THE ROAR OF BAGHJAN

Original story by Juri Baruah

Translated by Hiya Harsita

The night was like a deep forest grown old, except for the rumbling sounds from

the oil field proudly declaring their dominance. Piercing the darkness, these

sounds were like a rusty knife being twisted inside a wound. A sharp blade that

spared no one. Not the fish in Maguri lake. Not the ruddy shelducks in the

Motapung wetlands. Not even the pink lotuses blooming in the lake water.

Protik, who was about to take off his uniform, paused on hearing the sounds, his

heart trembling. The spiralling smoke, heedless and reckless, had almost turned

his uniform black. The silence, stillness and desolation of the outside

world—drained by the strange heat—found an echo within him.

Covid-19 had arrived in the region even before they could recover from the

floods, the lockdown weighing heavy on every household. In the middle of all this,

there was the fire. Burning on for 150 days. Declaring itself invincible. It had

spread from the oil fields, making its way into people’s eyes. The company had

now brought in Joseph, an Italian geologist, to tame it.

Protik craved a smoke after working several hours without a break, but it was no

longer possible to light a cigarette on the site. The poisonous gases had filled the

air already. He closed his eyes, brushing back the hair from his sweaty forehead.

He wanted to forget the fearful gazes of the innocent villagers from the other side

of the lake.

Half-asleep, Protik saw himself emerging from the oil field through a wall of

ravenous flames. Joseph was in front of him, with Munin following behind.

Munin showed up in Protik’s line of sight moments later, holding a first-aid box.

‘Sir. You left this back at the site.’ He said, holding it out for Protik.

Red eyes and burnt hands. Ash covered hair and a black face. And yet, Munin

hadn’t forgotten to return Protik’s first-aid box.

‘Don’t worry, Sir.’ He said before leaving, ‘Everything will be okay.’

‘Everything will be okay’— Protik gave in to the assurance. A pointless,

meaningless, senseless assurance.

Protik and Joseph often stood under the shed gazing at the oil field together. The

things that Protik wanted to forget, to erase from every trace of time in those

moments, were the very things Joseph wanted to carry back to his country.

As they stood there that day, Joseph took out a creased photograph from his

wallet. It was the picture of a child. Golden-haired, hazel-eyed and white-skinned.

He unfolded the picture, revealing a woman standing next to the child.

‘This is Alice.’ Said Joseph in English, holding the photograph up for Protik, ‘And

the little one is Andrew.’

‘Alice must have let the hens out by now,’ he continued. ‘And Andrew, he will be

Photography by Diganta Rajkhowa 

groping around inside the pen for eggs to deposit in his mother’s lap. Alice will

follow him into the kitchen yelling, and then cook sausages and eggs. I can almost

see her sighing at the table, looking at the extra food, the portion meant for me

she must have cooked out of habit.’

Joseph took a deep breath. Protik felt like a defeated general as he faced the

unquenchable fire. Perhaps Joseph was beginning to feel the same way. It was why

they were both looking at pictures of loved ones for comfort. The present was

real. The fire too. Yet, so was the fervent hopefulness of living.

Life was truly a strange thing. Protik could catch a glimpse of it in Joseph’s

twinkling eyes. He had seen a similar glow in Munin’s gaze. The same worldly light

trapped between things lost and found.

Munin stood at a distance, eavesdropping on Joseph and Protik’s conversation. He

couldn’t understand much of what they were talking about. The grief and tears in

their words nonetheless felt all too familiar. People, it seemed, carried the same

emptiness within despite being from different parts of the worlds. Munin couldn’t

help but think of Tora.

Protik had met her too. During a field visit to the other side of Maguri lake, Munin

had convinced his boss to stop by his village and visit his home. Sitting on the long

bench in their courtyard, Protik ran his eyes over Munin’s house. In an instant, it

became clear to him why Munin never shied away from any job on the site, be it

serving betel-leaf or lifting heavy pipes. Protik knew Munin wanted approval for

his work. He wanted to be spoken of highly to their superiors. It was the only

reason he had entirely forgotten the word ‘No’.

Although betel-leaves were not his favourite, that day Protik graciously accepted

the tender betel nuts and leaves served by Munin’s mother.

‘It may make you dizzy, Sir,’ she told him. ‘Don’t have it if you aren’t used to it.’

Her artlessness made him stay back longer than he had planned to. Protik looked

around at his surroundings, imagining the blood and sweat Munin had poured into

his home to keep it standing.

‘You must eat with us before you go, Sir.’ Munin’s mother said to him, ‘We are

having duck today. Tora will be joining us.’

Munin looked uneasy. His house was hardly a place fit for his boss to eat in. He

stood staring at Protik in silence.

‘Thank you, but not today. I’m still on duty. I’ll visit soon for lunch.’

With that Protik stood up to leave. The villagers gathered in the courtyard to see

him off.

Fishing was the sole livelihood of the people who lived on this side of the lake,

occasionally supplemented by small-scale farming. The income they made was

enough to feed most of the families, though frugally. The people here didn’t have

huge godowns to fall back on. Thankfully they didn’t have long spells of shortages

either. In the past, young men from almost every household of these villages had

gone off to the rebel camps beyond the hills. Some of them had returned over

time, managing to bag contracts with the oil company. The bodies of the others

had never reached home. Yet, in spite of their hand-to-mouth existence, the

villagers always cooked enough rice for an extra stomach, never letting guests

return home unfed. Along with the foam of rice water, it was as if they had spent

a life time skimming over all their worries and troubles.

A young woman was waiting at the far end of the courtyard.

‘Sir, this is Tora. We are getting married this coming Aahin.’

Protik smiled at Tora. She seemed to be of Munin’s age. She must have dressed

up and rushed here on getting to know they had guests at the house.

‘I’m afraid you will only have to cook for your fiancé today.’

Tora lowered her eyes, blushing. 

The memory of their past encounter reminded Protik to ask Munin about her. 

‘Does she know the kind of things you have to do here?’

‘She didn’t before, but she has found out by now. The villagers talk, sir.’

‘Found out what? The risks?’

‘Nothing like that, Sir. Every line of work has its own risks. That she understands.

Besides, she’s the one taking the biggest risk of them all by marrying me!’

Protik laughed out loud. Munin put on his helmet and walked into the rig. Joseph

didn’t understand what he said, but he knew all too well that pain was articulated

the same way in every language. In the past few days, Joseph had realized that

even though the company had seemingly employed him to save the locals, his own

security was their main concern. It was why they sent him new directives on a

daily basis through Protik.

‘Don’t go anywhere alone, Joseph. I have just received orders from above.’

A lifetime of working in the heart of forests, deserts and poverty-riddled

countries had taught Joseph an important lesson—corporations had more power

over nations than their own governments.

‘Guns, money and oil—seems we can’t live without them,’ he said suddenly.

Protik could decipher what he meant.

‘You know, Joseph, if it hadn’t been for the arrival of Italian engineers, oil would

have perhaps never been discovered in our land.’

‘Oh really?’

‘In those days, tracks were being laid down from Margherita to Dibrugarh,

overseen by the Assam Railway and Trading Company. Forests were being

cleared. The unexpected appearance of oil bubbling within one such forest lit up

the faces of the Italians. Supervising the construction of a railway line had led

them to discover oil. Strange, isn’t it?’

‘Guns, money and oil,’ Joseph reiterated. ‘It’s certainly hard to prove which is

more powerful.’

Joseph paused. After a while, he said without looking at Protik, ‘But we do have

proof. Some of it was offered up to display power, while some of it was aimed at

filling others with fear. The world abounds with the history of such proof, my

friend.’

Joseph exuded confidence when he spoke. Perhaps this was how his experience

had honed him.

‘So... does the Front still hold any sway in these parts? 

‘Why do you ask?’ Protik responded, ‘Any abduction fantasies you want me to

know about?’

Despite the tense atmosphere, the two laughed out loud.

The head office had briefed Joseph unofficially on certain matters before his trip

here. They had informed him how many former foreign employees of the

company had become the targets of the armed separatist front called ULFA.

‘You know, Joseph,’ said Protik, ‘there’s no clear answer to your question. I don’t

believe the Front alone turned anyone rebellious. Rebellion was already lurking in

a corner of people’s hearts. A pretext was all it needed to come up to the

surface.’

Protik, Munin and Joseph today had no pretext—no luxury of a short cut. The fire

had raged on like a jilted lover, sneaking poisonous gases into the air. Sometimes

it acted in the strangest manner, bubbling up from the earth, revealing every

shade of its anger, exhaustion and torment. Then it exploded. Long after each

explosion, it was easy for everyone around to believe in the fire. 

Those who believed in fires nurtured flames in their own eyes. Joseph, Protik and

Munin were among all the men who had ended up trying to tame these flames,

ever since, seeking the answer to the same question—mankind may be hardy, but

what about time?

Protik and Joseph returned to their seats for lunch. A bleary-eyed Tora was

waiting for Munin by the shed with a tiffin box.

‘This foul wind has already reached the village,’ she said, looking up at him.

‘Which company can stop the wind, you tell me?’

‘How can you still be siding with the company?’

‘I’m not picking sides, I’m only doing my job.’

‘Doing your job, but what about your judgement? Is that gone with the wind too?’

‘Tora...you must stop coming here...’

Tora walked away. The tiffin box in Munin’s hands grew colder the further she

went. Although he was as strong as a bodybuilder, he found it difficult to lift each

morsel of rice to his mouth, feeling something quivering inside his chest. He

couldn’t tell what it was. It was like a bird with broken wings collapsing on the

ground. Like a loose elastic band falling from Tora’s long tresses. Like a white

frangipani drifting down quietly and brushing against his mother as she stood

waiting for him by the gate. Like the deep, low voice of his elder brother, his

mirror image, who had lost his way years ago. 

Munin couldn’t finish the lunch Tora had lovingly brought for him. Suddenly,

another booming sound was heard across the site. Panic took over the workers,

and Protik and Joseph rushed outside. The atmosphere became unbearable thanks

to the nameless gases in the air. Oil drops were falling like rain.

Protik, Munin and Joseph assembled in the shed. The colours in the sky over the

other side of the lake ranged from a deep yellow to a fierce red, like the eyes of

an angry tiger.

‘You need to alert the people.’ Joseph said without looking at Protik.

For what seemed like ages, Protik kept gaping at Joseph. He eventually switched

on his satellite phone. They would now have to evacuate all three villages on the

other side of the lake overnight.

Munin felt as he could hear a flock of noisy vultures flying overhead. 

Where were all the people supposed to go? And overnight, at that? Would they

agree to leave behind their homes, everything? Would the company bear the

responsibility for them?

His elder brother had once asked him the same question. Years ago, the family

had lost a son to ULFA. Dangor da had left to join the Front, the one that told

men to walk with guns in their hands and no fear in their hearts. This was the

story Munin had heard throughout his youth.

The ULFA men had tried to intimidate the company—how could they build their

rig on land owned by the villagers, and right next to the lake, at that?

‘No guts to come back home, but look at him! Trying to threaten a company,’

Munin’s father would mutter every now and then.

Still, his mother had carried on cooking meals for four people, serving four

portions of chicken curry seasoned with pepper, and fish steamed in banana

leaves. Even after blowing out the lamp by the door for the last time, Aai had not

closed her eyes.

Munin recalled it all. On bleak, hazy nights, people tend to remember those they

love. It was something no one had needed to teach him as a boy.

He returned to the present and looked at Protik.

‘Sir, could I send a message homes?’

For the first time, Protik could see doubt clouding Munin’s eyes. 

‘Whom would you like to call?’

‘Tora. She alone can convince my mother.’

Protik immediately handed over the satellite phone. 

A milkwood tree had once stood at the site of the oil rig. It was where Munin and

his friends had gathered to practice singing and dancing together for the Bihu

festival before going door to door with their performances. It was beneath this

tree that his old friend Tora had gifted him a gamusa as well as a first kiss. He

could hardly believe that a fire was now ravaging the same place.

Munin summed up the situation for Tora as briefly as possible.

‘Don’t leave Aai alone.’

‘And you?’

‘Don’t think too much about me, okay?’

‘What do you mean? The hens have started dropping dead since yesterday.

Mustard flowers have begun drooping and dying. So many people are complaining

that they can’t breathe.’

‘Just…just don’t think about me. Go wherever the company takes you. Please!’

A long sigh travelled across the ether, only to remain trapped between Tora and

Munin. Munin exhaled, his breath answering the questions Tora could not ask. He

hung up. 

Years ago, after his father’s death, Munin had made another phone call from a

public phone booth in a similar state. The call had gone through only after several

attempts. His throat had dried up at the sound of Dangor da’s heavy voice on the

other side.

‘Pitai is gone.’ He had whispered.

‘I know.’

‘Won’t you come to see Aai once?’

‘...’

Dangor da had fallen silent for a while.

‘Why have the villagers allowed a lease on the land on our side of the lake? Will

the company bear the responsibility for all of you if something goes wrong?’

‘You’re changing the subject, Dangor da.’

‘Don’t call back on this number, Moon. I’ll make arrangements to send some

money.’

Munin had found Dangor da selfish. He was deeply hurt and full of resentment. He

wanted to scream out in fury that day, but not many things can be said in a one-

rupee conversation.

He had kept sitting with the phone stuck to his ear long after ending the call. Tora

must be doing the same now, he thought. She too must be frozen.

Those who stay frozen fear no fire. They have already been singed by the flames

within.

The whole sky turned red on the final night. A sky roaring and rumbling like a

tiger. Its colours were reflected dully in the lake, in the eyes of men like Munin, in

the cacophony of a bird beating its wings to fly away, in the weeping of little

children.

Protik ordered the evacuation of the site. By now, the fire had enveloped the

surrounding vegetation and taken over the set-up here. It was hard to keep track

of anyone. Suddenly, Protik remembered he hadn’t seen Joseph around.

‘Munin, where is Joseph?’ He asked. 

Munin looked back. On a hunch, he began running towards the fire.

Protik was on his way back from the airport after seeing off Joseph. No matter

how hard he tried not to think about it, the image captured by the drone on that

fateful morning kept flashing before his eyes—the picture of a corpse floating

towards him. That morning, that smell—was it the stench of the burnt oil or a

burnt body?—still haunted his and Joseph’s nights, robbing them of sleep.

Munin’s mother would keep waiting to open the door. For many springs to come,

Tora would feel no warmth within herself.

Protik suddenly turned his car to drive towards Munin’s village. He hadn’t been

brave enough to attend the rituals performed on the third day after the

cremation.

The long bench was lying as before in the courtyard of Munin’s house. Munin’s

mother came outside on hearing the sound of the car. She was followed by Tora.

Protik looked at the old woman’s quiet eyes and parched lips. Her clothes had as

many wrinkles as her mind. His gaze turned to Tora as she brought out a tray of

betel-leaves and placed it in front of him. Protik picked up a tender betel-nut with

quivering hands.

‘We are used to this, sir.’ Munin’s mother whispered. ‘To loss and suffering. To

nurturing fires.’

Tora’s eyes welled up, her nostrils flaring. She didn’t say anything to Protik. This

silence was no less than a scar. Enduring a fire hadn’t become any easier.