It seemed like I was the only one struggling to maintain my balance and keep my backpack from getting wet in that narrow boat. To make matters worse, it started to drizzle. The other passengers watched me amused. On one side, women crouched low but miraculously managed to keep their mekala & chaddar clean (and dry!). On the other end, men sort of draped themselves over three motorbikes and sacks of groceries being transported. As the drizzle gathered force, with a nonchalant click, the woman to my right, Biju, unfurled her umbrella, braced herself and gathered her four-year-old son close to her. Here I was, standing still, petrified that if I move I might tilt the boat, savouring the surge of adrenaline all the same.

Crossing Brahmaputra to Majuli Island, it became obvious to me half way through, may have been an exciting adventure for me, but for my fellow passengers it was something they did regularly — if not daily. After a month in the northeast of India, the pattern was making itself clear: The gover­nment might play deaf and dumb when it comes to making the northeast accessible, but life must go on. Going up and down the mountains of Arunachal Pradesh, one could almost break the back; here one could drown.

It also became obvious that excitement is the last thing that confronts you when you actually set foot on the Majuli island. What Majuli offers instead are endless stretches of paddy fields cloaked in sweltering humidity that, on a wrong season, could redefine the word oppressive.

But, Majuli is a must, my Assamese friends had instructed me, after reviewing my northeast travel plans. So Majuli, it was. Last week of May — when I finally managed to make my way to this largest river island in the world —ushered in monsoon with a gusto that had me a bit worried. Until then I had managed to keep a step ahead of the chasing monsoon as I zigged and zagged through Assam and Arunachal Pradesh. From Ziro, AP, the easiest way would have been to cross Brah­maputra from North Lakhimpur. But during my travel I met many nay-sayers who were convinced that swelling Brahmaputra at that time of the year would have made that impossible. As luck would have it Sumos still snaked their way to the edge of the river on the North Lakhimpur side. There, you hop into a narrow boat that ripples its way to a shore, where another Sumo awaits you — or you wait for it — a roller-coaster ride again and you reach another shoreline, and hop you go into the boat and you are in Majuli. In between, there was plenty of waiting to do, of course — for the boat or Sumo to fill to the maximum.

You reach the sleepy village of Garamur first when you come from North Lakhimpur. Since the famed tree house — that Lonely Planet gushes about — was full, I had to settle for the government-run Circuit House. A delightful building with a huge courtyard and garden: Even the cheapest rooms are stately and spacious. But trust our government to let it rot! Roaches and other creepy crawlies vied with each other to share the cobwebbed room with me. Outside, rain refused to let it be. Impatient, I gathered my umbrella and made my way out. Stretches of green soaked in rain were truly a sight to behold: Filled me with an utter sense of peace. But the same cannot be said for the people. I couldn’t shake the hostile glances that followed me around. Much later, when I googled, and looked beyond “an island that is nestled in the lap of luxurious nature” I realised things are pretty snafu in Majuli. The eroding landmass, lack of opportunities, the Ulfa comp-lications as well as the absolute apathy shown by the government in terms of infrastructure could well explain the Majulians lack of trust when it comes to ‘outsiders’. Foreigners had it easy, though: Came across a barefooted bunch in kurtas — probably staying in that ‘full’ treehouse — floating around attracting easy smiles and namastes.

After walking around Garamur, which had a few shops selling the essentials and a few restaurants serving no-frill fare, I realised Majuli is the perfect place to sit in peace and contemplate life. Absol-utely no distractions whatsoever. Meanwhile, incessant rains had complicated things further: There is no way out of the island, unless the rain stops. Oh, the bigger ferries from Kamalabarighat lea-ve everyday to Nimatighat from where you can take a bus or taxi or auto to Jorhat. But to get there it became impossible. An apology of mud tracks that stood for ‘roads’ in most of the island had become impossibly slushy and vehicles merely got stuck when they tried to get past. The next two days, I made my way to the bus stand, enquired about the possibility of getting out and then walked around. Once I trudged as far as Kamalabari and walked into the sleepy upper Kamalabari Satra. More solitude.

Finally, on the third day, the shopkeeper greeted me with words that I wanted to hear. The roads are passable again. I almost jogged to the Circuit House, lugged the already packed backpack and rushed out to get the bus to Kamalaghat. I didn’t want to leave anything to chance having had all the solitude that I could handle for a year at one go.

As the ferry tooted and made its way super-slow to Nimatighat on the otherside, I glanced once more at Majuli. My mind went over things that could be done to make that fertile piece of land, Mother Nature’s gift, truly a paradise for visitors and thus improve the living conditions of the locals as well. Better infra-structure, goes without saying. But opportunities are plenty as well: Majuli is a great place to do dirt biking, for instance. The slushy wetland is perfect. Instead, the government is sitting, twid-dling thumbs and waiting for the island to dissolve into Braha-maputra, even while petitioning for a world heritage status. Talk about contradictions.