This post is arriving fashionably late, not for lack of enthusiasm, but because the past 18 days have been an unbroken chain of work. No weekends. No evenings off. Just the steady rhythm of early mornings and late nights. So, by the time Sunday, August 10th rolled around, our first day off in more than two weeks, my partner, Bhagya, and I were more than ready to step away from our project and immerse ourselves in the cultural life of Majuli. 

We went to Chamaguri Satra, one of Majuli’s most celebrated religious and artistic institutions, renowned for its centuries-old mask-making tradition. Here, masks are created for Mukha Bhaona, a dramatic performing art with roots in Hindu epics. These masks are far more than props. They are tangible embodiments of gods and legendary characters, crafted with ritualistic care. 

As soon as we stepped onto the satra’s grounds, enormous masks gazed down at us, their wide eyes and mouths frozen in mid-expression. The place was buzzing with energy. A group of boys worked on their own creations. Their hands were working to smooth what I first thought was clay, but soon learned was cow dung, an essential layer in the crafting process. An elder craftsman and worker at the satra explained the creation sequence: build a bamboo framework, layer with paper, coat with cow dung, shave it smooth, and finally paint with bold colors that bring each character to life. The same ritual had been followed for centuries, transforming these raw materials into powerful pieces of expression. 

Inside the display hall, the air smelled faintly of incense. A candle-lighting ritual was underway before a larger-than-life statue of Narasimha, the half-lion, half-human avatar of the God Vishnu. I learned this was puja, a sacred offering to welcome the deity into the space. I also found myself face-to-many-faces with a towering Ravana, complete with ten blue heads. It felt as if I had stepped into a living epic, where every mask told a story through its painted face.

If the satra had been Majuli’s spiritual feast, my hungry stomach now wanted a culinary one. Determined to continue our cultural Sunday through food, we set out to find traditional Assamese cuisine. In this remote setting, Google offers more guesses than guarantees, so we had to depend on conversations along the roadside. After a few false leads, we were about to retreat to our usual lunch spot when we spotted a weathered sign for Maandhaniya. From the outside, the restaurant had a worn exterior in a tucked-away location, but inside, it offered one of the finest meals I have had in Assam. We began with smoked pork, a treat here delicious enough to make me wish Sundays came twice a week! For the main course, we each ordered a rice thali, a plate that arrived like a painter’s palette with several small dishes offering its own shade of flavor. There were deliciously-cooked greens, flavorful chutneys, raw bamboo, spiced potato, and for me, an outstanding chicken curry with a hint of pumpkin. Even with a full stomach, I found myself unwilling to leave a single bite behind.

Early in my time here, a colleague told me, “In this place, acceptance begins with speaking their language, eating their food, and appreciating their art.” In the classroom, language has been my bridge. But on this Sunday, I was invited into the other two: a glimpse of Majuli’s artistic traditions and a seat at its table of local flavors. Joining a new community is not only about the work you bring to it, but also about opening yourself to its traditions. This day reminded me that to truly know a place, you must stand (or sit) still long enough to let its stories come alive around you.