The story of Majuli, the world's largest riverine island, is of epic proportions. Things happening hugely, suddenly with nature rushing through processes that usually take millennia and forcing people to do what they do best - adapt. In 1691, a great flood washed all over Assam, leaving behind a mess and the beginnings of a brand new island. The red, sea-like Brahmaputra had changed course, slicing Majuli away from the landmass and squeezing it from the other side with its tributary Kherkutia, a process finally completed by later floods. And in this heaving, tumultuous process adding a tiny new line to the quotidian vocabulary of the people: Let's take a boat home.
Perhaps because our island was born of a deluge, as children growing up in Majuli we prayed fervently each year for an almighty flood. For us it was the harbinger of all kinds of adventure. Then we could live on boats for days while our houses were submerged, temporarily occupied by fish for whom we could cast long lines. The school, needless to say, would be closed and we would spend the days swimming miles and miles on the swollen river, or taking boats towards the distant paddy fields with slings and bows in hand to shoot some birds that were delicious. The evenings were dark and romantic, with the swish of water and the sound of a Mishing boy playing a flute on a far-off boat. But what I remember most clearly are the phoenix-like people of Majuli.