When Legend Listened: Remembering Homen Borgohain

Neelim Akash Kashyap

(neelimassam@gmail.com)

In the landscape of Assamese literature, Homen Borgohain stands not merely as a writer or a towering editor, but as something rarer—a man who truly knew how to listen. That ability, so simple yet so profound, is what I remember most today.

I realised the power of that listening many years ago, on a day when I found myself speaking to him about Devdas and Paaro, about the aching symmetry of their love: “Devdas could never forget Paro. But did Paro forget him either? Was her sorrow any lighter—or was it deeper, darker, more silent?” He listened—utterly; completely. His eyes held mine with a patience and gentleness that made even my unpolished words feel worthy. To speak like that before a literary giant and to be heard with such quiet grace is a gift that stays for life.

That same day, he had just seen the cover of ‘Jonakor Pokhi Oore’, a novel inspired by ‘Gorokhiya’, the last story he ever wrote. And then, in that familiar tone of affectionate curiosity, he asked, “What next? What are you writing now?” I shared a few ideas. One of them made his face brighten. He smiled—a rare, warm smile that could push a young writer miles forward—and said, “I think you can write this. I feel it will turn out beautiful.” That idea eventually became ‘Paaro’, a novel in Assamese, published by renowned publisher ‘Banalata’. After I narrated its emotional landscape, he said with unmistakable eagerness, “I am already looking forward to reading this.” From years ago, the ‘Paaro’ has been in the bookshops. Since then came ‘Laaz’, ‘Parashu-Raam’, ‘Rodor Khiriki-Boroxunor Gaan’, ‘Chakrabehu’—and another novel, ‘Utha-Jaaga-Xaar Powa’, now awaiting publication with its English edition, ‘Tempest Over Brahmaputra’.

And yet—the simplest promise remains unfulfilled. I had wished to place the first copy of the ‘Paaro’ in his hands. But, alas, Homen Borgohain is no longer among us physically. The hands I had hoped would turn those pages are now part of memory, not presence. Yes, this remembrance is personal. But does it not also belong to countless others?

How many young, hesitant writers found courage because Borgohain Sir paused, listened, and said, “Write. I want to read you!” For a beginner, such words are not mere praise. All are light! All are fuel! All are the quiet, unseen strength that teaches a writer to walk farther, dig deeper, and dare more boldly. If only more senior writers today carried such generosity of listening, such willingness to nurture—would not our literary sky shine with many more new voices? Would Assamese literature not echo with newer textures, braver thoughts, and fresher possibilities? Homen Borgohain lit lamps of possibility wherever he went. Our responsibility now is simple—to ensure those lamps never go out.