Author and journalist Sanjoy Hazarika speaks to writer Samrat Choudhury about his latest book, River Traveller: Journeys on the Tsangpo-Brahmaputra from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

You wrote about forgetting an essential permit as soon as you arrived in Tibet. You were there to film in 1998, not long after India had conducted its nuclear tests. Can you tell us about that initial hiccup?

When we arrived in Tibet, the sight upon landing was unexpected. At [Lhasa] Gonggar Airport, you walk off the aircraft into this amazing scenery—the river on one side, great mountains all around, and the flat of the airport, partly covered by water, partly being used to dry millet and wheat. I made my way through immigration thinking I had all my papers, and then discovered the critical one was missing: the filming permit. We had brought all the equipment, but the permit was missing. I was rummaging in a panic, dreading being turned back before a single frame had been shot. Then the customs officer made a small speech about India and China being great friends and said there had been some misunderstandings, so we would need to pay a little fine, and we could proceed. It ultimately came to that. And I found the paper at the bottom of the pile a few hours later anyway.

How much of Tibet did you travel?

We travelled several hundred kilometres along the [Yarlung Tsangpo] river. We could not reach the source, which is near the Chemayungdung Glacier close to Mansarovar—that would have taken far too long and required not just special permits, but also one vehicle equipped with oxygen and another carrying fuel, since there are no depots along that route. We were not equipped for any of that. So we took an alternative route that took us through Shigatse and other places.

It was quite a challenging journey, partly due to the physical endurance of always being at a high altitude, and partly the fact that you were in an extraordinary space you had only read about or seen on film. Taking it all in was both daunting and exhilarating.

Did you get to the Great Bend [of the Brahmaputra, where the river pivots around the Namcha Barwa peak to enter Arunachal Pradesh, India]?

No. That required a separate permit. We had permission to go to Bayi [town, situated near the confluence of the Nyang river with the Yarlung Tsangpo river] but when we were driving there, the road disappeared; it was all water. The driver stopped and said he could take us to Bayi, but he could not guarantee when we would get back. That wasn’t a risk I could take. Some dreams remain unfulfilled—perhaps forever—but I hope at some point to see the Namcha Barwa bend.

The Great Bend of the Brahmaputra is where the river pivots around the Namcha Barwa peak to enter Arunachal Pradesh in India. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

That bend has been in the news lately because of China’s plans to build what would be the world’s largest hydroelectric project there. There are also projects on the Indian side. Without straying too far into those debates, I’d like to ask: what do you feel about the future of the river?

The river is older than the Himalayas. It will endure long after all of us are gone, along with the petty concerns of politics and rivalries. The river will endure, but it will suffer because of the damage humans inflict on it, and on the ecosystems it sustains and the people it nourishes.

Dams are being built on both the Chinese and Indian sides. What these will do nobody can predict, because the weather and climate are increasingly unpredictable. Snow melt and ice melt are now occurring on a significant scale, and uncertainties surround the entire basin, partly because we lack adequate data. I am certain that the Chinese are not sharing half of what they know or half of what is already being done. The impact on the dense forests, the challenging gorges, and the wildlife of that valley is something we simply cannot assess.

As for the downstream effects, when a dam of that size is built, whatever Chinese officials say about water flow remaining unaffected, there will be an impact. And one of the first things engineers insist upon for a hydroelectric dam is that the water entering the turbines be reasonably clean and free of rocks and stones. When you have a clean river coming in, and a cleaner river going out, the nutrients that enable fish and other life to flourish, the nutrients that fertilise our fields, are stripped away. The damage may not be irreversible, but it will be deep.

When people on either side say the water flow will not be affected, that is not the right issue. The question is the damage to the river itself and its downstream consequences: for Northeast India and for Bangladesh.

The book seems to have taken a long time to be written. You began with that film journey in 1998, and the book has come out now. What was the process by which it came together?

It is a big river, and it is constantly remaking itself. We reinvent it too in a sense—in our imagination, in our contact with it, and in our understanding. For me, the river has been with me all my life. As a child, I remember going with my parents and elder brother to the riverbanks in Guwahati—a simpler city than it is today—and watching dolphins dance. I have never seen anything as beautiful. The great steamships crossing from bank to bank left a lasting impression on me as well. Later, I travelled on the river extensively and began to understand how people live along it.

But when did you start writing the book? Was it a long time ago?

I started writing the book around 2007 or 2008, but then I lost my wife, and I had a writing block. I could not write anything for almost two years. Other things took over. I started the Centre for North East Studies and Policy Research at Jamia. I was involved with the Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative. Other books came out.

I could not get back into this one until I began rewatching the footage and going through my old notes. People started prodding me, and finally, I decided I needed to finish it. It was difficult and challenging, partly because this book is unlike anything I have written before. Most of my books are politically driven: insurgency, migration, those kinds of issues. This one is different. I have laid myself open in it.

A man leaves for home after tying up his boats near the banks of the Kulsi River, in Assam, on June 9, 2016. There is extensive sand mining in the area, and these boats are often used to carry sand from the riverbank. | Photo Credit: Ritu Raj Konwar

There is something in the tradition of river journeys—such as the book Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse—where the river becomes a philosophical journey, teaching life lessons. Did this process of river travel and then writing about it give you any insights?

Constantly. There are a few fundamental things one learns on the river. First, you are entirely at its mercy. Whether it is flowing low or in full spate, you are not in charge. There is an entity out there far more powerful than you can conceive of, and you must respect that. Second, and this is related, you realise how small we actually are in the scheme of things. It is a good lesson in humility.

Third, you are constantly in the process of discovery. I learned from the helmsman who drives the boat that he can tell the depth of the water from its colour, and the direction of the current by reading the surface. By watching the sky and the wind, he knows which route to take. There is enormous knowledge in people around us who understand their world far better than we do, regardless of if they’ve had the formal education that we have.

Fourth, you see yourself more clearly when you are out in open space. You think more lucidly, you express yourself better, and you engage with people more openly. On the river, everyone is equal. Everyone has the same chance of going over the side. I am deeply privileged to have travelled it. I cannot even swim. The river Gods have been very kind!

The book is full of fascinating characters—historical and contemporary. Are there any you would like to single out?

There was a Prussian, German soldier, Daniel Rausch, who came to seek his fortune in India and ended up in Goalpara [river port] in the latter part of the eighteenth century—the 1760s and 1770s. He became one of the wealthiest persons in Assam because he was a major salt trader. Salt was the equivalent of gold—highly prized and heavily traded.

The East India Company, as well as Dutch, German, and French adventurers and merchants, were all making their fortunes there in Assam. They would trade in other things—ivory, gold, and silk—but salt was one of the major commodities.

He married a British woman who later returned to England. His two young children are buried in Goalpara—that is how I discovered his tomb. He was quite a figure: he even challenged the Ahom kingdom, claiming they had not settled [his dues] and threatening to march on them before the East India Company intervened.

There were remarkable explorers and spies in the Tibetan sector. Men like Kinthup and the “pundits”—including Nain Singh [Rawat] and others—who walked hundreds of kilometres without proper gear in tough conditions and mapped Tibet for the world; or at least for the East India Company.

Coming to more contemporary matters, the islands in the lower course of the river are often associated with questions of migration from Bangladesh into Assam. What is your sense, after so many years of research, writing, and lived experience, of this difficult question?

There was significant migration in the earlier part of the twentieth century and in the decades immediately following independence, up until 1971. The Assam Accord [signed in 1985] sought to draw a line at 1971, accepting those who came before that date and specifying that those who came after, should be detected and deported. That is easier said than done. After all these decades and all these controversies, we still do not know how many undocumented Bangladeshis there are.

The NRC [National Register of Citizens] process has only deepened the murk: 1.9 million people were left off the list, and a majority of them turned out to be Hindu, not Muslim. But this is not a religious question; it is a question of nationality.

Despite torturous procedures, we have not been able to resolve the issue. There is a long-term way of thinking about migration and a short-term way. Most people are focused on the short-term, and it is not clear how that would go. Because there are court rulings and government priorities, and there is resistance to these ideas.

My view is that no one should be pushed back without a fair hearing; no citizen should face discrimination or oppression regardless of faith; and no person should be deprived of liberty—let alone life—without due process. In the longer term, if relations between India and Bangladesh improve, you might reach a point where movement of people can be managed through a controlled work-permit regime allowing people to work and return. Of course, this is easier said than done, but we now have the technological capacity in software to make something like that work. But it requires better relations between the two countries and a broader vision for where the leaders want to take South Asia.

A fisherman puts his fishing net near a newly constructed bridge over Brahmaputra River, in Guwahati on February 3, 2026. Across Tibet, Northeast India, and Bangladesh, development along the Brahmaputra is transforming landscapes, bringing electricity and connectivity, but also new risks for fisheries, wetlands, and river biodiversity. | Photo Credit: Ritu Raj Konwar

Can you tell us about the Gangetic river dolphin? Where have you encountered them along the Brahmaputra?

The Gangetic river dolphin can be found along many stretches of the Brahmaputra. I have seen them as far downstream as Dhubri, and you can still spot them near Guwahati, even today. You can see them in the Dibrugarh area in Upper Assam, around Tezpur.

The groups are smaller than they used to be, but numbers have slowly increased, I think because of better protection and greater awareness, at least along the main stem of the Brahmaputra river. And I think there is better counting also.

There are, however, pockets of concern. Near the Kulsi, close to Guwahati, a small population has become isolated in a tributary. There is extensive sand mining in that area, and new industries have come up along the banks. This is impacting their environment and the pods are getting smaller. The pollution board needs to take a serious look at these situations.

There has been talk of a dolphin sanctuary. What happened to that idea?

It is a good idea, but difficult to implement. Unlike tigers, dolphins range freely through the river. You could declare a sanctuary, but if a dolphin swims beyond its boundaries, what then? You would need to designate very large stretches, which creates its own complications.

I think the most effective approach is continuing to enforce strict anti-poaching measures while helping communities that have historically poached to find alternative livelihoods. In the book, I discuss one such community, the Binns. We were able to help them develop a method using ordinary fish gut and fish oil as bait, instead of dolphin blubber or oil. And that change alone helped protect the dolphins significantly.

I worry about the cutting of organic connections between wetlands and the river, and what that means for other life forms. The turtles, for instance, seem to be suffering greatly.

All life forms are suffering. The turtles, the gharials—gharials have virtually vanished from the Brahmaputra—dolphins, and so many varieties of fish. Fish have their migration routes; they travel to spawn. And suddenly, the spawning grounds are gone. Dolphins need spaces where they can forage and breed and raise their young. They are like humans, they raise their young.

All human intervention—dams, pollution, the use of fertilizers and pesticides leaching off tea gardens and farms into the water—drives them further away or shrinks their populations. These are things we have to reckon with seriously.

Sanjoy Hazarika’s River Traveller: Journeys on the Tsangpo-Brahmaputra from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal is a sweeping blend of memoir, reportage, history, and river journey spanning Tibet, Northeast India, and Bangladesh. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

And untreated sewage flowing directly into the river—that is another disaster.

It is a catastrophic disaster. In Guwahati, every stream has become a drain. The water, if you can call it that, is black. Guwahati does not have a single functional sewage treatment plant serving the city.

And even where treatment plants have been built, they are often not operated continuously. They are left idle to save costs.

Let us move to the final section of the river: the Bangladesh stretch. You have travelled there over the years and met many people. Tell us about your adventures in Bangladesh, perhaps ending with the pirates.

Bangladesh is a land of rivers. You cannot imagine it without them. In the monsoon, it becomes a landscape of water with communication, transport, food, and people all moving along these arteries.

We were travelling for the last part of the film—and it is also among the last sections of the book—towards the Bay of Bengal. We had just filmed a beautiful scene: the singing of the bhatiyali on a small vessel at sunset. The director called cut and I looked around, and there was no land. An hour earlier, there had been land visible on all sides; now, there was nothing. I asked the captain where we were. He said, “In the Bay of Bengal.” He explained that the director had asked him to cut the engine—it was too noisy during the recording—and the combined current of the Brahmaputra and the Padma had carried us out to sea.

He said it would take a few hours to get back. I began to get worried because it was getting dark, and the sea is daunting. I am not a courageous person by nature. I do not swim. We chugged back slowly, and then there was a sudden commotion. We were told to go below deck and take the equipment with us.

One of our assistants said we were being chased by pirates. I assumed he was joking. Pirates? In this day and age? But then we could see three larger vessels bearing down on us. I asked what would happen if they caught us. He said they would board the ship, kill everyone, loot the cargo, and scuttle the ship. I told our director that we would merit a small paragraph in the next day’s newspaper. Fortunately, we managed to evade them. But how—that is something readers will have to discover for themselves.