As India celebrates the birth centenary of Dr. Bhupen Hazarika, the Bard of the Brahmaputra, Utpal Datta recalls a poignant conversation that revealed the man behind the legend — reflective, humble, and deeply human.

The birth centenary of Dr. Bhupen Hazarika — the iconic “Bard of the Brahmaputra” — was celebrated with grandeur across Assam and Arunachal Pradesh, featuring music, films, and a musical voyage on the Brahmaputra River. Renowned writer and filmmaker Utpal Datta offers an intimate memoir, The Question Bhupen Hazarika Never Answered to Me, revealing moments of vulnerability, wisdom, and humility in one of India’s greatest cultural icons. Through his recollections, Datta captures Hazarika’s complex persona — a man loved by millions, yet haunted by introspection.

We had been talking for nearly an hour and a half. Actually, we spent much more time chatting — only the recorded part was about that long. In those moments, Bhupen Hazarika opened up about so many things: personal stories, social issues, things he liked and disliked.

He shared which Assamese film he liked best, why O. C. Ganguly was his favourite painter, which Assamese artist he admired most, whose lyrics moved him, which singer’s voice he loved — and why.

On social topics, he was serious and thoughtful. But when it came to personal matters, he was open-hearted and generous. He spoke with honesty and courage, saying whatever came to mind, without filters.

I had met him many times before — sometimes in a crowd, but mostly alone. In the last two meetings, he was accompanied by Kalpana Lajmi and Shobha Hazarika - his sister-in-law and my colleague at Akashwani Guwahati.

A Silence That Spoke Volumes

Once, on our way to Shillong, for the shooting of the documentary on his life titled Moi Eti Jajabor, by Waesqurni Bora, we sat by the shores of Barapani Lake, talking for hours. Cinematographer Nalin Duwara was the lone silent listener. That was a different experience altogether.

But the conversation I’m talking about — the one that lasted more than an hour and a half — was something else entirely. It was unforgettable, both for me and, I believe, for Bhupenda as well.

It happened the day before the Assam Sahitya Sabha session began in Sivasagar in 1993. Bhupenda had just arrived; his stay was arranged at the Circuit House.

Since very few people had access to him, there wasn’t much of a crowd — just a few committee members and a couple of officials from the district administration. We had a pre-scheduled appointment.

When we were recording his interview for Akashbani Dibrugarh (I worked there at that time), no one else was around — just one producer from Akashbani, our technical assistant Mr. Duara, and me. Once the recording ended and Duara started packing up the equipment, the producer went outside to speak with someone.

Bhupenda suddenly turned reflective and said: “I feel a little scared... so much importance, so much love from people.”

Then he fell silent.

He sat on the bed, still for a long time — almost like a statue carved in stone. I didn’t know what to do. I just sat there quietly. After a few minutes, he seemed to come back to himself. Maybe he was trying to shake off the weight of that moment.

Smiling slightly, he looked at me and asked: “What’s your next question?”

I glanced at Duara — he had already taken the recorder outside.

Bhupenda continued: “Go ahead and ask. I’m in the mood to answer today.” 

I had so many questions. So I asked: “What do you consider your greatest success — and your greatest failure — in life?” 

He replied instantly: “Turn off the recorder.” 

But he hadn’t noticed — there was no recorder anymore.

The Answer That Found Its Way

A similar thing had happened once before, during the Bongaigaon Sahitya Sabha. I, as journalist from a magazine, had met him at a guest house. He came to Bongaigaon to perform in the cultural evening. There were many people around, and the recorder was running — Gautam Sharma, my colleague in Bismoi Prakashan, was handling it. In the middle of the conversation, one of my questions upset Bhupenda. Not because it was directed at him, but because it mentioned someone else. He lashed out with some harsh words — not at me, but at the person in the question.

A few moments later, after cooling down, he asked Gautam to erase that part of the recording. Then, turning to me, he spoke sharply — not shouting, but clearly annoyed. I felt hurt and wanted to leave. But Manjula Hazarika, an artist and a family friend of Bhupen Da who was nearby, looked at me with a warm smile and gently gestured for me to stay. A moment later, Bhupenda pulled me into a tight embrace. I still remember the intensity of that hug. Even now, I can’t quite put into words what it meant. 

Coming back to that day in Sivasagar, I sat frozen. What would Bhupenda say now? Just moments ago, he’d said he was in the mood to answer — but now?

A few seconds of heavy silence passed. Or maybe minutes — I’m not sure. I looked helplessly at his face. His eyes were closed, head bowed, sitting at the edge of the bed. Then, breaking the unbearable silence, he finally spoke: “I don’t have an answer to that question right now. Maybe someday, I’ll tell you.”

And then... more silence. Painful. Heavy.

A few months later, I met Bhupenda again — this time at his home in Nizarapar, Guwahati.

To my surprise, he looked straight at me, pointed his finger, and said: “What was your name again?”

I told him.

“Utpal … Utpal .. . Wait here a bit.” Then he got busy with others. As the President of the Sahitya Sabha, he had a lot on his plate. After a few minutes, he called me into a room inside. Standing there, almost whispering, he said: “I’m giving you the answer to your question.”

He named a Bengali magazine and added: “Check there. You’ll find it.”

I didn’t say that I had already read it. I just felt grateful that he had remembered the question — and remembered me. I honestly believe he gave that interview to the magazine just so the answer could reach me.

I asked him: “Did you tell the journalist to ask the question?” He smiled slightly and said: “You just wanted the answer, right? You got it. Now go.” 

I left the room. And the whole way home, I kept wondering — did my question really touch him so deeply that he remembered me because of it? 

And what was that answer?

I don’t remember the exact words, but the essence of what he said was this: “My failures? I couldn’t be a good lover. I couldn’t be a good husband. I couldn’t be a good father. I couldn’t be a good neighbour. But my success? If today I were to go stand at someone’s door in need of a single meal — in every home in Assam, that meal would be waiting for me. A bed to sleep on, a home to stay in. What more do I need?”

How many Assamese can say that?