My memoirs of Kokrajhar

Kokrajhar: Most people have not heard of it and those who have, will not be able to locate it in a geographical map given a chance to do so. It is a neglected, quaint, picturesque town on the border that Assam shares with Bhutan. Yet ironically, its claim to fame has been through the path of gory bloodshed. It has an abundance of flora, fauna and merry weather; a lull prevails therein akin to the one before an impending storm.

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I grew up in the place braving every odd to maybe even reach school yet I never seemed to have a sense of my bravery: I supposed it to be normal. The majority of the population comprises of the Bodo tribe, people who once existed with the Assamese in harmony but unfortunately have decided to change their minds.

I remember one night in March. In all senses that I can think of the night was ordinary. I heard sounds. To me they sounded like bricks being thrown to the ground at a distance. But each brick falling at the exact interval and at midnight seemed irrational to even my mind that is capable of undertaking any flight of fancy. I woke up next morning to learn that the Headquarters of the 7th Assam Police Battalion located at Charaikhola, about 2kms to the east of Kokrajhar was attacked by terrorists. The sounds I heard weren't bricks but shells and mortar. Blood flew and continued to do so for long time. Somehow, neither the Government nor the banned outfits could reach a conclusion drawn on grounds of mutuality.

Time passed and I don't remember how much.

One morning, I found my father sitting at home as tensed as a wire strung tight on a guitar's neck. Last night, a doctor (Dr. Tushar Kanti Moitra, Child specialist of the Kokrajhar Civil Hospital) had been brutally murdered on the streets of Kokrajhar's outskirts. He was being forcibly hauled to treat a patient in one such outlawed group while the other group wasted no time in gunning him down. After that, most of the doctors of the Civil Hospital fled. My 10 year old brother would grow very anxious every evening my father would be late even by five minutes. After all, my father is a doctor too...

Things are looking up. It seems people are willing to put their guns down and lend each other an ear. It is not enough to quote the statistics and say how many have been rendered homeless. After all, Government figures are never reliable. The sights of the limbless people and orphaned children in the refugee camps of Runikhata, Amguri, Shantipur, Serfanguri, Gossaigoan, Srirampur et cetra do not fail to move even the staunchest of the hearts. Maybe one day, the peace enveloping the town will be its true precursor!