It’s been quite some time since I’d been planning to visit Majuli, but something would always come up and postpone my plans. Being someone who firmly believes in dreamy quotes like “Whatever happens, happens for a reason” or “Good things take time,” my hopes of visiting Majuli hung by the thread of these beliefs.
Then, one day, Ravi texted me, asking if I could visit Majuli during Diwali. My joy knew no bounds. Ravi happened to be my manager, someone I had never met in person until then, yet he had always felt like a friend and mentor. A few days later, I packed my bags and finally set off for Majuli.
The mighty Brahmaputra has always fascinated me. Sitting on the ferry and humming “Mohabahu Brahmaputra,” I noticed a woman—a new mother holding her newborn baby. It was evident that she had traveled to Jorhat for the delivery. In that moment, the privileged me began questioning the disparities of life. Yet, as the ferry sailed across the Luit, I found myself romanticizing life again.
My musings didn’t end there. As soon as I stepped off the ferry at the ghat and hugged Anjali Barla, I knew I was in the right place. The one-hour ride to the office was a journey in itself, filling me with joy—the greenery, the gush of fresh air, and the sheer essence of Majuli.
Majuli, the land of culture, remains untouched in many ways, holding the pride of the Assamese. This is the place where songwriters pen odes to its mystic sunsets, where authors immortalize the Brahmaputra, and visitors marvel at its Satras and Raas. But Majuli is so much more than what the world often sees.
My excitement as a tourist faded with the bumps on the broken roads we traveled. The roads were washed away by the floods, just like my idealized image of Majuli.
Waiting for a small boat to take us across the river, I felt the weight of reality sinking in. The emotions struck me, shattering my preconceived notions of Majuli and leaving me feeling disconnected. It was as if my own feelings mirrored the isolation of the Mishing villages—cut off by the rivers, with no roads or bridges to link them to the town. Just as the floods break the bridges, severing the connection, my sense of belonging to Majuli felt broken, unable to bridge the gap between my expectations and the reality before me.
The Majuli I experienced was so different from the Majuli I had imagined. While a part of me longed to visit the Satras, witness the mask-making tradition, and spend the night watching the Raas, my journey led me to something more profound. I found myself captivated by the smiles of children who had been sent far from home, the hopes of a community yearning for a better education for their children, and the determined steps taken to establish schools. Everywhere I went, the words “Hi, miss” or “Hi, ma’am” echoed, and the voices of the students still bring joy to my heart.
One moment that left a lasting impression on me was at Majuli Gurukul Academy, Sunbird Trust’s base school in Majuli. The children, no older than seven, were sitting on the ground, studying in groups. Some were reading, others painting, and a few tiny tots proudly held up their drawings, eager to show them off.
I could hardly fathom leaving home at such a young age, but these children lived in a hostel, away from their families. I couldn’t understand why they had to stay away, and that led me to ask the headmaster. Purnananda Pagag, the headmaster of MGA, highlighted how communication was a barrier for these students. For instance, they had to cross a river just to come to school, and there was even an incident when the boat capsized, but by some miracle, no lives were lost.
He spoke of the lack of conducive study environments at home, the challenges of certain societal behaviors, and the inability of parents to oversee their children’s education. Issues like power cuts, floods, and other hardships further hindered the children’s ability to learn and attend school regularly.
He further added, “We run this private school, but profit has never been our focus. Growing up, we witnessed how government initiatives, no matter how well-meaning, often failed to address the gaps in rural areas. Here in the villages, most parents are daily wage laborers or farmers. To provide their children with a good education, they must send them to nearby towns like Kamalabari or Garmur, or districts like Jorhat or Dhemaji. However, economic hardships and the distance make this difficult.”
“In Mishing areas, these issues are even more pronounced, leading to high dropout rates. We realized that if this continues, the youth will face significant challenges in the future. That’s why we decided to run private schools, not to earn money, but to address this urgent need. Of course, there are many challenges, the biggest being the floods. Majuli is a flood-prone area, and the waters often wash away everything. During the rainy season, even walking in these areas becomes a struggle. Because of these barriers, many students can’t attend school, so we provide hostel facilities.”
He went on to share how Sunbird Trust had supported this school, along with several others, by providing crucial infrastructure—hostels, toilets, and facilities that promoted the children’s well-being and created a nurturing environment for education. Additionally, Sunbird Trust helped enhance the school curriculum, set up libraries and computer labs, and encouraged student involvement in activities such as elections, all of which played a vital role in shaping the children’s future.
After my visit to the school, my view of Majuli shifted in ways I hadn’t expected. But did that mark the end of my journey? Absolutely not!
The next day, I was all set to visit two more schools, dressed in salwar and shoes, but reality hit me. I quickly realized that perhaps I had been romanticizing the experience too much. There was this river we had to cross—a small boat. I took off my shoes, stepped into the water, and, with a prayer in my heart, hopped onto the boat. The river was crossed peacefully. As Anjali Barla and I rode along the village roads, I noticed how everything in that village seemed to happen all at once. The school prayers echoed in the air, a tractor was threshing paddy, grains were drying in the sun, men and women conversed while children played. Life flowed in along the narrow embankment road.
We soon arrived at the Kulamua English Friendship School, a community initiative that, over time, had seen the community’s grip loosen. Although the community acknowledged the value of education, there remained a gap between recognizing its importance and taking action. This disconnect was further compounded by economic hardships, as many parents struggled to pay school fees, unintentionally pushing the institution into financial instability.
The teachers, however, remained committed to their cause. They worked tirelessly to raise awareness about the importance of education. They organized discussions, visited homes, and explained how hostel facilities could provide a stable and supportive learning environment for the children, something many lacked at home due to economic and social challenges. However, despite their best efforts, the gap between understanding the importance of education and acting on it persisted, making their work both crucial and difficult.
From there, we continued our journey to Karchnag English School, traveling along the riverside. The hostels built by Sunbird Trust were filled with the laughter and chatter of children as young as five, and it was at that moment I understood why.
On our way back, we had to cross the river once again. While we waited for the boat, I noticed two young children sitting with their father at the riverbank, patiently waiting. On our side, we were making sandcastles—mine were crumbling, just as my preconceived notions of Majuli had. The boat arrived, tilted slightly, and I felt a surge of fear. Yet, the child sitting on the boat beside me was far calmer than I was.
I left Majuli after ten days, never stepping into a Satra as I had imagined, but we did ride bicycles to witness a serene sunset that etched itself in my memory. I didn’t bring any masks, as planned, but I did see fields stretching out before me that reminded me of Rumi’s words: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.”
Perhaps, one day, people will speak of the communities out there—how, in the heart of the Luit, their homes and lands merge, how the river shifts, and how, despite everything, nothing has changed. They will talk about how the children’s needs go unmet, how floods sweep away lives and possessions, and how it was somehow accepted. Maybe, one day, the world will talk of the tribes of Majuli and realize that being untouched by the outside world does not equate to a life deprived of the basics—the essentials of education, safety, and opportunity.
Looking back, Majuli feels like a blend of everything that represents the heart of life—mighty Brahmaputra, the lush greenery, the vibrant culture, prayers that echo through the air, earthen lamps flickering in the dark, the breathtaking sunsets, tears, floods, loss, and fear. From a distance, it forms a beautiful, spectacular picture, but as you look closer, you realize that Majuli is more than just a view—it is a living mosaic of life itself.
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