Sandwip – Borderless

Along a River from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: River Traveller: Journeys on the TSANPO-BRAHMAPUTRA from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal

Author: Sanjoy Hazarika

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Sanjoy Hazarika, a former reporter for the New York Times, dons many hats, combining roles as researcher, columnist, mentor and practitioner. Over decades this veteran journalist has travelled extensively across the Northeast and its neighbourhood. His interests include developments in Myanmar, Bhutan, Tibet (PRC), Bangladesh and Nepal and he has produced over a dozen documentaries including on the Brahmaputra, dolphins, governance, conflict, and rights.

River Traveller tells the story of a great river, as powerful as it is mysterious. The Brahmaputra rises in Tibet, travels through three countries and, after travelling over 2,900 kms, flows into the Bay of Bengal. But the most interesting part is that this river is known by many names: Yarlung Tsangpo and Po Tsangpo in Tibet, Siang in Arunachal Pradesh, Brahmaputra in Assam, the Jamuna in Bangladesh, merging with the Ganga at Arichar Ghat, to form the vast Padma on its unending flow to the Bay of Bengal and its quest for union with the sea.

This book has come together over decades of travels on this braided river (including on the boat clinics that he launched in 2005 in Assam) where Hazarika had seen its beauty and faced its wrath, been stuck on sandbanks and swept out to sea. He listened to those who plied the boats, the pilots, drivers, fishermen and their families, the sick and the ailing, women and children, Buddhist and Hindu monks, Sikh and Muslim priests, officials, politicians, students and scientists. He has listened to poets, singers, writers and artists, and to businessfolk and daily wage earners, boat builders, contractors, tea planters and workers. The writer amalgamated all their stories which were a mix of sadness, a determination to survive, an acceptance of fate and joy. Therefore, his traveller’s tales span not just his own journeys but the stories of those who had gone before him. Like the river, the region and its neighbourhood “never cease to delight, surprise, inspire, sadden and confound.”

Of course, the most ostentatious reason for Hazarika’s travels is the filming of documentaries on the river at different points of time. His first travel was for the film A River’s Story, the Quest for the Brahmaputra that he scripted and produced with Jahnu Barua as the director, Sudheer Palsane as cinematographer, Sanjoy Roy and Jugal Debta as audiographers as well as many others. The thrust area was to study the stories of the river and its people, from its beginnings in the Tibetan Plateau to the end in the Bay of Bengal. It wasn’t about science and theory, or politics and the environment, or climate change, but about the river and its moods, and especially its people and their relationship with each other, through history and changing geography, culture, faith, peace and poverty.

In the second venture, Gautam Bora was director and cinematographer of Brahmaputra, a six-part series for Doordarshan, shot in Arunachal Pradesh and Assam. In his third venture, he was involved in the making of Children of the River, the Xihus of Assam, which was directed and filmed by Maulee Senapati and where he learned much about dolphins.

Divided into three parts, the book is as exhaustive a study on the river as can be imagined. The Brahmaputra is one of the world’s longest and widest rivers—sustaining entire civilizations and agrarian systems. It has fascinated cartographers, lured adventurers, attracted kings and dynasts, and has supported life and ways of living by its banks. Before beginning with the actual travel in Part One that includes his sojourns in Tibet and Arunachal Pradesh, Hazarika goes back to history of the thirteenth century when in about 1215 AD, the Tai-Ahom prince Siu-ka-pha left his native land now on the China-Myanmar border and undertook a long march before settling down in Charaideo, his capital, with its surrounding flat plains, rich red soil, streams and the vast Brahmaputra nearby. After that for centuries, traders, smugglers, fighters, fugitives, goods, cuisines, languages and ideas as well as religions and religious people have travelled in either direction on the Siu-ka-pha trail.

Hazarika begins his yatra in Tibet and narrates how the challenges relating to it were not new. He describes a Tibet that was trying to hold on to its cultural legacy in the face of Chinese rule and the land’s exploitation for its resources. He recounts stories of explorers, spymasters and mapmakers, especially a motley crowd of intrepid men in the service of the East India Company and the Survey of India, who discovered the route of the river especially when it’s source was hidden in the most inhospitable terrain on earth. They finally solved the puzzle of the vanishing river and established that the Brahmaputra and the Tsangpo were the same river.

In Arunachal Pradesh, Hazarika views the river from a helicopter and to him it resembled a great, brown meandering serpent, moving in huge loops, with many channels; at times, a stream or two which joined the flow backed down on themselves, creating elegant oxbow lakes. At Gelling, the first village on the Indian side, the turbulent Tsangpo churns its way through a narrow valley after a cascading drop from Tibet. Here for the first time the Tsangpo changes its name and is known as the Siang or Dibang for the next 200 kilometers before it enters Assam. At a place called Kobo, the Lohit meets the Dibang, Noa Dihing, Tengapani and Siang and develops the immense power that is mirrored in the Brahmaputra in full flow.

Part Two comprising of nine chapters focuses on Assam. After the earthquake of 1950, water ‘blockades’ happened not just on the Siang but also on several other rivers flowing into the Assam Valley and as a result the river changed its course, lifted the riverbed, flattened the banks and land, and braided it in many places far more than ever before. As a result, many towns like Rohmoria, Sadiya simply vanished after being embraced by flood waters, and places like Barpeta, Goalpara and Dhubri underwent demographic changes.

In separate chapters we learn about the tea gardens of Assam, the influence of Srimanta Sankaradeva and his satras[1], about the great river island Majuli, the singer Bhupen Hazarika, the presence of dolphins in the Brahmaputra, the thousands of islands known as the chars and saporis, which are permanent in their impermanence, where the Muslim residents are known as Miyas, the large number of migrants that inhabit the place, the sand bars and sandbanks that dot the riverscape from Upper Assam and how the collection of sand and its sale and distribution has changed the lives of many along the river to the point where it enters Bangladesh. He also gives us details about the ferry system, the boat clinics on the river that represent both a dream and a reality, as annually, nearly three lakh people are treated in these mobile structures.

The third part of the narrative obviously ends with four chapters on Bangladesh. We are told how to move from a slow riverine economy to a bustling one is quite challenging. This section includes fear of being hunted by pirates on an open sea, the faith in the navigators, ‘drivers’, pilots and other crew members who can read the mind of the river, the trip to the confluence of the Ganga and the Brahmaputra along with a Bangladeshi singer called Maqsoodul Haque or Mac. Both these rivers have different names in Bangladesh. The Ganga is the Padma while the Brahmaputra is the Jamuna. We are told about the story of the island known to Indians as New Moore Island and to the Bangladeshis as Sandwip island that appeared and disappeared, causing a diplomatic furore. The Brahmaputra’s role in shaping the destiny of low-lying Bangladesh is well-established and we are told of the connectedness of the people to the river, on either side of the human-made border. There are many places where the turbulent river refuses to accept human markers and controls and the border just remains an imaginary line snaking across shifting sands.

After reading about the multifarious experiences of Hazarika, it is needless to state that this book of non-fiction mesmerizes the readers to such a great extent that one hankers for more information. It is best to conclude the review by quoting from the poetic way Hazarika himself speaks at the end of the book about the interconnectedness that lies even in a grain of sand:

“I have traversed the river, shared my secrets with it and laid my fears and troubles to rest there. It too has spoken to me and has been kind and generous, in the midst of its vastness and power, to someone who could not swim.

“River Traveller is deeply personal and piloted by my life and learnings on the river, failings, shortcomings, understanding. It’s about shared stories, loves gained and lost, inspiration and sadness. Autobiographical in parts, it navigates history and crosses borders.

“Many travels beckon, for the river still calls.“

From extremism to environmental responsibility, politics to ethnography, River Traveller touches on a multitude of subjects, and is an enduring study of human life and natural history. It is a rich and memorable portrait of one of the mightiest rivers on our planet. The colour photographs that are included in the middle of the narrative add extra charm to the narration. A volume worth possessing and reading and rereading repeatedly.

[1] Specialised Vaishnavi monasteries in Assam serving as socio-religious, cultural and educational centres since the fifteenth century.

Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati University, Santiniketan, India.

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Blue Futures, Drowned Pasts

By Md Mujib Ullah

The air at Patenga Sea Beach hung thick with salt and memory, a living weight that clung to Karim’s skin and settled in the grooves of his thoughts. He stood motionless, his feet half-buried in the damp embrace of sand, facing the heaving expanse of the Bay of Bengal. Each wave broke with a rhythm once known to him, a lullaby of youth and simplicity. Now, it rolled like an echo chamber of loss.

He didn’t just see the sea—he saw the absence it bore. Azimpur Union, a coastal village once nestled like a secret in the arms of Sandwip, no longer existed. The Meghna River had devoured it, inch by insatiable inch, until it was reduced to memory. His family, like countless others, had fled inland, displaced not by war or persecution but by the creeping violence of climate change. Halishahar became their reluctant refuge. Karim, now a climate scientist, carried the wound like a relic—not healed but honed.

Beside him, Anika traced idle circles in the sand with her bare toe, drawing galaxies destined to be washed away. Her short hair fluttered in the breeze, framing a face defined by quiet determination and dark, searching eyes. As a student of Environmental Sciences at the Asian University for Women, she viewed the beach not just as a source of beauty, but as a battleground.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” she asked, not breaking her gaze from the horizon, where cargo ships floated like steel ghosts. Karim nodded. “It’s not just the sea creeping in. It’s the salt in our fields, the poison in our wells. My grandfather spoke of golden paddy fields in Azimpur. Now it’s all water. Still. Empty. Unforgiving.” A voice, crisp and clear, cut through the air. “That’s why your work matters, Bhaijaan[1].”

Hafsa had arrived, stepping into the wind like it obeyed her. Younger than Karim by a decade, she wore her uniform from Feni Girls Cadet College like a blade sheathed in pride. Her eyes, sharp and unwavering, carried a fire that scorched complacency.

“Understanding the science is our first defence,” she said. “You’re giving us a fighting chance.” Karim smiled—not the performative curve of lips, but the rare, involuntary kind that cracked through layers of grief. “That’s why I studied Oceanography. Not for grades. To learn the language of the sea. To understand the force that took everything from us.”

They drifted to the quieter banks of the Chittagong Boat Club, where boats bobbed like dreams tethered to fragile ropes. Here, the water lapped gently, less a threat, more a whisper.

“Sandwip’s shoreline is disappearing,” Karim said, leaning on the railing. “Sometimes by metres each month. It’s a perfect storm: rising seas, broken river systems, displaced sediments. The Bay of Bengal funnels it all into disaster. It’s not just nature. It’s a mirror of our neglect.” Anika picked up the thread like a weaver. “It’s a slow massacre. Salt invades the soil. Crops wither. Freshwater turns brackish. The mangroves—our final fortress—are dying. The Sundarbans are gasping.”

“And with them,” Hafsa added, “everything unravels. People flee inland. Cities like Halishahar swell and groan. Agriculture collapses. Food security frays. And without mangroves, every cyclone cuts deeper. Everything is connected.”

Karim nodded, the weight of data behind every word. “The models I build are no longer predictive. They’re prescriptive. They warn of what is already unravelling. Sea levels, salinity, erosion—they all spike. The IPCC[2] confirms it. But the tide doesn’t wait for consensus.”

At Foy’s Lake, serenity shimmered over the water like an illusion. But their thoughts grew darker.

“Bangladesh knows storms,” Anika said, her voice soft. “Bhola, 1970. Chittagong, 1991. Cyclones that rewrote our history in wind and water.”

“Those storms taught us resilience,” Karim said. “Shelters. Warnings. Community drills. However, the storms are now stronger. Hotter oceans feed them. And higher seas mean bigger surges—even from weaker storms.”

Hafsa’s voice quivered at the edges. “But how much more can we endure? Our grandparents rebuilt after every storm. But if this continues, is it resilience, or a kind of slow exile?” Anika nodded. “Traditional adaptation isn’t enough anymore. We need foresight. Long-term planning. Even planned migration. And that’s not just about moving people. It’s about moving lives, cultures, entire identities.”

They sat for a while, sharing silence, watching birds slice the air like omens. In that stillness, Anika said, “You know what hurts most? It’s not the loss of land. It’s the loss of certainty. The knowledge that what raised you, fed you, and shaped your memories is vanishing. And there’s no going back.”

Silence followed them to the War Cemetery, where white stones bore witness to another kind of war. One with bullets and borders. Karim saw it differently now: this, too, was a battlefield. But here, the enemy was time, water, and indifference. Later, among the blooms of DC Park and the Sitakunda Botanical Garden and Eco Park, their talk turned to life beneath the waves.

“Most people think of fish,” Karim said, gesturing to a flowering hibiscus. “But the ocean’s true wealth lies in biodiversity. Coral reefs, like those near St. Martin’s Island, are the lungs and nurseries of the sea.”

“And they’re dying,” Anika said. “Warming waters bleach them. Carbon dioxide makes the ocean acidic. Reefs dissolve before our eyes. It’s extinction, hidden by depth.”

Karim’s voice dropped like an anchor. “The blue economy—fishing, tourism, aquaculture—depends on healthy oceans. Without reefs, fish vanish. Livelihoods collapse. The sea becomes a graveyard.”

“So it’s not just conservation,” Hafsa said. “It’s survival. But how do we grow our economy without destroying what sustains it?” Karim didn’t hesitate. “Balance. Policy grounded in science. Marine protected areas. Sustainable fishing quotas. Eco-tourism. Stewardship over extraction.”

They spent hours walking through the botanical paths, discussing seagrass, kelp forests, and the future of ocean farming. Anika shared her dreams of working with community-led marine conservation, and Hafsa spoke of pushing climate policy debates in every youth parliament session she attended. High in the Chandranath Hill, where the wind carried the scent of leaves and legacy, their voices softened.

“There’s more to the sea than science,” Karim said, his voice almost reverent. “There’s a myth. Memory. Identity. That’s what the blue humanities teaches us. When Azimpur disappeared, it wasn’t just land. It was language. It was lullabies.” Anika blinked; her eyes were glassy. “I see it in displaced communities. They lose more than their homes. They lose stories. The names of trees, the tastes of festivals.” Hafsa, ever the compass, brought it home. “So blue humanities means recognising the ocean not just as a resource but as part of us. A mirror. What we take from it, we take from ourselves.” Karim looked at them and felt a surge rise in his chest, not of sorrow this time, but something like hope. “You’re right. This fight isn’t just scientific. Or economic. It’s human. And we can only win it together.”

As the sun dipped behind the Chandranath Hill, setting the sky ablaze in golds and blood-reds, they walked in a hush, not of despair, but of reverence. They were young, yes. But in their hearts, they carried the future—and it was heavy.

Then Anika asked, “What gives you hope?” Karim looked at her, then at Hafsa, and smiled. “You do. The fact that we’re talking like this. That we care. That we haven’t given up.” And Hafsa, eyes firm as stone, said, “We won’t. We’re the generation that listens to the tide before it screams.”

They turned from the sea, toward the uncertain shore of tomorrow. The water behind them was not done. But neither were they.

[1] A respectful way of addressing a man, translates to brother

[2] Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change

Md Mujib Ullah reads, researches, thinks, and writes. His work has appeared in Artful Dodge, Text, Borderless, and elsewhere.

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