The Brahmaputra’s Whisper and Roar: Jogen’s resolve
Siddharth Roy
Rehabari, Guwahati
The scent of wet earth and ripening paddy was Jogen’s lifeblood. It was a smell that he had known since his first breath, a fragrance that clung to the very fabric of his being. For generations, his family had tilled this small, fertile plot of land nestled on the banks of the mighty Brahmaputra. The river was both his provider and his greatest fear. In its gentle season, it brought life-giving silt and nourished his crops, but in its fury, it was a destroyer, a relentless titan that swallowed everything in its path.
Jogen was a man of the earth—his skin was tanned and lined like a dry riverbed, and his hands, calloused and strong, spoke of years of back-breaking labour. His wife, the quiet and resilient Parvati, was his constant companion, her nimble fingers weaving intricate bamboo baskets while her voice, as soft as a breeze, filled their small mud-walled hut. Their son, a boy named Ratan, was the hope of their future, his laughter echoing across the fields as he chased dragonflies.
This year had been a good year. The monsoon had arrived on time, the rain had been plentiful but not excessive, and the young paddy stalks stood tall and green, promising a bountiful harvest. The entire village of Rupahi, a scattering of huts and fields, shared this quiet optimism. The air was filled with the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional folk song sung by a woman walking to the well. Jogen often stood at the edge of his field, a half-smile on his face, feeling the cool evening air against his skin and listening to the whispers of the Brahmaputra in the distance.
But as the calendar turned and the days grew longer, an ominous tension began to settle over the village. The sky, once a brilliant expanse of blue, became a bruised canvas of purple and grey. The daily rain, once a welcome blessing, became a relentless, pounding deluge. The whispers of the river grew louder, no longer a murmur but a low, throaty growl. Jogen, with a seasoned farmer’s instinct, knew this sound. It was the sound of a beast awakening.
He rushed home, his heart heavy with a familiar dread. “Parvati,” he said, his voice strained. “The river… it’s rising fast.”
Parvati’s face, usually calm, tightened with worry. She knew what this meant. The Brahmaputra was a fickle god; its mood could change from serene to savage in the blink of an eye. The village elders gathered under the old Banyan tree, their faces etched with the same fear. They spoke of reports from upstream, of record rainfall, of embankments threatening to give way. The decision was made to prepare for evacuation to the nearby hillock, their only safe haven.
The next few days were a blur of frantic activity. Jogen and his family worked tirelessly, hauling their few valuable possessions onto a makeshift raft: sacks of rice, a few cooking pots, and a bundle of their best clothes. They herded their two goats and a cow to higher ground, their small cries of protest lost in the roar of the river. The water, a muddy, swirling torrent, was now lapping at the edge of their village. The air was thick with the scent of fear and the deafening symphony of the storm.
On the third night, the river broke its banks. It didn’t just spill over; it surged forward with a monstrous force, a wall of water that crashed through the fields, devouring the green paddy stalks in seconds. Jogen stood with his family on the small hillock, watching as the river swallowed their world. He saw their small hut, the one Parvati had so lovingly decorated with dried flowers, disappear under the brown expanse. He saw his fields, the very ground he had nurtured with his sweat and love, vanish without a trace. Ratan, clinging to his father’s leg, pointed with a trembling finger. “Deuta, the rice!” he cried. The words were a knife in Jogen’s heart.
When the water finally began to recede, a week later, it left behind a landscape of ruin. Rupahi was a ghost village, its huts flattened into mud puddles, its fields a desolate swamp of brown silt and debris. The paddy, once a symbol of their prosperity, was gone. Jogen walked through the wreckage of his life, his feet sinking into the thick, treacherous mud. He found a piece of his son’s wooden toy boat, half-buried in the muck. Tears, hot and stinging, finally fell from his eyes, mixing with the muddy water on his cheeks. It was a grief that went deeper than just material loss; it was the loss of a year’s hope, the loss of his identity as a provider, and the loss of his very future.
The post-flood season was a brutal test of their resilience. The government aid, a few bags of rice and some tarpaulin sheets, was a mere drop in the ocean of their needs. Jogen, like many others, was forced to turn to the local moneylender, a man with a slender and crooked smile. The interest rate was extortionate, but he had no other choice. He had to rebuild, he had to replant, and he had to provide.
The task was monumental. He and Parvati, working together, salvaged what they could. They rebuilt a small shelter with bamboo and whatever wood they could find. He toiled day and night, his back aching, his spirit weary. Ratan, no longer the carefree boy chasing dragonflies, now helped him clear the fields, his small hands pulling out weeds and debris.
One evening, as the sun set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Ratan pointed to a patch of land that had escaped the worst of the silt. “Deuta,” he said, “look. The soil here… it’s still good.”
Jogen looked at the small patch. His son was right. The soil there, though small, was still dark and rich. A flicker of something, a spark he thought had been extinguished forever, ignited in his heart. It wasn’t much, but it was a beginning. He looked at his son, whose eyes, though tired, held a hopeful light. He looked at Parvati, who was silently mending a torn fishing net.
Jogen’s plight was not unique. It was the story of every farmer in Rupahi, the story of countless villages along the Brahmaputra. The river would rise again; that was a certainty. But as he looked at his family, he understood that their struggle was not just against the river but a testament to their unwavering will to survive. He would plant again. He would fight again. His life was a continuous cycle of creation and destruction, but within that cycle, he had found his purpose: to never give up, to always rebuild, and to always find hope in the small, fertile patch of earth that was still his. The Brahmaputra may have taken his past, but it could not take his future.