A Bridge Half Built

To many, the Bogiveel Bridge in Dibrugarh, has remained a landmark they have been hearing for more than a decade. Closer to two decades actually. It would connect the north bank of the Brahmaputra with its South. Last evening, the Assamese mother and her very Indian son, took us to see that sight. It was a crackling sun at 4 pm when we left the campus. I even asked Aunty if she would like to stay back, but she insisted that she was going to visit the place after four years, so she joined us on her choice. Which meant not taking a nap and still returning to serve us that wonderfully baked caramel pudding. Our host took his trusted Bolero over his i20 and Eon, anticipating bad roads. All packed we began the journey.

Once he crossed the town and entered a completely missable right turn, the sights changed like set-designs on theatres, one after the other Act. We were welcomed by fabulous curved roads, on one side tea-gardens, while on the other, green pastures. Aunty even said she was reminded of the roads leading to the Kerela backwaters -- the road was so smooth. Taking in as much fresh air as we could, after a significant distance, we took another right. Which introduced us to another set-design, after yet another Act. This time the Bolero decision was justified. Roads conditions from my childhood memories emerged, massive potholes and on either side, stones and chips lying unused to fill the holes up. I can safely say, we digested our lunch through that brief ride. Which brought us to the amazing view of the Bridge. Now, I am using the capital B, because from a very young age I kept hearing of something legendary coming up in my town. It deserves a capital, to say the least, of the expectation we had from our town.

Yet another right turn road led us to the banks, an upward drive, and another from it, the roads were fantastic! The elections are upcoming, and we steered our way through two packed campaign cars. My friend had to stop to ask them which way led to the Bridge. They replied we left it behind. So we reversed, and found an insignificant board, alphabets of which were shelved with years of dust, lead into, again, a right turn. The set-design changed. Dare I say road, I had paused for a while. Lane would be perfect, but I would continue for the grandiose of my experience, with 'road'. It was a non-concrete, dusty, literally mud-made one, with enough bumps to give us a welcome towards the legend. 'Great things don't come easy', the roads seemed to speak. A furthermore insignificant board, with the tiniest of Assamese scripts announced we should take a right for the 'Bogiveel Jetty'. We did. The road went from bad to worse. But everything was compensated for when I suddenly, dimwitted that I confess I am, asked, out of the blue, "Are those hills?"

Aunty literally looked at me and said, "No, its the bank!" Okay. Obey. We decided to stop our car when we located around fifty stairs up to the bank. By the way the bridge greeted us at the political campaign turn itself. A massive structure of intense engineering, broad roadway over rail tracks. We were impressed at the pace it had taken to cover the distance. Earlier it was a snail's pace. Now, it would be a rabbit's run. I wasn't interested. It was rather, after the climb, that the setting sun interested me with memories of Gold Spot. And ruthlessly, I claimed again, "but those are hills, look!"

Now. How many paintings have you seen? Water-colour masters? None could come close to the sight that recieved my assertion. They confirmed the holy sight of hardly visible shades, as the Arunachal region mountains. Trust the moon which follows me in most of my travels to light up within. The Himalayas suddenly turned sharper, as I opened my glares and wore my specks. Imagine a light sketch, and imagine lighter shades to highlight the light sketch. Actually, don't imagine anything. Trust me, everything would fall short. It was brerathtaking. The hills over an almost dry Brahmaputra, ferries still transporting cars to the other side, the setting sun, and the Bridge half built. If I may, the sun was setting in the landscape right where the brigde remained unfinished. The reflection of the orange-golden would even beat Turner, The Master. An island by itself, enjoying its solitude amidst it all, and the Himalayas, oh the Himalayas. The pristine air! We were contemplating to build a small house there, to open the window to such sights on weekends. You see, love, love is very, very infectious. And infection, may not always be a bad thing. You never know if the virus would actually be better for your immunity.

As the sun set, as calculated by our host, in another ten minutes, we bagan walking back, expecting the legend to be complete in this lifetime. The mountains smiled at me, and don't you dare disbelieve it. The shades came alive. Breathing still. Their smile within me. The road back was very emotional because of personal stories exchanged. But did anyone say about a Bridge half built?

Hell no. All bridges, always, bridge any kind of gap.  Built, half-built, or un-built.