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Writing on the Wall
Emotion is one thing, and giving it an outlet in a rational manner is another. And this is exactly where Sanjoy Hazarika’s latest book Writing on the Wall comes in. The book comprises 15 personal essays that deal with a wide range of issues, from the much-hated Armed Forces Special Powers Act to the complexities of the north-east as a demographic and anthropological unit to its even more complex ethnic problems to the mighty Brahmaputra and related problems to the Centre’s ‘Look East’ policy and its pitfalls. As an insider’s take, Hazarika’s essays are what one would expect from a writer of his calibre—crisply written and analytical—but at the same time one cannot but feel a little ‘let down’ at the clinical detachment with which he handles his subjects. At least, in the first couple of essays like After the Long Night, There is a Dawn and One Thousand Years in a Lifetime. But once he talks about the Brahmaputra and Xihu, the fresh water Gangetic dolphin, the passion comes surging up, much like the monsoon-fed Brahmaputra. After all, by his own admission, he is the happiest while on his boat on the mighty river. So, what we get to read is a poetic description of the river, its Tandava nrityas during the monsoon and role of a saviour it resumes during most time of the year, which finally pave the way to an in-depth discussion on water sharing, mainly by India and Bangladesh. When one deals with a region with 200 ethnic groups and as many languages and dialects, one that shares international borders with Bangladesh, Myanmar, Bhutan and China, which the author rightfully describes as "an anthropologist’s dream and administration’s nightmare", 161 pages are just not enough. But Hazarika does justice to issues pertaining to Nagaland, right from Article 371-A of the Constitution under which the state was placed to a detailed interview with Thiungaleng Muivah, the legendary Naga leader of NSCN (I-M) faction. The romantic pedestal on which the ULFA (United Liberation Front of Assam) was once placed comes crumbling down as Hazarika describes the group of young idealistic boys who gathered in Sibsagar’s Rang Ghar in 1979 to set it up as now middle-aged self-exiled businessmen who are enjoying a comfortable life in the neighbouring countries and continuing with their violent activities. As a writer, Hazarika has captured the mood of the general public, given his arguments and analyses of situations and policies in threadbare, which make his essays readable. And the way he concludes the book with a personal note, in the form of a letter to his daughter, touches the right chord. He accepts his weak points both as a father and a man, apologises for the collective folly of his generation and leaves an encouraging note for the future generation. After all, "at the very end of every dark night, there is a dawn, however delayed".
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THE
only son of a family friend has been missing for the past three years.
His father, a retired professor, has been running from pillar to post to
find out what exactly happened to him. His ageing mother still dusts his
room and airs his clothes in the hope that one day her son would come
back home. As a friend and a fellow Assamese, I feel their pain; the
same way I feel proud when I see youngsters all over the nation sway to
Zubin Garg’s Ya Ali number or revel in the dignity of Jahnu
Barua, a nine-time National Award-winning film-maker, who refused to
accept the ‘Debut Director Award’ after he made Maine Gandhi Ko
Nahi Mara.