Much blood has spilled down the Brahmaputra

The emperor of France and one of the greatest military commanders in history, Napoleon Bonaparte used to call himself son of the revolution.

In a direct rip-off of the legend’s famous self-given title, I and my friend Pammy call ourselves “daughters of revolution”.

But sorry, we don’t share an iota of Napoleon’s military exploits and conquests.

Neither do we ever, even in our wildest dreams, imagine ourselves to live a life or to die a death for which people would remember us forever.

On the contrary, we both are happy in our anonymity.

However, it’s something else for which we feel like that -- our birth --precisely the fateful year of 1979 when both of us were born.

Those were turbulent times, when our birthplace Assam was undergoing unimaginable social and political changes, a time when the entire population -- the old and young, rich and poor, intelligent and not-so-intelligent -- yearned for change.

“You know what, History books might describe Assam Agitation (1979-1985) as a movement against the illegal migrants from the neighbouring country of Bangladesh, but if you probe deeper, it was the time when the greater Assamese society came out openly against the establishment and wanted freedom from all ills,” Pammy spat out.

“Why the hell are you talking about Assam Agitation,” I almost shouted to stop her from again getting into the same debate.

“Can we change history, that too sitting in a far-off place like Bangalore.”

My curt response may have silenced Pammy, but the agony was quite palpable.

The pain of going through hell as silent spectators when the revolution was at its peak was evident in her eyes. Of course, we both were pretty young that time to understand the futility of the revolution.

Pammy, born to Sikh parents originally from Punjab, but her umbilical cord still seems tied to Assam. I -- the so-called indigenous Assamese -- never get so emotional on any issue relating to Assam and rest of northeast as Pammy does.

“We are the daughters of revolution. Perhaps that is why we’re so angry,” Pammy sighs vaguely as smoke from my cigarette rose slowly into the ceiling.

“Perhaps the failure of revolution still burns in our hearts. We cannot cry out loud, nor speak out loud to the outside world,” I too nodded in agreement.

So much blood has been spilled, so many homes burnt down ... still left with nothing in the end. In fact, all that the revolution did was to leave us with a bad taste in mouth, bitterness in heart and tears in the eyes.

“Where is the end to this dark tunnel? When will we get our peace?” Pammy said looking at me, searching for an answer.

I had nothing to say to console her.

I lit up another cigarette, leaving a trail of rings floating in the air. As she got up to leave the room, I realized I succeeded in blowing smoke rings but failed to answer the queries of a tormented soul, a distraught daughter of revolution.