Fried Eye

-Bibhuti Borkotoky
Freelance Writer

When I was of age 7 years, a momentous day is still fresh in my memory. Every home were decorated with earthen lamp, and people enjoyed fireworks as if it was Deepawali. The entire country was in festive mood on that day and one could see the ecstatic expression in each face.
That momentous day was none other than 15th of August 1947. India got Independence after a long after a long struggle against the British. At that moment, I did not know the meaning of Independence Day, so I simply joined the celebrations.
Today, when I look back, I can realise that those thousands of lamps were lighted in the memory of those who sacrificed their lives for our freedom and themselves could not live to see the light of the day for which they fought.
Today, it is impossible to imagine how Gandhiji brought independence through the principle of non-violence with the help of his followers. Or the people who sacrificed their lives in the organised massacre of Patharughat which was repeated 26 years after in Jalianwalabagh, by the British. Among the thousands of martyrs in the freedom movement in Assam, we must remember the great heroes like Moniram Dewan, Piyali Baruah, Kushal Konwar, Kamala Miri whe were hanged and Kanaklata who took bullets bravely in her chest while trying unfurl the Indian National Flag.
On this day, I salute the great martyrs who made it possible that we breath in free air and live a great life.

Oh the joy of a child’s innocence
I envy the laughter of the infant
Those eyes which see naught but love more

On our visits to Assam, we are frequently asked the question about our eating habits. “What do you eat there?”; “Do you find this ingredient there?” – so on and so forth. more

The author is indebted to Mr. Ahindra Lal Bhuyan for forwarding him that anonymous mail which ignited the spark that led to this piece.

She grew up during the 80s.

At the age of 12, she was proud of her first “maxi”. more

Beneath the stars open sky
So serene as though all does sleep more

The is a joy found in sorrow
Such melancholy emotion
How bittersweet its beauty more

Today’s Guest : Bibhuti Borkotoky
Freelance Writer

My son came in a vacation during the Bihu. He looked so busy, even after staying hundreds of kilometers from his office, more

-Bibhuti Borkotoky, Freelance Writer

It was during the year 1969, a time when there was no TV and even Radio was a luxurious item.There was no residential telephone, only the govt. offices and a few private business houses had it. For any private telephone call, one had to run to the telephone exchange only.

I was a boy of about 26-27 years and employed in a Central Govt. department with a transferable job. Due to this, I had the opportunity to visit many places. Once, I had to undertake a journey to a place called Sarli (presently in Kukung-Kumey District of Arunachal Pradesh) which practically had no means of communication with the outer world. One could reach Sarli by air but Chopper services were rarely available. Thus, with no means of transportation either, it took 15 days of travelling on foot to reach the location from Ziro (Presently in Lower Subansiri District, Arunachal Pradesh). I was accompanied by a few security escorts. Ration and luggage was carried by local porters.

After reaching the destination, I could see that it was not very far from the mighty Himalayan Range and the continuous snowfall made a beautiful sight. People out there depended on the air services to drop food and other items needed for survival.

Postal service was only through locally engaged special Dak Runners. My letters would take a minimum of one month to reach my folks at home. By the time, I received the replies the topics would often get so stale that often its importance was lost. Yet the letters still held a special place in one’s life.

The days spent in Sarli remain a treasured experience of my life which cannot be explained in plain words. In this era of internet and mobile phones, such living conditions indeed become unimaginable too.

As I walked into a quiet, dimly lit Tibetan restaurant in North Delhi’s Majnu ka Tilla area, I found the man— after whom the place has been named— sipping Coke and enjoying tingmo (a Tibetan delicacy).
“As-Salaam o alaykum, Majnu sahib. All well?”
“Wa ‘Alaykum as-Salaam, Wise Bachelor sahib. Jab life ho out of control, honthon ko kar ke gol. Honthon ko kar ke gol, seeti baja ke bol. All izz well!” Majnu suddenly broke into a jig, startling everyone else around.
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“Fashion”… a vague word with tremendous significance for the stylish folk world over.

The trend of following fashion fads, I believe, cannot be traced back accurately in time. But it cannot be denied that fashion does rule the young and not so young alike. Everyone wants to, or at least secretly desires to, look pretty and in tune with the “in “styles. But the dilemma is what exactly is “in” and what is “out”. More complex is the question as to who decides what is “in” and what is not. However again, we the common folk or the lay men are not concerned with who decides and why but we are mainly curious to know what styles are the styles of the day.
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Author of the poetry collection We Called the River Red: Poetry from a Violent Homeland, Uddipana Goswami is also a researcher and media consultant. Her area of expertise, both as writer and researcher is the Northeast region of India – often called India’s troubled periphery. She has been addressing issues like insurgency, conflicts, militarization, nationalism, migration, displacement and ethnic reconciliation in Northeast India through her writings. She has worked with some major media houses, like the India Today Group and National Geographic Channel (India), before turning to sociological research. Her academic and creative writings and occasional translations have been published in print as well as online from Australia, New Zealand, the UK, the USA, South Africa, Bangladesh and India. She is Assamese literature editor of Muse India, a literary e-journal. She blogs at www.jajabori-mon.blogspot.com.

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