The Matter of the Root.

In a country where your name (more importantly, your surname) is more or less a reflection of your identity- from where you belong down to your caste and religion- imagine having a name that doesn't pin you down to a certain state or territory or region, even. Given that situation, I have now come to simply laugh off the surprised reactions I get when people realise I am Assamese. I have had colleagues who simply assumed I was Bengali for years,friends of friends enquiring which part of Delhi or Punjab I am from and even random aunties at weddings judging me for gorging on chicken because apparently, I am a Marwari! I usually laugh the whole thing off, sometimes even playing a guessing game with the people who seem hellbent on decoding where I actually am from.

But somewhere at the back of my mind, over the years, a nagging question has kept building up in my mind--a question I have tried to answer very many times, although not very satisfactorily--- What does being an Assamese mean to me? A person like me, who thinks in English rather than in Assamese, who struggles with reading the Assamese script and is at best --worse than a five year old at writing the same (I can barely squiggle my name down). My Hindi is more fluent than my Assamese, I hardly listen to Assamese music, I can just about manage a twirl or two of Bihu, I have absolutely zero knowledge of Assamese literature (although I am a compulsive reader), I have never been able to appreciate Assamese cinema...even my knowledge of the history of these lands is fuzzy at best.

Although my childhood was largely spent outside Assam, I can hardly blame my parents for not trying. We spoke in Assamese at home (we still do), I have memories of my parents and grandparents taking turns to teach us the script, I grew up listening to Bhupen Hazarika and Khagen Mahanta's songs, Bihu was celebrated following all traditions and customs as far as possible, my favorite meal still remains one with bilaahi tenga and khaar...even my interest in cooking almost waned because of my mothers wish that I learn how to make pithas and mine would never turn out well! By and large, they tried their best. Yet, that sense of alienation when we used to visit Assam as kids never really went away. The sense of homesickness and yearning that my parents exibited every year at Bihu was befuddling to me, as the most important festivals on my calendar still remained Diwali and Holi.

It was only once I started Medical school in Assam that I realised how strong this sense of alienation is. My accent set me apart from others, my obvious partialty to use Hindi and English even put off certain people. I was misunderstood and widely thought to be one who either looks down upon her own heritage or is ashamed of it, or both. While on the other hand, for the first time, I had the opportunity to learn about my own culture like never before and I was all for it.

Through the last decade spent here, I have finally realised what makes me Assamese and more importantly, what it means to me. Its the respect I have for my culture, the knowledge that we, as a people, have a very rich literature and an equally rich heritage of the performing arts--that it doesn't really matter whether I know how to sing a Bihu naam or Bor geet or Jikir, all that matters is that I respect the art-and the heritage behind it.

I still prefer Murakami over Indrani Raisom Goswami, it just doesn't mean I look down on Assamese literature. I still sing old Hindi film songs, not because I dislike Assamese music, but only because I find hindi songs easier to remember. What makes me Assamese is the pride I carry within me of being one. I may not speak the language as fluently as you, does not mean I do not love it. There may be hundreds out there like me, aliens in their own lands...and today on the occasion of Bihu...here's to rediscovering a piece of us within ourselves ...among our people.

Notun bosor aaru bihu r xubessa thaakil.:-)