Pilgrim Ferry: A River Crossing to Haunt the Dreams

Stand on the south bank of the Brahmaputra River near the Indian town, Jorhat, and you will find yourself gazing across one of Asia’s most exquisite valleys.  At your feet flows a majestic sheet of water born of Tibetan snows now sliding westward past rice fields, towns and bamboo groves toward the Bay of Bengal.  In the middle distance rise blue foothills and beyond, on a winter day, you can glimpse the Himalayan snowcaps.

I came early to the landing called Nimati for a ferry that might take me across to Majuli, a massive river island known as cultural hearth of the Assamese who claim this valley as home.  It was near full-moon, a festival season drawing throngs of pilgrims.  A single-hulled river boat lay waiting at the bank as gaily adorned families together with motorcycles and a handful of cars squeezed aboard.  Passengers spilled down a narrow passageway into the darkened hull below where bare-bone benches awaited us.  Least savvy of the crowd, I found one of the last remaining spaces next to the tiny latrine.  Perched there beneath the water line, I could make out the current, just beyond the wooden slats that served as windows.  Now and then, gorgeous river fowl flashed by, winging the valley flyway.

Nearly a hundred of us, ‘kits, cats, sacks and wives’, stowed away in that darkened ferry hold.  The last of the motorcycles thundered aboard on the corrugated metal roof above, and then shrill shouts from the landing brought the diesel engine to life as we drifted out onto the current.  It was a moment to take stock.  Not a single life jacket or other safety device in sight.  The only possible exit led up through the narrow hatch to the deck above.  Any mishap on the water would claim scores of lives, that much was clear.*  

Above the snarl of the engine, I became aware in that confined space of what sounded like tubercular hacking and coughing from fellow passengers.  The river breeze provided scant comfort.  And then a man – in extremis – made a head-long lunge for the latrine.  His embarrassed exit a short while later left a revolting wake that caused saris to be pressed to the face as he vanished toward the crowded bow.  A disgusted, but resourceful teenager reached into her kit and pulled out a perfume spritzer, mercifully baptizing us all – a sacred blessing against the hazards of pilgrim travel.

On that river island, full-moon pilgrim survivors of the river crossing were regaled with chanted prayers and wild masks of Vedic lore.  But nothing came as a greater offering of sanity, sweet assurance and reward than a fresh jalebi**  from a roadside tea stall that served as sign that the valley, the river and the world were still there for the having.  The sweetness gave firm footing and sustenance for a harrowing ferry return.  

*I later learned that only months prior, a ferry had capsized near that very landing, resulting in serious loss of life, but little in the way of safety measures.

**a brilliant Indian sweet best consumed straight from the deep-fry wok.