Come Brother, Let Us Go to Vrindavan

I must have been in high school then. The development committee of Ghilamara Kristi Bhavan would organize its annual Rasa festival every year, and as soon as winter began sharpening the afternoons into golden stillness, the entire locality would slowly drift into theatrical madness.

All year long, Baghasura—the gigantic crane demon—and Aghasura—the monstrous python—hung from the rafters of the auditorium like retired wrestlers abandoned by fate, gathering dust and spiderwebs in dignified silence. Then, a month before the festival, they would descend from their heavenly exile like ancient kings awakened from Kumbhakarna’s sleep. Painters arrived, bamboo scaffolds creaked, children hovered like flies around molasses, and suddenly the Kristi Bhavan transformed into Vrindavan itself. Daytime belonged to the rehearsals of Gopis and cowherd boys; nighttime belonged to the thunderous dialogues of Kansa and his loyal assistant Kalketu, whose villainous speeches floated across the village louder than any public announcement system.

Before we came to Ghilamara, we lived in Bardalani—my father’s ancestral village. Even now, memory returns there barefoot. The Rasa used to be held near Dewariya Bazaar beside the railway station. The pandal was built from palm leaves and reeds, humble as a farmer’s prayer. Yet once the lights came on and the drums began, that fragile structure became an empire. Krishna danced upon Kaliya’s hood while fire burst from the serpent’s mouth in symbolic bloodshed, and from somewhere behind the stage came the khol, the taal, the bamboo flute—music so piercingly beautiful that even now it returns to me uninvited, like the smell of rain entering through an old wooden window.

Much later I discovered that my elder brother, Rameswar Daiti, had actually played in that flute troupe. Perhaps that is why the bansuri always seemed less like an instrument and more like a living creature to me—something that breathed sorrow and sweetness together. In those days, our village still possessed the old Assamese gift of gathering together before modern life taught everyone the fine art of silent hostility. During Rasas and Bhawnas, quarrels disappeared. Half the village was related to the other half anyway, and elders were obeyed with the seriousness of religious scripture.

Songs floated everywhere then — naam-kirtans, wedding songs, lullabies, melodies without authors. One of the village old man’s Been[a kind of assamese instrument like a violin where the bowing uses horse tail] carried tunes the way old trees carry wind. His bowing drew notes so deep and lonely that even the nightjar seemed to pause and listen. Time itself would stop for a moment, sit down quietly beside the paddy fields, and hear the music out. Then one day the music truly stopped—my he died, and with him vanished an entire season of sound.

For days after every Rasa, I would remain possessed by it. With my cousin’s sons I staged miniature Bhawnas of our own, tying cloth bundles to our heads, beating imaginary drums with our mouths, and performing before audiences consisting mainly of goats and mildly confused chickens. After moving permanently to Ghilamara, I wandered through the Kristi Bhavan rehearsals searching, perhaps unknowingly, for the lost fragrance of Bardalani itself.

A Rasa requires an army. Krishna cannot merely stroll into Vrindavan alone like a government officer arriving for inspection. He needs Gopis, cowherds, drummers, flute players, demons, sages, and at least three people whose sole responsibility is to shout backstage instructions nobody obeys. Though I was painfully shy, I desperately wanted to join that year’s performance.

So every afternoon after school I hurled my books onto the table with scholarly irresponsibility and sprinted toward the Kristi Bhavan.

“Line up properly!”

“Turn in a circle!”

“You there—don’t you understand what a line is? I’ll give one tight slap!”

The dance instructor ruled the rehearsal hall with the authority of a battlefield commander and the patience of a man perpetually betrayed by human civilization.

What was there not to understand? He danced once to the beat of the khol; we copied him. Simple. At least in theory.

Back in Bardalani, when we staged Bhawnas with friends, there had been no audience. But here—here there were spectators. Worse still, our schoolteachers sat watching with open eyes and terrifying attentiveness. My soul immediately began preparing its resignation letter.

Still, swallowing my embarrassment like bitter medicine, I joined the line of cowherd boys.

“O brother… come, let us go to Vrindavan…”

The song began. Nirmal Da’s khol thundered behind us while Shyamal Da’s flute floated above everything like evening smoke. Imagining Krishna ahead of us, I too started dancing joyfully toward Vrindavan. Unfortunately, the boys in front and behind me possessed the balance and directional certainty of newly born calves. They bumped into me repeatedly, destroying both rhythm and dignity.

Dancing always terrified me. During Bihu performances at Niharika Club, local householders used to tempt me with promises of extra money if I danced at their homes. I knew those offers were traps. Afterwards they would visit our house, sit with my parents, and collectively narrate my dancing mistakes as though presenting evidence in a criminal investigation.

You know how, when someone shouts ‘Left turn… right turn!’, a couple of boys invariably end up turning the wrong way? That is exactly what happened to me.

In the dance, one had to turn one way at one beat and the opposite way at the next — at least, that is how I vaguely remembered the choreography. But at the precise moment I was supposed to turn left, I spun to the right instead. And consequently—

“Hey! Who’s that? Come out! What kind of dancing is this? Get out of the line!” Nirmal Da roared.

His finger pointed directly at me.

Someone tried to rescue me. “It’s alright, Nirmal Da, that’s Phukan Sir’s son. Let him dance. He’ll learn.”

‘No, no, that won’t do. He won’t fit. He simply hasn’t got the C.’

Nirmal-da was adamant — the self-styled quality control manager of the event.

Finished. Everything was finished. My honour, my dignity — all gone. Whatever little reputation I had as a bright student dissolved into the dust of the cultural hall floor. Before my classmates and teachers, I felt like the earth itself splitting open so I could disappear into the underworld. The dream of becoming an actor never lived long enough to blossom. It remained a tender bud, fading before its season came—not merely withering, but being made to wither. He just nipped it in the bud.

My ears burned with shame; head lowered, I stood there speechless.

What would I even say at home now? Back there, they had all been imagining that their boy would appear in the Raas performance as a glorious cowherd prince. And what had become of me?

Without lifting my head, I trudged home from rehearsal.

For the next few days, after returning from school, I would still pretend to go for rehearsals every evening. I’d merely loiter around the practice ground until it was time to return home. Otherwise, what explanation could I possibly give? Worse still, I would have to suffer humiliation before my younger brother.

He had been chosen to play Krishna — while I, at best, was deemed fit only to stand among the nameless cowherd boys.”

Still, every evening I continued going to rehearsals, pretending involvement, watching quietly from corners so nobody at home would suspect the truth. Shame has a peculiar stamina; it follows you faithfully.

Then at last the day of the performance arrived.

The whole household prepared excitedly. Tickets had been bought. Clothes arranged. Only Father remained calm. He treated Rasas the way sensible men treat political speeches: he would casually pass by, inspect whether Kansa had died yet, and continue his morning walk.

Inside me, meanwhile, Kurukshetra raged.

I prayed silently: “Krishna, save me now. If you won’t save your own cowherd, who will?”

I went early to help with makeup. Once costumes were complete, my courage slowly returned. A painted face grants strange confidence. With makeup on, even an ordinary village boy begins to feel philosophically invincible. I wandered backstage proudly, inspecting other performers, chatting with friends in the audience, pretending I belonged there completely.

Most importantly, Nirmal Da was nowhere to be seen.

Musicians in those days sat hidden in a trench-like orchestra pit before the stage so their heads would not obstruct the audience’s view. Therefore, divine opportunity had presented itself.

Then suddenly someone shook me awake.

“Come quickly! It’s our turn!”

And before I fully understood what was happening—

“O brother… come, let us go to Vrindavan…”

The khol began.

The flute rose.

Ahead walked Krishna and Balaram.

And with them, dancing among the cowherd boys, went I.

Half-closing my eyes, I searched nervously toward the orchestra pit. Had Nirmal Da noticed me? Perhaps he had. But what could he do now? In the middle of the performance he could hardly transform into Baghasura and drag me offstage before the audience.

From the crowd, the family members searched proudly for their sons among the Gopas with eager eyes. Were my own ones able to recognize me? Whether they recognized me or not no longer mattered.

Because by then something miraculous had happened.

The Kristi Bhavan stage no longer seemed like a stage. It had become Vrindavan itself. The cows grazed peacefully. Krishna’s flute flowed through the air like moonlight dissolved into sound. The trees, the grass, the audience, the performers — everything blurred into one vast feeling of joy. And there I was among them, no longer the boy who turned the wrong way, no longer the embarrassed student, but simply another cowherd following Krishna down the eternal road toward Vrindavan.

Lost completely in that happiness, I too began singing with the others —

“O brother… come, let us go to Vrindavan…”