Scotland of the East

“Welcome to the Scotland of the East.” The battered road sign on a hairpin curve on India’s National Highway 40 looked incongruous amid the stands of bamboo and sub-tropical vegetation. For a moment, I wondered if I was hallucinating. The scenery didn’t look any different from that Stephanie and I had seen for the past hour as our shared taxi labored up the twisting highway from the Brahmaputra valley into the Khasi Hills, passing villages that looked much like other villages in northeast India. No medieval castles shrouded in mist. No sweeping views of lochs and glens.  No sheep (only the usual cattle and goats on the road). Not a single sprig of heather. And definitely no kilts. But I wasn’t dreaming. The sign contained the imprimatur of the Meghalaya Tourism Board, so at least someone thought we were in Scotland.

We were on our way to Shillong, the capital of Meghalaya, the small, hilly state sandwiched between western Assam to the north and Bangladesh to the south. The end of the first Anglo-Burmese War in 1826 left the British East India Company in control of Assam and the northeast. The company depended on the river system for transportation, with steamers from Kolkata and other ports carrying troops, supplies, merchants and missionaries up the Brahmaputra. The company’s regional administrator, David Scott, devised a plan to build a road from the plains of Bengal through the hills to the Brahmaputra to provide an alternative route that would not be affected by annual flooding. After a four-year war with the Khasi, the British took control of the hill country south of the Brahmaputra and posted a political agent to the settlement of Cherrapunjee. In 1864, the administration established a hill station at Shillong. A decade later, it became the capital of the province of Assam, and retained its status until 1972 when it became capital of the newly-created state of Meghalaya.

The “Scotland” story goes something like this (there is no official version, so I am taking literary license). Reaching the crest of a hill, the East India Company agents, weary from their journey from the sweltering lowlands, looked out through the drizzle on a landscape of grassy, treeless hills, mountain streams and clear lakes. “Reminds me of Ben Lomond,” said one. “Nay, Speyside,” replied another. Either way, it looked like Scotland, or as close to Scotland as homesick, tired and dehydrated East India Company agents could imagine. History—or at least the Meghalaya Tourist Board road sign—would have been different if those first agents had come from the Lake District, Yorkshire, Northumberland or North Wales.

Whatever the origin of the Scotland label, it stuck. At an elevation of almost 5,000 feet, the hill station of Shillong had a mild climate—cool and rainy in summer, cool and dry in winter—offering welcome relief from the searing temperatures of the lowlands. The British planted pine trees, and built Victorian bungalows, churches, a polo ground and a golf course called Gleneagles. For half a century, Shillong resembled a transplanted British country town. Then India crowded in. Today, Shillong with a population of 150,000 is (by Indian standards) a large town; its suburbs, sprawling across the hills, add another 200,000 to the metropolitan area. Khasis make up most of the population, with other northeastern tribes represented, as well as Assamese, Bengalis and migrants from mainland India.

About half the population of Meghalaya, and two thirds of Shillong, listed themselves as Christian on the 2011 census. Protestant and French Catholic missionaries had followed the colonial administrators into the hill country and found willing converts among the tribal peoples, many of whom mixed Christianity with traditional beliefs. Not surprisingly for the “Scotland of the East,” Presbyterians form the largest denomination; they built sturdy stone and timber churches in Shillong and other towns. Immigrants from Assam and mainland India have recently led to a resurgence of Hinduism with about one in four in Shillong listing Hinduism as their religion.

The Presbyterians win in the numbers game but it’s the Catholics who win the architectural prize for the Cathedral of Mary Help of Christians, situated on a hill a mile south of the center of Shillong. It is the principal place of worship for the Shillong Archdiocese, which has 33 parishes and an estimated 300,000 adherents. The cathedral stands out not only because of its Art Deco style but because of its color—a striking shade of blue, which also brands the schools, social service centers and shrine around the cathedral—and its foundation. Or rather, lack of foundation. Because the Shillong region is prone to earthquakes, the church was built on trenches filled with sand and has no direct connection with the rock. Theoretically, during an earthquake, the building can shift safely on the shock-absorbing sand.

We visited the cathedral with Ratul Baruah, the news editor of the English-language Meghalaya Guardian, whom I had met on the flight from Delhi to Guwahati. With its high arches and long stained-glass windows, the cathedral has been described as modern Gothic. By Catholic standards, its interior seemed uncluttered, with just a few large paintings and banners.  The banners, explained Ratul, were in the Khasi language, indicating how the missionaries had adapted their religion to local sensibilities.

After the visit, Ratul took us for lunch at a restaurant owned by his friend, Raphael, an artist and local TV station owner. We talked about the vibrant local media scene; in addition to Ratul’s newspaper, three other English-language weeklies and newspapers in indigenous languages—Khasi, Jaintia and Garo—circulate in Meghalaya. I told Raphael I was curious about his name. “Well, I have a Khasi name,” he told me, “but my family is Catholic, so my mother had to give me a Christian name. Don’t you think Raphael is a pretty good name for an artist?”

Hotel hunting in Jorhat

The Assam Tourism representative in Jorhat looked puzzled. “Hotel?” he asked. “Yes, a hotel,” I repeated. “Can you recommend a hotel?” Remembering that in northeast India, the term “hotel” can also refer to a roadside café, I tilted my head to the right to rest on the palm of my hand.

“Ah, hotel! You can stay here,” he said triumphantly. 

Stephanie and I were at the front desk of the Assam Tourism Lodge at this mid-sized city on the south bank of the Brahmaputra. Like most government establishments, it had seen better days. Indeed, we had been warned to stay away from government lodges. Except for a few well-maintained lodges at the national parks, most had fallen into disrepair after years of under-funding. In the lobby, paint was peeling from the walls. The place had a musty smell. Out in the parking lot, weeds sprouted from cracks in the concrete. A few guests were sitting in the lobby looking bored. There was a soap opera on the TV but either the volume wasn’t working, or no one had bothered to turn it up. It was swelteringly hot, the single fan simply moving around the humid air.

The representative gestured towards the room tariff on the wall. A standard room with a communal bathroom was a backpacker’s bargain at $8. From there, the rate ascended through different options to the “deluxe, executive” at 1,200 rupees (under $20). 

Stephanie and I don’t like paying over the odds for accommodation, but we have some basic criteria—AC if possible (if not, at least a fan), a bathroom and a bug-free bed. Our chances of getting that for under $20 were remote.

“Would you like to see a room?” asked the representative. 

“Thanks, but I think we want a hotel closer to the city center,” I replied tactfully. In truth, I had no idea where the center was, but it seemed the best way to extricate ourselves without causing loss of face.

“There is the MD,” said the representative. We had already heard about the MD from the loquacious, I-know-everyone-in-Jorhat-and-because-you-are-my-friends-they-will-give-you-a-special-price taxi driver who had cornered us at the airport and driven us into town. He boasted of taking oil executives and other business travelers to the MD, and surely that would suit us too.

As a transport hub in the Brahmaputra valley and the gateway to Eastern Assam, with its oil fields and tea estates, Jorhat needs at least one business hotel, a place with anonymous architecture where the Wi-Fi works, and the room service includes Western fare. I use business hotels when I travel, but Stephanie and I were on vacation, so we wanted something comfortable, but less bland.

“We know about the MD. Are there other hotels?” The question seemed to fluster the representative. He reached behind the desk and pulled out a tattered notebook containing names, addresses and phone numbers. “You don’t have a list of hotels?” I asked, almost rhetorically.  After all, this was the tourism office. He shook his head. 

“Well, do you have a city map?” I was subconsciously trying to support my nearer-the-city-center thesis. More head-shaking. He handed us a regional map of Assam. Stephanie said we already had a better one.

“But there is the Nikita Hotel,” he added, his face brightening.

We decided to check out the MD. It was Sunday afternoon, with little traffic on the streets, so we were stuck with our taxi driver.

The MD was one floor up from street level. Behind the desk in the dimly lit lobby sat three uniformed receptionists, waiting for the oil executives and tea tycoons. We were not dressed for business, but at least we were Westerners and presumably had credit cards. The cheapest room with AC would run us almost $75 but we were tired and decided to look at it anyway.  “Fourth floor,” said the receptionist. “We are sorry the lift is not working today.” Not a good omen. We trekked up the flights of stairs and then wandered down long dark corridors to a clean, but awkwardly designed room. We decided it wasn’t worth the price—or the long walk. 

So on to the Nikita. “The manager, he is my friend,” our taxi driver informed us, although by now we assumed that anyone in Jorhat who would take our money was in his social circle. At least the lift was working. The room was sparse, and a little dirty, but the AC worked. We decided we had exhausted Jorhat’s limited hotel options and checked in.

A couple of hours later, I was fighting the temptation to climb onto the reception desk and enhance the “May I help you?” sign with the words, “I wish you would.”

We ignored the unemptied ash tray and the grease marks on the floor. It took an hour and three phone calls for the staff to produce two extra pillows and one more threadbare towel. The small refrigerator wasn’t working. A staff member came to the room, plugged and unplugged it and confirmed the diagnosis. He disappeared, without proposing a solution. Eventually, after more calls, we suggested an option: bring in a working refrigerator from another room. It arrived, but not soon enough to keep our Kingfisher beers cool.

We called room service to order a pot of tea and curd (a yoghurt drink, usually slightly salted). “We have no teapots,” answered the staff member. And curd? No curd. It was reminiscent of my experiences (described in Postcards from Stanland) of staying in Soviet-era hotels in Central Asia where surly staff ignore hotel guests and most of the items on menus are not available.

We decided to take our chances downstairs at the room with a restaurant sign on the door.  It reminded me again of Central Asian hotel restaurants—high ceilings, bare fluorescent lights, torn window shades, two wall clocks stopped at different times, a few electrical wires hanging out of the walls, tables with chipped Formica tops.

It was too late for the “Morning Glory” breakfast, and the “Nil Grey Soup” did not sound appetizing, so we ordered vegetable pakoras and fried cashew nuts, which both turned out to be tasty. At 5:30 p.m., we were the only souls in the place. A few staff loitered near the kitchen, carefully avoiding any eye contact that might have required them to check if we needed anything. Outside in the lobby, other staff were pinning balloons to the stairs, presumably for a birthday party. A manager walked in and out, locking and unlocking doors and occasionally remonstrating with staff.

As we checked out the next morning, I asked the question I’d wanted to ask all along, “Why is the hotel called Nikita?” I was hoping for a reference to Nikita Khrushchev, or Soviet influence in the Brahmaputra Valley, but I also remembered that Nikita was the name of an Elton John song and a short-lived American TV series with improbable plots about a secret agent with long and shapely legs. I got the answer I deserved. “It is named for the owner’s daughter.”

Ol' man Brahmaputra

As the city that claims to be the center of Assamese culture, Tezpur is underwhelming. You can cover most of the sights—a couple of temples and the picturesque Cole Park with its artificial lake--comfortably in half a day. The top tourist attraction is Agnigarh--in Sanskrit, the fortress of fire—on a hillock overlooking the Brahmaputra.

Stories from Hindu mythology tend to be long and involved, with many characters and sub-plots, so I’ll give you the short soapy version. Usha, daughter of Banasura, the thousand-armed king of central Assam, fell in love with Aniruddha, grandson of Lord Krishna. As relationships go, this was a non-starter, because Banasura was a devotee of Krishna’s sworn enemy, Shiva. Banasura tied up Aniruddha in a mess of snakes and packed Usha off to the Agnigarh fortress which was surrounded by a ring of fire. A bloody war between the forces of Krishna and Shiva—a scene vividly depicted in stone sculptures on the hillock—followed. Wise Lord Brahma stepped in, told them both to behave, and brokered the deal which ended with Banasura agreeing to the marriage. From the legendary battle, Tezpur earned the name of “city of blood.”

After a steep ascent on a hot, sticky day and a heavy dose of Hindu mythology, Stephanie and I needed lunch and a less taxing afternoon schedule. We decided on the city museum, housed in a British colonial-era bungalow, where we hoped to find AC along with the sculptures, crafts and Ahom-era cannons. There was no one on duty at the ticket office, so we entered the garden and looked for the entrance. On a covered stage near the gate, a small group of men had gathered for a ceremony around a makeshift altar with an offering bowl, incense sticks and framed photographs. I approached them.

            “Is this the entrance to the museum?”

            “Sorry, it’s closed today,” one man replied. “We’re celebrating the birthday of Bhupen Hazarika. Would you like to join us?”

            This was not the first time I had heard the name of Hazarika, the much-revered artist and musician who literally put Assam on India’s modern cultural map. He was a singer, composer, lyricist, poet and film-maker, widely credited with introducing the culture and folk music of Assam and northeast India to Hindi cinema at the national level. He was also a tireless campaigner for social justice.

In 1935, nine-year-old Hazarika moved to Tezpur with his family. His public rendition of a classical Assamese devotional song, taught to him by his mother, caught the attention of the playwright and pioneer Assamese filmmaker Jyoti Prasad Agarwala and the artist and revolutionary poet Bishnu Prasad Rabha. Under their patronage, Hazarika recorded his first song at a Kolkata studio in 1936 and went on to sing in a 1939 Agarwala film. Meanwhile, he started writing his own songs.

In 1949, after earning an MA in Political Science and working briefly for All India Radio, Hazarika won a scholarship to Columbia University in New York. He completed his Ph.D. in mass communication in 1952. In New York he became friends with the African-American singer, actor and civil rights activist Paul Robeson. The imagery, theme and melody of one of Hazarika’s most famous songs, Bisitirno Paarore (On Your Wide Banks), was heavily influenced by Robeson’s rendition of Ol’ Man River in the 1936 movie version of the musical Show Boat. Oscar Hammerstein II’s lyrics to Ol’ Man River contrast the struggles of African-Americans with the endless, uncaring flow of the Mississippi River. In Hazarika’s version, the Mississippi becomes the Brahmaputra, flowing silently through a world of suffering and moral decay:

Bistirna paarore (On your wide banks)
Axonkhya jonre (That are home to countless people)
Hahakar xuniu (In spite of hearing their anguished cries)
Nixobde nirobe (So silently and unmindfully)
Burha luit tumi (Oh you, Old Luit [Another name for Brahmaputra])
Burha luit buwa kiyo? (How can you flow?)

            After a brief spell of university teaching, Hazarika established himself in Kolkata as a music director and singer. He made several award-winning Assamese films, composed scores for Bengali films and in his later life for Hindi films. As a singer, he was famous for his baritone voice and diction. As a lyricist, he was known for poetic compositions and social and political messages. His songs, including Bisitirno Paarore, were translated into Bengali and Hindi. Hazarika dabbled in politics and for five years served as a representative to the Assam Legislative Assembly, but he always saw his music and films as the most effective forums for social action.

By the time he died in November 2011 at age 85, his fame had spread far beyond his native Assam. An estimated half a million mourners attended his funeral in Guwahati, the state’s commercial capital; a monument opened four years later is now a place of pilgrimage. Fittingly for the artist who composed an ode to a river, Hazarika’s name is on India’s longest bridge, opened in May 2017 by Prime Minister Narendra Modi. More than five miles long, it spans a major tributary of the Brahmaputra, the Lohit, linking Assam and Arunachal Pradesh, saving 100 miles and five hours in travel time between the states.

            Stephanie and I joined the group, which included two writers and a film maker, on the stage, lit incense sticks and scattered lotus petals on the altar. There were short tributes to Hazarika, then the group sang one of his songs. Afterwards, we chatted and thanked them for making us part of the ceremony. “Please wait a few more minutes,” one insisted.  Soon, one member of the group who had slipped away entered through the gate carrying a gamosa, the traditional Assamese scarf, a white rectangular piece of cloth with a red border on three sides and red woven motifs on the fourth. I stood, feeling humble, while two others draped it around my neck.     

Son of Brahma

In India’s so-called “chicken neck,” the seven northeastern states precariously connected to the rest of the country by a narrow strip of land called the Siliguri Corridor, most roads lead to one of Asia’s great rivers, the Brahmaputra, son of Brahma.

Its headwaters lie on the northern side of the Himalayas on the Angsi glacier in Tibet, where it is called the Tsangpo, the “purifier,” or by its Chinese name, Yarlung Zangbo. It flows east for almost 680 miles before cutting a course north through a series of narrow gorges and then flowing south across the eastern Himalayas through a deep canyon whose walls in places rise to 16,000 feet on each side. The river enters India in the state of Arunachal Pradesh where it is called the Dihang (or Siang). In northeastern Assam it is joined by two major tributaries, the Lohit and the Dibang; beyond this confluence, it is known as the Brahmaputra. Throughout its 450-mile course southwest across Assam, it is fed by tributaries from the north and south. In western Assam, it turns south around the Garo Hills to flow into Bangladesh where it is called the Jamuna. Downstream, it joins India’s other great river, the Ganges (Padma), and the Meghna, ending its 1,800-mile course emptying into the Bay of Bengal.

Even during the dry season, the Brahmaputra is a massive, untamed river with its banks often several miles apart. It has two high-water seasons—in early summer when the Himalayan snows melt, and during the monsoon season from June to October. Swollen waters submerge river islands, erode the banks and flood farmland. Over the past 250 years, the river’s course has shifted dramatically, as water levels and seismic activity created new channels. Each year, the riverscape changes—new islands, sand bars and levees appear, while older ones are washed downstream.

Cargo boat on Brahmaputra

Millions of people in India and Bangladesh live in the river valley and depend on its waters for survival. The Brahmaputra provides fertile farmland and irrigation, vital for the three annual rice crops; fish caught in the river or harvested from ponds fed by it are a major source of protein. The river is awe-inspiring, and often terrifying; to some, it is sacred. In Hindu mythology, Brahmaputra is the son of the god Brahma, rising from a sacred pool known as the Brahmakund; in its lower reaches in Assam, the river is worshiped by Hindus and temples and monasteries were built on its banks and on river islands.

Hindu monastery (satra) on Majuli Island, Brahmaputra

The Brahmaputra valley is at its narrowest, bank to bank, in western Assam where it cuts through the Garo Hills before turning south towards Bangladesh. For centuries, this was the gateway to the region; whoever controlled it would be able to rule the upper Brahmaputra valley.  In 1671, at the village of Saraighat, the Ahom king, Lachit Borphukan, defeated an invading Mughal army, effectively ending the Mughals’ last attempt to extend their empire into Assam. The first road and rail bridge across the Brahmaputra was opened in 1962 at Saraighat, now a district of the industrial city of Guwahati, the largest city in Assam. For many years, it was the only bridge crossing the river. Today, a second Saraighat bridge relieves traffic congestion, and four other road and rail bridges cross the Brahmaputra upstream.  It’s still a long haul between the six bridges. The Brahmaputra, navigable for most of its length, is a major transportation highway, but also a barrier to north-south commerce. Local people still rely on ferries for travel and trade.

It’s a four-hour road trip along the valley from Guwahati to Tezpur, where I was teaching a two-week university course for junior faculty and doctoral research students. To the south the densely forested hills of the state of Meghalaya, once part of Assam, rose steeply from the valley; to the north, another line of hills was a hazy outline in the distance. Between them, the valley lay flat and fertile. We passed rice paddies, and fields of corn, soya and sugar cane; other crops include rapeseed, mustard seed and jute, used for making rope and baskets. Tall brick kilns with gently curving angles rose from the fields, looking (at least from the distance) like ancient temples.  Every mile or so, we passed a dhaba, the Punjabi word for a roadside restaurant now widely used across India; most had short, easy-to-remember English names—Delight Dhaba, Happy Dhaba, Lovely Dhaba, U Like Dhaba, even Deluge Dhaba. Other roadside establishments are called “hotels,” although only those such as the Dream City Hotel which offered “fooding and lodging” appeared to have rooms to rent.

For the first 60 miles or so, the road is a divided (although unfenced) highway, with the usual animal hazards. The occasional road sign with an image of a cow seems superfluous, because cattle are everywhere. At the town of Nagaon, Asian Highway 1 branches off southeast towards Nagaland and National Highway 37 becomes a two-lane that meanders through villages and a green landscape of eucalyptus, palm and banana trees and bamboo thickets. Roadside stalls sell bananas, potatoes, sweet potatoes, papayas, jackfruit, coconuts and lychees. During the day, the bicycle and animal traffic is heavy, with chickens and ducks joining the cows and goats. Our driver skillfully braked and swerved, avoiding the trucks and buses hurtling towards us; a couple of times, we idled behind the rump of an elephant until the road ahead was clear.

Most people in these villages live in traditional Assamese houses, simple one or two-room dwellings framed from bamboo or wood, with walls of reeds (locally called ikara) and clay tile roofs. On some, the ikara is plastered with mud to form a rough stucco. Near streams, the houses are built on stilts. Studies have shown that this traditional design, using cheap, lightweight and locally available materials, with flexible connections between walls and roof, stands up well to harsh weather and even earthquakes.

Finally, we turned north off NH37 and headed towards the bridge linking Tezpur with southern Assam. The Kolia Bhomora Setu road bridge, named for one of the Ahom generals who sent the Mughals packing, was opened in 1987. We paid the 20-rupee (30 cents) toll and the attendant pushed aside the rusty metal shelf that substituted for a toll booth arm. And then we were over the Brahmaputra. A small cargo boat, its deck stacked high with bricks, passed under the bridge spans. Small fishing boats seemed suspended in midstream as their crews pulled in the nets. Long, narrow boats with high prows, paddled by a single man standing at the stern, carried half a dozen passengers and a couple of bicycles along the shoreline. Smoke rose from cooking stoves in villages. The setting sun glimmered on the slow-moving water.  It was a view worthy of a postcard or an image in an “Incredible India” TV commercial.