always finds a way of caging you with the bars of solitude. However it is time again that makes sure you have new friends to talk to, new dreams to chase and new streets to walk down...
Will he recognise me? Will he try to trick me into buying his sub standard wallets? Or will he frown over the fact that I never cared to buy his wallets and that I never paid any regard to his salesmanship? Actually I did buy a cheap wallet in Chandni Chowk once; and in the hindsight, maybe it would have been fair to buy the same from him instead. I wondered if I should small talk with him for a while or should I buy him a cigarette to break the ice. Maybe we could talk about wallets, and I could show him my Italian leather wallet which I picked up in a flea market. But then I thought that doing so could be offensive to his trade, which brought back my fear of being publicly snubbed. The chance of any sort of conversation taking place would depend on him identifying me, or even him believing that I regularly saw him for several years. But what sort of acquaintance would that be? Seeing someone regularly for seven years! For similar reasons I should be friends with a launderer, a priest, a madman and several others whom I see regularly. But I don’t have any affinity towards any of them. I would have to explain to him how he became a small source of optimism for me. And in that case, he might overflow with emotions due to my honest flattery and he might hug me. Or he might think that I am mocking his miserable hard life and he might foul mouth me, or worse slap me. The constraint in this situation is that both the events are equally likely. Besides, I wasn’t particularly fond of probability problems in my college days. So, that left me with few options to select from, and fewer minutes to reach my destination.
On alighting at the particular place I looked around for him. I spotted him getting off a bus that was on its way to rush past the square. I walked up to a tea stall from where I got a wider view of his area of operation, and treated myself to a cup of tea. He would board a bus that would be slowing down and walk down the aisle and get off at the other end. Sometimes he exchanged pleasantries with bus conductors who cared to talk to him. I paid for my tea, walked towards him and asked for a wallet. He looked at me a fraction of second longer than usual. Obviously I looked familiar. I told him to give me the best one he had, for I won’t come to buy again. He shook his head and said I would come to him again. I was shocked for a moment at the clairvoyant nature of his remark. He spoke like a prophet who had just seen through the crystal ball. But his next remark instantly broke his mystic aura. These wallets are too good to resist oneself from not buying again. Contrary to my opinion towards those wallets, I said that I completely agreed with him. Besides it’s what inside those wallets that matters more.
I didn’t get to wish him well or talk any sense with him for he sped by to board a slowing bus. But I did yell a “Thanks mate!” to him, to which he raised his hand without looking back. He probably didn’t read between the lines into my “thanks” or would even know this little story of the chance encounters; the observations and inspirations. Still I was satisfied, because all I wanted was to see him one last time. And also because I said what had to and it that wouldn’t matter to him anyway.

Fallen Leaves (as appeared in www.enajori.com)

I don’t even remember when and why we stopped talking. We never cared to give another chance to our chances of togetherness. I hope though, you still remember those days with all its tenderness. Because I do, I remember the days in all their bloom. I remember the foggy winter evenings and the soft autumn breeze, when we walked hand in hand...and how we could never imagine separation. You cried when once I brought it up. You probably wouldn’t remember it now, you are not supposed to.

And then inevitably, I also remember the days when we hardly talked. Our relationship was like a priceless jewel tucked somewhere in the corner of our room. We never realised that gradually the spark was gone, the longing had died down. We had our worries to worry about, our own dreams to chase after. I still remember the dreams I had where you were walking by my side and then suddenly you would go on a different path. I would see you drift further and further away. For some reason I couldn’t scream out your name. Rather I would watch helplessly as you fade away into a dust storm, in all its inevitability. I would slowly turn back and walk alone. Except in life there is no path back. Even today when I think of you, I see visions of you as someone who faded away into a dust storm and never returned.

Looking back I remember that we never said good bye, we just drifted apart. One day neither of us turned up for our usual Sunday evening rendezvous. It was implied by then that neither of us would be expecting the other. There wasn’t any sudden fallout, rather a cold end to a slow and languid free fall. The last time we met, I slyly glanced at your eyes. They were trying to hide the burnout we were facing as a couple. They reflected the mess we had led ourselves into. Our love was no longer a phone call away, instead it seemed a lifetime away. Still, when you left that day, you said that you will give me a call. I didn’t hope so, nor did I wait on it. Instead I tried to drink the evening away although the last ounce of optimism in me led me to believe that it wasn’t our last meeting. But the fatalistic sequence of events meant that we were like two withered leaves on an ageing tree...waiting to get rustled away by the wind. The love we shared sank into the sands of time, bit by bit, piece by piece.

Now and then I often think if you still fondly remember those days like I do. I would wonder why you never called up ever again, to ask me if I was free some Sunday. Probably you were too much of a pessimistic. You might have thought that nothing good could come out of it. Or maybe you just hoped that I would call someday. And when I didn’t, you must have grumbled upon my ego and promised never to call me first. Or maybe, there was not much of a longing after all. But when months turned to years and seasons came and went, I would often recall and rue the demise of that special relationship. I would often have thoughts of you although you are gone for several years now. Each winter I would walk past those familiar streets, the old green walls would crumble as they seemed to laugh at my solitude. I never tried to know what became of you. The ignorance was a deliberate choice; it suited my fragility. Sometimes I imagine something outlandish, like you calling me one fine morning and talk with me at length about everything that went on in your life all these years. Your voice would come through crackling over the phone with the familiar enthusiasm that it possessed. I on the other hand never tried to get your phone number once you left this town. Sometime I even feel contended that we didn’t drag ourselves together for too long. We didn’t let our relationship turn into a monster which neither one of us could dare to slay. That way we can now relish the golden years, instead of carrying it on like a bag of bricks.

When our love was turning to rust, I would often spend sleepless nights wondering what was going on. I would weep myself to sleep, only to face the same worries the next night. Maybe I was guilty of not talking about the apparent decay in our relation, maybe we both were. We pretended as if everything was normal, although there was an inner turmoil that needed immediate attention. We probably thought that it couldn’t happen to us. After all the craze and romance, love and longing, our relation couldn’t possibly be facing crisis. Like all lovers, we were foolish, we took things for granted, and we expected things to last forever...last forever on its own. We didn’t realise back then that even after all these years, remembrances and regrets would forever border around oblivion.


(The feelings are loosely based on the Dr. Bhupen Hazarika song, “Tumar Henu Naam Potrolekha”.)