The wooden bridge at Numberpara market stands strong, given the situation. Beneath it, the Manas river is relentless and raging — like an unstoppable force. Its colour is different today — an unpleasing murky brown in place of the otherwise cerulean blue. NDRF personnel begin assembling their inflatable motor rescue boats on the roadside. The villagers gather to watch, some of them video graphing the entire process on their mobile phones. It offers an iota of amusement to their anxious lives. For the last four days, the rain has been incessant and heavy — as if someone forgot to turn off the taps up there and went out on a holiday. The water level of the two major rivers in Bongaigaon — Aie and Manas, has long surpassed the danger level. As I begin to walk upon the bridge, carefully placing my steps on its slippery and slimy surface, I notice the heavy torrent through the tiny gaps in between the timber pieces. The gurgling sound of the river is audibly loud. Moinul walks alongside me. He has agreed to accompany us on the boats to Golapara — a village that has been cut off from the rest due to the floods, and upon which a relief camp has been set up. Trapped villagers from adjoining places in Golapara have to be rescued and brought to that camp. “This sound of water makes my heart break. It has been a bane for our village,” Moinul says, looking woefully at the water currents. His visage betrays his words. On the other end of the bridge, I see a couple of tent house structures half submerged in water. It was a circus team that had arrived a week ago, for the entertainment of the villagers. But nature had other plans. The boats have been readied — two of them, and lowered into the waters. Along with Moinul, another local person is selected as guide — one for each boat. He chain smokes two bidis before getting on the boat. Meanwhile, the gentle drizzle grows into a heavy downpour in a matter of seconds. Because of the strong upstream current, our journey takes time. The heavy rains further add to the difficulty. The biggest perils on our route are live electricity lines and upright bamboo poles under the water surface. The rain now falls with even greater force — like small particles of heavy objects, frustrating our line of sight. I am not a romantic; the rains have never fascinated me much. But upon the bosom of the river, the sight is almost surreal. The splattering sound of water falling upon water — an essential cycle of the environment completing itself. On the periphery of the vast water body, I see the top of a few tall tree canopies and roofs of houses, just peeking above the water level. It is a picture I had often witnessed vicariously — in the news, social and print media. Today I was in the middle of the chaos. Flood and Assam are almost synonymous. Geography has been cruel to the people in this part of South Asia. The Brahmaputra, one of the enormous rivers of the world, flows through Assam in its youthful stage. With its immense capacity for erosion, it easily meanders off course. The region is sub-tropically located due to which it experiences heavy monsoons. Not to mention the elephant in the room — global climate change. By the time we reach our destination, the rains have mellowed a bit. But the skies remain overcast — it’s almost a tease. People have gathered on a highland on the border of the now-overflowed Manas. On a small tea-stall on that highland, Village Defence Organisation (VDO) members, Gaon Panchayat President and others are making lists of families and names who need to be rescued. I meet Mr. Joynal near the shop. He is the headmaster of the school where the relief camp is to be set up. Led by him and a few villagers, we move towards the location of the school to check its condition. Most of the houses are under water. People have been staying on the raised portion of the road since the previous day owing to the fear of the river washing away their houses in the middle of the night. Temporary sheds of tarpaulin have been constructed for sheltering the cows and other domesticated animals. Many people refuse to come to the relief camps even risking their lives because of their livestock, Mr Joynal informs me. We see the school/relief camp from a distance. Between it and us is waist-deep water; it is a part of the river that made inroads through some weak spot in the village. As we begin to wade across it, we realize that the water level is above the waist at certain points, and the speed of the water stream stronger than it seemed. After what seemed like an eternity, we reach the school. It is a one-storied RCC structure with enough space to temporarily accommodate the flood victims. Mr. Joynal opens the door to his office chamber, and invites us in. It’s a neatly kept room with walls adorned with comprehensive lists of the teachers — past and present, framed photographs of India’s leaders and statesmen and a few certificates. But the floor is literally sprawling with earthworms. A worker comes and brooms these friendly annelids out. My phone battery is left with a mere 15% charge. Although I have my charger with me, there is no way to charge my phone. The village had been bereft of electricity since the last three days. This was a major hindrance in contacting the administration for help, Mr. Joynal tells me. The rescue operation has already begun; the NDRF has started bringing families and people in groups. Half an hour later, a group of four families arrive at the school with their bags of essentials (in which I couldn’t help noticing small framed pictures of Gods and Goddesses and other religious paraphernalia). I help myself to a chair and close my eyes in exhaustion. With my clothes wet and stinking, phone about to die, there isn’t much to do at this moment. I drift into somewhere else. I wake up to the sound of footsteps. Two young boys have to come to make some academic query. Mr. Joynal tells them that something may be postponed to some other date because of the floods. Then a middle aged person comes, who gets the same reply from the Principal. I wonder and marvel at their resolve. Their preference is palpable — to live in the hope of a future, and not in the trouble of the present. A member of the VDO informs me that already three hundred people have arrived in the relief camp. It is estimated that around seven hundred and fifty will arrive by the end of the day. The rains have abruptly stopped. There is even a meek indication of sunshine. If it doesn’t rain today, the water level will come down substantially, Mr. Joynal speaks from experience. I look at my phone. It will die any moment now.