This poignant narrative by Banashri vividly portrays Assam’s monsoon season. She captures the relentless rains that define the region’s identity and struggles. Personal anecdotes, cultural references, and historical context reveal the physical and emotional toll of the monsoon. The Brahmaputra River becomes a metaphor for both natural calamities and resilience. Generational trauma and the enduring spirit of Assam shine through, making this piece a compelling story of beauty and brutality.
Rain in my homeland is no less than a breeding program meant to come out of the womb spouting cynicism. Lightning stabs the pregnant earth erratically, like a sloppy assassin, while the thunder rolls back and forth across the dark, rain-battered hills where the gods manoeuvre the homeless as though they were pawns on the chessboard.
The monsoon in Assam is নিৰ্দয় (merciless). Puddles lack paper boats. Children face a choice: either cover their heads with books on their way home or float like orphaned paper boats outside their doorsteps. Assam, the mother of floods, her bosoms lashed in an annual elemental storm that births misfortune on her children as heavy as a condemnation to hell. Fathers sigh and contemplate smothering themselves on the kitchen stoves at night, ensuring their families sleep with tiny flickers of light and warmth.
So when Dr Bhupen Hazarika sang ‘নৈতিকতাৰ স্খলন দেখিও, মানৱতাৰ পতন দেখিও, নিৰ্লজ্জ অলখভাৱে বোৱা কিয়?’ ( Seeing the erosion of morality, seeing the downfall of humanity, Why do you still flow, unnoticed and shamelessly?), the river Brahmaputra echoed this madness—an animal that practices self-cannibalism. It howled in hunger, rain placing stammered kisses on the back of its neck before unfurling its fist to punch the life out of it. Brahmaputra, an old, half-burned man, received kisses only where fire couldn’t touch. He wasn’t merciful; his belly didn’t cradle his children like a nurturing womb of a mother. We submerge our idols every Durga Puja in his ancient callous waters but the goddess stays back, bleeding months later during Ambubachi to bolster us from this yearly ritual, dressed like a poet’s musing, a glowing sacrilege.
My grandmother recounts how the water choked her throat, gargled in her lungs, and baptized her head. Rainclouds clustered like a dark canopy above, and the rain descended like how a lover comes to bed— flooding territories, thrusting dominion onto the other who can’t even refuse in their devotion. “It’s just an annual affair, a flood-like situation..” they say, but the streets break their shells during rainstorms like oysters sinking the raindrops to become pearls. But pearls are glistened blessings, and my maternal home curses my grandmother for abandoning it when the waters rise. What else can an old woman do? She gathers all she holds dear, and every year it’s a faded-out polaroid of her husband and the three children she stretched her flesh for. The syllables of abandonment “পৰিত্যাগ” will be etched in her epitaph in her mother tongue. All her cocoa eyes ever hoped for was the gods to forsake this land—because their presence never fed her grains at night nor saved the lives of those who drowned.
My homeland welcomes the soft hiss of droplets, splashing and puckering the dusty, smooth-veined vegetables in her markets. It’s as if she’s a newlywed in her husband’s bed, adorned with plastered flowers and grins. Each day, she’s plucked and sobbed upon in motherless mourning, falling off like droplets—one at a time. She’s a shooting star you wouldn’t wish upon. But if I were to wish, I’d ask for a thousand shelters and a hundred umbrellas. An umbrella for each child, yet countless others remain drenched and twisted, while your gods turn a blind eye.
The monsoon descends upon my homeland, shaping fields and villages into watery graves. Raindrops hum like the six broken strings of a sitar on battered tin roofs, infiltrating homes and blending all into a murky-brown uniform. Children wade through the waters, waist belts tickled, their laughter a tender rebellion against the torrent that engulfs their playgrounds. Each year, Assam’s earthly ground clings devotedly to its people’s feet, as if begging them to stay amidst the devastation and mud. For the people of my homeland, this monsoon is a crucible—a test of grit, much like a recurring nightmare from which one cannot escape.
My homeland has a history of fighting imperialism—the only land the Mughals couldn’t conquer. But you wouldn’t know that because, much like our floods, our history remains archived under the weight of more urgent notifications. The pre-colonial era, before blasphemous convictions were unleashed, lies hidden. As the water recedes slowly, it leaves behind a promise of hope and renewal despite the atheist affair. Assam’s folklore is curry-rich, its spirit unyielding even amidst pervasive survival anxiety. It’s a poem that gains new stanzas with each flood, and its national anthem sings the undying spirit of its people.
When fathers refused to be humanitarian cases for dying eyes, mine suffered from dementia for a month before his death. Despite sometimes forgetting my name, his ideologies and political insights spoke volumes. His body was bathed, clothed, and adorned with flowers near the river, symbolizing ‘fatherhood’—the only male river in our country. And much like the Brahmaputra’s knack for swallowing lifespans, he died gasping for another breath.
So, tell me, if people are egocentric and society a remnant of dynamism, why don’t the gods shatter such static societies? You worship the Brahmaputra like a deity, blessed with the hysteria of a thousand rains. This land birthed vigorous revolutionaries and leaders; why doesn’t he recognize them? Pulsing with innumerable glories, he’s not lifeless. Breaking through relentless fury, devouring those slumbering in their beds, why didn’t he wake them from their sleep?
“তুমিয়েই যদি ব্ৰক্ষ্মৰে পুত্ৰ, সেই পিতৃত্ব তেনে নামমাত্ৰ নহ’লে প্ৰেৰণা নিদিয়া কিয়?”
"If you are indeed the son of Brahma, why not provide that fatherly inspiration if that fatherhood is not namesake?"
The Brahmaputra River is a tempestuous destroyer. Its waters cradle makeshift boats carrying children across flood-scarred lands, while artists and poets find their eternal muse in its shifting tides. In the villages of Majuli, misery roots itself deep into burdened hearts. Those who fled to the cities and higher grounds often recall, ‘I left my home and fields with a blanket and a handful of memories. All I have left is a sickle, still stained with the remnants of jute.’
My homeland is a living folk song, a testament to the soul and strength of a people who have weathered countless storms—both literal and metaphorical. The floods, the rains, the resilience—they are all woven into my skin, mingling with my blood to form the stories I will pass on to my grandchildren and the legacy of my people. While you may recall only one great flood, distorted by mainstream media, many have washed through this land over time and will continue to do so for decades. Despite the turmoil, there is a plum-soaked epiphany in the falling droplets. Washed hilltops glisten under pebble-shaded skies, and the air thickens with an unforgettable petrichor. The faith of the people never wavers; they question, they protest, yet they find themselves worshipping the same river year-round. At the end of every rain, there is a rainbow. Amidst frustrations and blasphemy, the people of my homeland are the very rainbow that scatters across the sky.
About the writer:
Banashri hails from Guwahati, Assam. With a passion for writing since an early age, she is a nature's child who finds solace in the vast world of literature. Immersed in her culture's richness and subtleties, she is particularly drawn to cultural writing. Through her works, she aims to inspire readers to reflect on their own imaginations