A lay fan, that’s what I am – as are the teeming millions whose spirits he seemed to have grazed in a manner only he could – from a distance and yet with closeness that only he was capable of.
My first physical sighting of Dr. Bhupen Hazarika remains a manifestation of his phenomenal stature among his peers; the second was sheer evidence of his humility.
While the former was about Lata Mangeshkar touching his feet on the performance-stage of Guwahati’s Nehru Stadium, the latter was the endearing sight, from a couple of decades back, of him on the pillion of his nephew Sandip Hazarika’s (Toto’s) Lambretta scooter honking up to my Maruti 800. “Bhaley asa tumaluk?” asked Bhupenda as if he had known me and my friend Shyam for years. “Bortta asu!” No limousine, no hassles, Bhupen Bortta was painting the town red on Toto’s scooter and incredibly from us, it was a spontaneous “Bortta” and not Bhupenda!
The first comprehensible realization of the blessed genius of Bhupen Hazarika dawned on me at Raja’s (Mayukh Hazarika’s) Mukherjee Nagar lodgings, Delhi. Raja’s question was, “Care to listen to Bortta’s tribute to Deuta?” Pardon the weak memory; it was perhaps an introduction of a new album of Monisha Hazarika and Bortta’s rich, resonant tribute made me ask Raja to play it thrice. “O mur moromor Jayanta, Rana Bhaity…!” The correctness of pronunciation, the distinctive baritone and the richness of the modulated recitation hastened my rediscovery of Bhupen Hazarika. Through that cassette player, Bortta touched an ethereal chord that drew me to him; his physical absence in this instance was immaterial.
But then his physical presence was God-like and I have one such exquisite experience for which, as a lay fan, I consider myself divinely fortunate. Per favor my father-in-law, Late Ishaan Barua, who was cast in Bortta’s production ‘Daman’, I had the privilege of meeting Bortta personally. He came to the verandah where we sat (it was a tea garden manager’s bungalow – the location of the shoot) and for the good hour that he spent with us, he sang the songs that would be incorporated in the movie and then, in his imitable way introduced us to a tomboyish assistant director loitering nearby saying “Eijoni suali bujisa! Bombayr suali bur dhoribo nuari nohoi! Lora jen lage…..!” Bortta was that down-to-earth!
What exactly endeared Bhupen Hazarika to us Assamese that I address him as Bortta today and that another layman like me would also want to draw such a personalized relation with him? That’s a pretty good question, I told myself: something worth pondering over for eons to come. He was never physically present in any of our lives and yet his moral, spiritual and mortal presence is undeniable. It was his intangible self that made him uncannily tangible. It was a special ability that he had to be the commoner, the balladeer and the bard who sang his way into our hearts and yet made us discern that he was no ordinary Assamese singer; such were his lyrics and his musical compositions. His lyrics held the profound belief that Assam was extraordinary! That the Brahmaputra was extraordinary! Yet he held the belief, through his lyrics, that Assam could be even better. Many opined that he was preachy.
But could he help it? His was an elevated position of having seen the world through his masterful, wisdom-filled eyes: the eyes of a self-confessed ‘Jajabor’, a traveler and so a practically self-educated human being. Time and again, he seemed to convey that Assam’s future lay in understanding his musical messages. “Manuhe manuhor babey” and “Ami Axomiya nohou dukhiya…” are social commentaries rather than songs and most of Bortta’s writings were reflective of the extraordinary social scientist that he was. It is as much his lyrics that touched our hearts as it is the easy “hummability” of his tunes that endeared Bhupen Hazarika to us.
The Tuesday following that fateful Saturday, when Guwahati ground to a halt, its teeming millions grieving, I went out to pay my last respects to Bortta lying supine in eternal sleep at Judges’ Field. The sight that I beheld did not surprise me and yet overwhelmed me. Serpentine queues of people from all walks of life, willing to circumvent massive Dighalipukhuri thrice to reach Bortta, demonstrated a disciplined reverence that made it an event of a lifetime, an experience to be etched in memory. Each individual was supportive of the other, mutually respectful.
Young students from Cotton Girls’ Hostel and families from the Cotton College Professors’ Colony ensured a continuous supply of drinking water to keep the multitude refreshed. The queues seemingly had neither a head nor a tail and came from all directions stretching as far as the eye could see. And in this milieu of the masses, I could sense that each individual carried the same sense of closeness to Bortta that I did. It was a feeling of being orphaned, of losing someone precious who always happened to be our own – of losing that dearest “Bortta” who had guided our lives all along. That he happened to be the greatest son of Assam was only incidental!
To me, his songs are joy forever. That these are lessons for enriching my ethnicity dawns on me now! I, just once more, wanted to say, “Happy Birthday, Bortta!”