In a corner of the sitting room was a red three-layer altar. I could see incense burning. An offering of tea and fruits had been placed there as well. On a wall alongside the altar was a picture of the Hindu god Ganesha.

Lailin’s mother was sitting in another corner of the room. The moment we entered the house, she woke up as if from deep contemplation.

‘This is Arunabh, Maa.’

An avalanche of surprise hit me. Numb and stupefied, I stared at Lailin.

She spoke Assamese! Perfect, fluent Assamese!

Without a glance at me, she took my bag and went inside.

‘She did not talk to you in Assamese, did she?’ asked Lailin’s mother.

‘No. She didn’t.’

‘She doesn’t talk in Assamese with anyone except me. It’s been years now. She has a lot of anger inside her. Please, don’t feel bad,’ she said, looking calmly at me.

‘You speak such fluent Assamese, and Lailin, too. Are you from Assam? Are you Assamese?’ I asked, bewildered.

There was a sad smile on her face.

‘I can’t tell you anymore where I belong. Though I did once belong to Assam. It was many years ago, as if in my previous birth.’

It took me some time to regain my composure. Looking at her, I tried to figure out whether she was Chinese or Assamese. She looked Chinese in her black trousers and floral top; her shining almond eyes seemed to hold so much pain. But then there are many Assamese who, people say, look Chinese.

‘After forty-five long years, I have met an Assamese who lives in Assam. I wish I could tell you how happy I am. I feel as if I have met someone who belongs to my family, someone who is my very own. In the last forty-five years, no one has come looking for us. Everyone has forgotten us.’

I was looking at her face.

What is hidden in the memory of this ancient lady? What is the saga of pain which Lailin has brought me here to listen to?

That night in Lailin’s house the present slowly dissolved away. Lailin’s mother narrated an unthinkable story, a tragedy that had been lying hidden for ages in the hearts of so many. I was there; so was Lailin and a group of bewildered-looking people. I saw them. I experienced their reality, which no history could record. I stepped into those dark corners where humanity and civilization had lost their footing, from where even history returned, shrouded in sheer indifference.

Two

1823

A fleet of boats moved steadily up the Burhi Dihing, a tributary of the mighty Brahmaputra that flows through Assam down its eastern contour. The boats were sailing towards the Singpho kingdom, situated between Assam and Burma.

The first two boats carried the navigator, the interpreters and an army of gunners or ‘barkandaz’. The third boat, somewhat more elaborately decorated, carried the leader of the group and his slave. The fourth and fifth carried articles of trade, and the last one had additional numbers of the barkandaz. Dense forests stretched along either side of the river. The cries of the wild fowl mixed with those of the woodpeckers, the chirping of birds joined the chorus of the Hoolock gibbons and the eerie whines of a million crickets, filling the air with a rich orchestra of sounds piercing through the wilderness.