I spent my childhood in the 90s, in a highly militarised zone of Assam, against the backdrop of a river erosion. Insurgency was at its peak in the 90s; one of my neighbours was in the ULFA (United Liberation Front of Assam). The army van used to come to my neighbourhood in search of the ULFA member. Such incidents created a fearful situation. There were some places in the village I could not go to alone even during the day. These situations left a deep impact on our psyche. The area that I grew up in was sparsely populated and my house was situated just next to the river. Most of my neighbours had shifted to other places due to the river erosion.
I am from Garpora village, which falls under the subdivision of Rahmoria in Dibrugarh District, Assam, situated on the banks of the mighty Brahmaputra river. Since the devastating earthquake of 1950, river erosion has been a persistent threat to our landscape. Before my birth, the river had already claimed numerous villages, paddy fields, forests, sifting islands, and lakes. Growing up, I heard stories of these lost villages, which sparked my imagination. Unfortunately, the erosion still continues, consuming village after village, vast tracts of cultivated and forested land. Erosion has become part and parcel of the lives of the few people who have resolved to stay in this place. The roaring sound of the erosion is so deeply etched into the psyche of these people that the sound of the river consuming the land reverberates in their minds, even when there is no sign of erosion.
My native village, Garpora, was home to diverse communities, including Chutia, Matak, and tea-tribes people. My father, who was born in Khal Gaon, witnessed his birthplace succumb to the river’s fury, which forced his family to shift to other places. There has been a huge migration of people from Rahmoria to other places since the 1950s. Most of the people in my village have migrated to different locations leaving the village deserted. Only a few houses are left in my area. At one point of time our village was full of people and activities, however the river erosion has turned our village into a crematorium. Heavy militarization further added an eerie atmosphere, changing the landscape of the night into complete silence. The dark nights accompanied by the silence ushered in unknown sounds, and the barking of dogs from a distance became more distinct.
These experiences of growing up in Rahmoria, have shaped my practice and lead me to posit certain questions like: how does silence exist in a militarised zone against the backdrop of environmental disasters like river erosion? How does it impact the human psyche? And how do we deal with such a situation?
After completing my MFA, I returned home and started visiting Rahmoria regularly. There was a want of information regarding the Rahmoria that I grew up in. This vacuum led me to take photographs and document the oral histories of its residents. The landscape has completely changed, as the river has consumed the places where I grew up. The changes in the landscape are a constant, due to the shifting of the river caused by erosion. I visited the place where the incidents happened during the 90s and took a series of interviews of the people experienced it? It was like revisiting the past by following its traces. When I was growing up, talking about militarization happened in silence. I feel the landscape still carries traces of the past, it carries the silence of Rahmoria in the 90s. These exercises of going back to Rahmoria, interviewing the people, capturing them through photographs is part of my search for the lost and an attempt to capture the constant changes in Rahmoria’s landscape.
Image Details:
Title: Rahmoria; Year: 2016 – 2014