26/07/2025
THE TURBULENT BANKS OF THE KOLONG
উত্তাল হৈছিল কলংপাৰ৷
The issue of foreign nationals in Assam has once again come to the forefront of public discourse.
Whether it is constitutionally sound to set 1971 as the base year for identifying foreign nationals without amending the Constitution is a subject of extensive debate. While the base year for the entire country is 1951, for Assam it is 1971. According to the Assam Accord, those who migrated from then East Pakistan between January 1, 1966 and March 25, 1971 were to be granted citizenship. It is important to consider whether this decision was driven by political gains, legal reasoning, or humanitarian concerns. The renewed discussion on this matter transported my mind back to my student days.
This was during 1980–83. Let me narrate an old memory. At the time, we were students of Nowgong Government Higher Secondary School. Because of my father’s job in the judicial department, we lived in the charming and elite Assamese locality of Nagaon town. Nearby was Bardowa, the seat of Vaishnavite religious culture. From the great Srimanta Sankardev to Anandaram Dhekial Phukan, from Gunabhiram Barua, Miles Bronson to Ratnakanta Borkakati, this land has been graced by many revered figures. The air itself carried a sense of sanctity and serenity.
It was in this environment that one day our old friend from the neighborhood, Abdul Halim, came to class and excitedly said: “Tomorrow is going to be fun. Didn’t you hear? A three day Assam bandh (shutdown) has been called.” We had our first taste of a bandh in early June, 1979.
It was a joyful time—freedom from the monotony of school and the added bonus of day-long cricket matches on the Nehru field near the Kolong river. We had just upgraded to Class IX, and even though we were supposed to study diligently, nothing felt as exciting as those cricket matches on Nehru Bali.
Halim, however, had other interests. He was a well-known footballer. Football may not have been as popular as cricket then, but names like Mohun Bagan, Bhawanipore and East Bengal were frequently on people’s lips during the Bardoloi Trophy at Jubilee Stadium. The previous year, my uncles were ecstatic after watching the Port Authority team of Bangkok play. Gilbertson Sangma, Rewati Phukan, Momin Bardoloi—these names were as familiar as family members. Halim's skills reminded us of heroes like Chuni Goswami, Mano Bhattacharya, and Surajit Sengupta. So, the mention of the three day bandh had us all thrilled.
Our teacher, Rohit Bezbaruah Sir said: “Now that you have time off, focus on your studies. Time is precious.” One of our classmates muttered: “Nothing new. We’ve heard that from childhood—at home, in school, everywhere.” Our friends Krishanu and Kaushik, however, rebuked him for disrespecting the teacher.
Dhiraj asked: “Will our coaching classes also be cancelled during the bandh?” We all pondered. Since schools, transportation, shops, and offices were closed, would our English class with Zaman Sir and maths' class with Bimal Bora Sir also be cancelled? Rishabh said: “Let the schools be closed, but not the coaching classes. After all, we called the bandh. So we can break it too.”
“How did you call the bandh?” Pradeepta asked. Surajit announced: “The bandh was called by AASU (All Assam Students’ Union).”
“AASU is our union too, isn’t it?” Ashish added logically.
Whether the students’ union was truly our union or not remained unclear to me throughout my student life.
But that day, I learned two important things. First, the name ‘students’ union,’ specifically ‘AASU,’ which for at least a decade was a blazing name in Assam’s political sky. Second, I became aware of the immense power of AASU, a call from them could shut down all activity from Sadiya to Dhubri, from Lakhimpur to Nongpoh. AASU had the power to stop time. Their words could inspire people to defy bullets, or even write with their blood on roads: “We’ll give blood, not oil.”
I don’t know if any other organization in the world has received such love and support from the public. But in Assam, I witnessed it firsthand. Whether AASU could justify that love, whether they used their power responsibly, is another matter but for at least a decade, the organization dominated Assam’s political, social, and cultural landscape.
Thus began the turbulent phase of the anti-foreigner movement. Many of our classmates—Dip, Maksud, Pronab, Simanta, Raj, Ratul, Satyen, Surajit, Dhiraj, Ashish, Niren drifted apart. What began as a movement against outsiders evolved into a full-fledged campaign to expel Bangladeshis. An unknown fear gripped the minds and veins of the people of Assam. Even those who had come from places like Sylhet, Chittagong, Rangpur, and Noakhali before independence began to be viewed with suspicion. The hidden politics behind this still remains a subject of deep investigation.
Anyway, for the first time in life, we experienced a three day bandh. For the first time, we saw and felt: shutdown. Quiet roads. Quiet offices. We enjoyed the first two days, but by the third day, boredom set in. Even sweet things feel bitter when overdone. Time dragged on slowly at home.
It was summer. In the evening, I cycled to Nandan’s house, where he and others were playing carrom under the shade of a tree near Rumi Rupak Enterprise. After a bit of carrom, we went to Diganta’s house and set off cycling toward the banks of the Kolong.
The Kolong: calm, steady, cool, silent. Witness to ages of events, creation, destruction. The mighty 'Bahuboli' Bhotai Saikia tested his strength in these very Kolong. But the strength that allowed him to kill a tiger barehanded also threatened the king’s authority, leading the king to blind and exile him via this very river. The Kolong embraced Bhotai at the end of his life too. Journalist Sailen Saikia's book "Bahuboli Bhotai Deka" is a heart wrenching read.
From the invasions of the Manipuris to the British arrival, Kolong has silently witnessed unwritten histories. It inspired literary giants like Navakanta and Devakanta. The Kolong accepts all, it is not merely a river, but the forge of creation itself.
The gentle breeze on Kolong’s banks soothed us. As we pedaled forward, Diganta asked: “You still want to go ahead? Up ahead is Mymensinghia village…”
I asked: “Is there a problem?”
“You’re from Jorhat, you wouldn’t understand,” he said wisely: “They’re actually Bangladeshis. They’re angry about the bandh. I heard they might even attack Assamese people today.”
Before he could finish, Dhanati Dutta waved at us to stop. He worked at the same court where my father was a senior officer. In fact, my father was the Chief Judicial Magistrate of the District. Dutta asked, “Where are you boys heading?”
I asked: “Where are you coming from?”
“Never mind that. I’m an adult, but boys like you shouldn’t be going this way,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked directly.
“A bit further and you’ll reach Mymensinghia village. Better not go there.” He added, “AASU is protesting against foreigners.”
“So, they’re foreigners?” I asked.
“Of course! These foreigners have taken over our land. Locals can’t even step out freely now,” he said: “Go home now. Come out only in the evening.”
That day, I encountered a new word Mymensinghia. For a long time, it etched itself in my mind as synonymous with foreigner. I developed a belief that they were the main enemy of our society. That until they were deported, Assam could not progress. What a terrifying thought. The very word made one shiver.
As we returned, we discussed: “Expelling foreigners seems easy. They’re right there. Why doesn’t the government just arrest and deport them?” This was how eighth or ninth grade students like us thought. Today, however, I’m surprised. Did Assam’s intellectuals irresponsibly implant these thoughts in people’s minds? Were those fears baseless or real? Hard to say. Just as we schoolchildren believed that simply catching and deporting Mymensinghias would solve all problems, perhaps even educated society held and spread the same beliefs, fueling a tide of anger against the government.
It seemed like a classic case of poor foresight. Legal issues must be solved legally. Emotional movements have no legitimacy, they only cause loss. Everyone was caught in a propaganda storm. The masses began to believe that a government incapable of performing a simple task was their eternal enemy. Assam’s political climate grew unstable.
In the end, what remained was a massive public awakening that left behind a giant zero in terms of real results. The Kolong’s banks once again witnessed the beginning of a new chapter of breaking and rebuilding, rebuilding and breaking.
We must acknowledge—it was a sorrowful chapter in Assam’s history, written with the blood of more than 800 martyrs. ( Biswajit Barooah is active in the field of journalism since his schooldays way back 1983.)
