< Previous 19Chapter 1 be filled—they are lamps waiting to be lit. The flame may flicker, but with just a bit of shelter and warmth, it can blaze strong. We needed a systemic healing. Today, many things have changed, but many problems wear new masks. Our children now wrestle with distractions and dangers— drugs, mobile addiction, domestic violence, trafficking. We are in a different era, but the war for education remains. It cannot be won by teachers alone. Or parents alone. Or students alone. Everyone—teachers, parents, students, and leaders—must become torchbearers, working together for their success and wellbeing. Together, we must guide our youth toward the light. Only then will they rise—not just to pass exams, but to rewrite stories long believed unwritable. II. When the System Looked away: a Brother’s Prayer, a Sister’s Survival My father grew up amid the thick forests and warm earth of Moranjan village, nestled near Rangia—a place where quietness ruled, and life was paced by the planting seasons. But that peace was eventually disrupted by the rumbling steel of the expanding railways. The iron horses roared louder each year, their sirens echoing through the fields, carrying with them not just cargo but change—unwelcome and unnerving. For my father, the ceaseless clatter of the trains and the looming smokestacks were like cracks in the mirror of a life once tranquil. The rhythms of sowing and reaping no longer matched the speed of progress. So, he and others from our tribe folded their small holdings and resettled in Souraguri, near the Tamulpur junction— where fields were still generous and time still kind. My mother came from Katalpara, a nearby village. Together, they raised us in Souraguri: five elder sisters and me, the youngest and the only son. The lone bamboo among the reeds. My childhood, though threaded with affection, was also steeped in shadows— 20Chapter 1 those cast by disease, death, and a haunting brew of superstition. In those days, the health care system was like a boat with holes— leaky, misdirected, and half-submerged. The poor, the illiterate, and the tribal people—our people—approached hospitals as if stepping onto foreign soil. There was fear in our eyes, and often, cold indifference in theirs. When the sick feared both the cure and the healer, how could trust bloom? Maternal and child deaths were heartbreakingly common—so frequent that grief sometimes arrived even before hope did. It was commonplace when a mother didn’t return home any more from childbirth. An infant’s wails going silent— it was grief that recurred with astonishing regularity. The heart-wrenching explanations offered were often draped in mystery and folklore. Someone somewhere whispered, “It’s black magic,” and the community nodded solemnly. These were not isolated beliefs. Superstition roamed freely. Whole families were branded witches—dainas and dainis—based on nothing more than an illness that spread or a streak of bad luck. And those so accused were not just shunned; some were beaten, ostracized, or quietly killed. The hands of medicine, even if they existed, were too short to reach these injustices. It dawned unto me painfully that doctors and medical workers— usually stationed from towns or cities—seemed reluctant to dirty their hands with our reality. Emergencies were often met with folded arms and furrowed brows. Their silence was sometimes mistaken for caution; at other times, it seemed a mask for prejudice. Whether it was due to standard protocols, fear of conflict zones, or simply the old disease of apathy, it amounted to the same thing: a health system that stood still while precious lives were lost. I remember one incident clearly. How can I ever forget it? It was 1993 or perhaps 1994. I was still a student at Tamulpur Higher Secondary School, balancing my education, ABSU responsibilities, and the 21Chapter 1 demands of our household. I had barely caught my breath from classes when word came that my sister, Padma—affectionately, my aabo—was critically unwell during her fifth pregnancy. She had been admitted to Nagrijuli Hospital. Her body had swollen ominously, and the attending doctor, casting a brief glance over her, told us the baby was no longer alive. He washed his hands of her case with words colder than steel: he could do nothing more. Still clinging to threads of hope, we rushed her to Tamulpur Civil Hospital, thinking—praying—that maybe, just maybe, she would receive better care. But there, the response chilled us to the bone. The doctor scarcely examined her, announced that the fetus was lifeless, and said bluntly that there was nothing to be done for the mother either. It was a verdict, not a consultation. A sentence handed down without deliberation. At that moment, time slowed but our desperation quickened. We were spiraling into panic. And then we remembered—one of our relatives worked in the National Anti-Malaria Programme. Not a doctor, but a man with some knowledge of the system, of medicines, of emergency interventions. I sprinted to his home and dragged him back to the hospital, hope pounding in my chest. Seeing my sister’s condition, he paused, scanned her face, her swollen limbs, and then offered a different prognosis. Even if the baby was lost, he believed the mother could be saved. She could be induced to deliver the stillborn—her life need not end with the child’s. We turned back to the hospital staff. The doctor stood firm in his refusal. No. Nothing could be done. We pleaded. We reasoned. Finally, he relented—but only with a chilling caveat. He would take no responsibility. He asked us to sign an undertaking, washing his hands off the matter entirely. Then, reluctantly, he allowed our relative—the malaria prevention staffer—to proceed. 22Chapter 1 What followed were the six most harrowing hours of my life. I sat helpless, surrounded by sterile walls and unfeeling glances, counting heartbeats that did not come. Eventually, my sister delivered the stillborn. A baby we never met. A life that never opened its eyes. But my sister lived. That day, the sky didn’t burst into colour, but inside us, a world had been saved. And it had nothing to do with the doctor. A malaria worker—not even from the maternity department—had become our saviour. The one meant to help us had turned his back. The one not meant to, reached forward. Even today, that memory creeps over me like a chill—how close I came to lighting a funeral pyre for my sister. Though my aabo is no more with us today, she lived many more years, after the ordeal. How could a doctor, sworn to save lives, chose instead to spectate? Yes, I understand the limitations—protocols, fear, systems under strain. But I also understand what it means to care. To do something. That doctor had training, tools, and authority. He chose distance. Our malaria staffer had only heart. And that was enough. In hindsight, many might judge our decision as risky, even reckless. But when the official doors are bolted shut, sometimes you must climb in through the window. That is not courage; it is necessity. Especially in Bodoland, where for decades, modern healthcare has been a flickering flame—a promise barely kept. Our case was an exception. Many families were not so lucky. Some saw their daughters fade in childbirth; others watched children succumb to fevers, infections, or accidents that should not have been fatal. The tragedy was not always in the absence of healthcare—it was in its refusal. Many died, I feel, not necessarily due to lack of services, but particularly because they were refused by those in positions who could have done so otherwise. My sister survived. That moment lit a fire in me that still burns. It was a reminder that systems must serve, not stand by. That for 23Chapter 1 every protocol, there must also be empathy. We deserved better. All human beings do. III. a Son’s Trial by Fire: When Faith Fought the Final Word Among, many such encounters with the health systems, another experience stood out for me. More so, because it was concerning the life and death of my very own mother. What does one do when the person who gave you your life begins to slip away—and there seem to be no helping hands around? When institutions say “no,” should we still fight back with a whisper of hope? Can our prayers, persistence, and the kindness of strangers outweigh the cold detachment of a broken system? It was one of those crisp winter mornings when the world looked deceptively still and clean—as though nothing could go wrong. But I had spent the night tossing and turning, haunted by an inexplicable unease, on my bed at the rented room in Rangia. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but a dark cloud loomed just outside the periphery of understanding. Call it instinct, or a mother’s silence echoing across miles, but something within me whispered that all was not well at home. The next morning, still gripped by that dread, I borrowed some money from a friend and a motor bike from another—racing across the familiar roads to my home at Tamulpur. The wind lashed at my face, but the storm within raged harder. As I neared home, my heart sank. I saw my sister placing my mother into the backseat of an auto-rickshaw. She was unconscious. Limp. Breath shallow. Her dokhona hung loosely over her frame, barely clinging on to life. I leapt off the bike, my feet moving before my mind could catch up. There was no time for pleasantries or panic. We rushed her to a private hospital in Rangia. Earlier, the government doctor at Tamulpur Civil Hospital had already refused to treat her—another chapter in the now-familiar book of rejection. There, a senior and 24Chapter 1 reputed doctor, known for his experience and expertise, examined her. His words fell as cold as the ice: “Take her home. She won’t survive.” But how could I accept that? To me, my mother still breathed— and breath is life. As the youngest and only son, bound by both love and the invisible strings of obligation, I knew the mantle of responsibility had fallen squarely on my shoulders. There was no room for collapse. If the world had turned its back, I would carry her forward. We hired an ambulance and began the journey to Guwahati, her frail body nestled inside like a candle on its last flicker. As we moved through choked roads, the siren cried out in desperation. But the city remained unmoved—cars blocked our path, truck drivers turned deaf ears, and traffic snarled like an angry god. At that moment, I felt the acute helplessness of being part of a system where sirens meant little and speed gave way to indifference. My prayers and tears of desperation flowed silently like a river under moonlight: “Let her awaken, O Lord. Let her see that her son is here. Don’t let her go without knowing she is loved.” I silently thanked the governments that later made way for new orders— where ambulances would be given their due right of passage. After what felt like an eternity, we arrived at MMC Hospital in Pan Bazaar. But fate had another challenge waiting: no oxygen, no bed, no room in the Emergency. In that chaotic room of human suffering, there was no place for one more. I could not afford to lose heart. Faith has no space for hesitation. I prayed with every cell in my body, willing the universe to listen, and shifted her to the International Hospital at Guwahati. It was rather frustrating that on reaching, I realized I had only ₹2000 in my pockets. But the hospital needed me to deposit an advance of ₹5000 for emergency admission. The crisis now turned financial in matter of seconds. Standing outside the hospital room, holding my mother’s arms, 25Chapter 1 I realized I was not just battling death—I was bargaining with a system where survival comes with a heavy price. I called on everyone I knew—friends, colleagues, allies in the student movement. None were in a position to help. In a last-ditch attempt, I reached out to an elected MLA—the man we had poured our strength into bringing to power. His curt response remains etched in my memory: “I don’t have five thousand rupees.” That was the response. A man who had once begged me for our help, support and strength now turned his face away when it mattered most. That moment wasn’t just heartbreaking—it was a revelation. Politics, I learned, does not always walk hand in hand with gratitude. Leaving my sister by my mother’s side, I returned to Tamulpur. Knocking on doors, borrowing what I could, even contemplating selling bits of our ancestral property if need be. The very land that held our stories was on the table—because healing had a cost. The next day, having mobilized some money scraped together from hope and shame, I rushed back to Guwahati. At midnight, a young ICU doctor called me in. His voice was grave. “There’s only a 20–25% chance she’ll make it,” he said. “We’ll need your permission to try everything.” What could I say? When 25% is all you have, it becomes your 100%. For the next few days, I lived in limbo—hovering between corridors and prayers. On the evening of the second day, a stranger walked up to me. A man from Rangia, vaguely familiar, his face lined with sincerity. “I know you,” he said gently, “and I want to help.” He asked to see my mother. I took him to the ICU, though the staff didn’t let us inside. As we stood by the door, he began telling me stories—fables, parables, old moral tales that somehow, amid the beeping machines and rustling uniforms, gave me a strange comfort. 26Chapter 1 And then, just like that, he offered ₹20,000 for my mother’s treatment. I was taken aback. I insisted I couldn’t take it. I barely knew him. I hadn’t asked. But he persisted, assuring me that it was given freely, and I wasn’t to return it. Eventually, I accepted half the amount, promising to repay the rest. That man, a contractor, told me with quiet pride that he worked without bribery or corruption—and perhaps this was his way of keeping humanity afloat in an often- inhuman world. For 45 long days, my sister and I lived in a cycle of exhaustion and hope—visiting our village for more money, returning to the hospital with folded clothes and hopeful prayers. The weight of finances, responsibilities, and fear were like a mountain pressing on my chest, but we climbed it step by slow step. And then, finally, on the forty-sixth day, my mother was finally released from the hospital. She was greatly weakened by the prolonged illness and hospitalization, but what mattered to me the most was, she was alive. She had defied every verdict, every statistic, every cold-handed diagnosis. She went on to live another 15–16 years, her second innings a testimony to stubborn love and sheer will. The moral of this story isn’t just personal. It is one I now carry forward every time I see someone in distress. Every time I meet a patient unsure of whether they should visit a doctor, I implore them: Please go. Don’t wait. Don’t give up. My message to the medical fraternity is just as clear—never say “No” too quickly. You may be the last hope standing between someone and a goodbye. That single refusal may become someone’s last memory of a hope extinguished too soon. If someone had convinced me to take my mother home that fateful day, I would have never heard her voice again. That crisis shaped my philosophy. It taught me what it means to fight—not just for life, 27Chapter 1 but for the dignity of seeking help and not being denied it. When someone is sick, even the softest voice matters. Sometimes, all one needs is not a miracle—but for someone to simply say, “Let’s try it.” IV. Conflict and the Pursuit of Peace in Bodoland Conflict is as old as human civilization and as persistent. In Bodoland, nestled in the northwestern corner of Assam, conflict has not been a stranger. It has visited in many forms—ethnic, political, cultural—and left behind trails of displacement, distrust, and despair. Yet, from these ashes, the region has also nurtured seeds of peace, resilience, and reconciliation. In my own life, I have witnessed conflict not as an abstract concept but as a lived reality. And from these experiences, I have come to understand that conflict in unorganized or unplanned societies is not an anomaly—it is a symptom. I can see that in Bodoland and Assam, three recurring causes have stood out: first, it is the peoples’ insecurity over their lands, identity, and culture. For many indigenous communities, land is not just property—it is memory, ancestry, and identity. The fear of losing this to outsiders, whether real or perceived, has often sparked unrest. It is held that the loss of land is accompanied by the loss of culture and identity. Hence the insecurity. Second, it is the tendency of domination by one group over another. When one community attempts to assert superiority—be it political, economic, or cultural—it breeds resentment. This feeling of being unheard or unseen festers until it erupts. In Assam, many issues of smaller groups and communities were looked upon with disdain, and thereby, left neglected. This led to several movements and conflicts. Third, there could be seen a lack of dialogue and communication efforts during the run up and in the middle of conflicts. Silence, in times of tension, is definitely not golden. It is dangerous. It could lead to the loss of precious lives, villages wiped out overnight, or gruesome acts of crimes that scar the social and psychological wellbeing for generations to come. The 28Chapter 1 absence of platforms for honest, empathetic dialogue has allowed misunderstandings to calcify into hatred. These root causes are not unique to Bodoland, though. They echo across conflict zones worldwide. But what makes Bodoland’s story distinct is the way these tensions have been repeatedly mismanaged—treated as law and order problems rather than human and societal ones. The 2012 Kokrajhar Conflict: A Wound Still Healing The inter-community violence that erupted in Kokrajhar in July 2012 was one of the darkest chapters in Assam’s recent history. Sparked by a series of retaliatory attacks between two different communities, the violence spiraled out of control within days. Over 100 people lost their lives, and more than 400,000 were displaced from nearly 400 villages. What was most heartbreaking was not just the scale of the violence, but the silence that surrounded it. Institutions that were meant to protect and mediate became mute spectators. Law enforcement agencies, lacking both training on conflict resolution and peace building, and bereft of empathy, responded with force rather than foresight. Relief camps overflowed, but compassion was in short supply. The conflict was not inevitable. It was preventable—but partisan political agendas sought to dismantle the fragile harmony that had existed among the communities. And when the fire spread, no one dared to douse it. Some of us, those who spoke for peace were held with suspicion by both sides. I saw that in a conflict, truth becomes fragmented, and those who try to hold it together are often torn apart. In such a climate, neutrality became a dangerous position. One of the most painful realizations during the 2012 conflict was the nonchalance of the state machinery. The administrative setup, from top to bottom, appeared paralyzed—either unwilling or unable to act in preventing the conflict, or in containing it when started. Next >