On world’s largest river island of Majuli in Assam, artisans like Hem Chandra Goswami fight to preserve centuries-old monastic tradition and the art of making bamboo masks
Local Assamese people tag along with livestock, bicycles, and motorbikes, while tourists clutching their luggage rush to catch the ferry from Nimati Ghat on the banks of the Brahmaputra in Jorhat. The ferry to Majuli is already packed, with only a few damaged, unusable seats left and barely enough space to squeeze in a child. “No more ferries till late afternoon,” the boatmen inform.
Nearly an hour later, we approach the Aphalamukh side of riverine Majuli Island, where 15th-century Satras (monastic institutions) still nurture centuries-old traditions, culture, and arts that thrive alongside fishing nets and farmlands.
But before you step into this world, you must brave a handful of taxi drivers quoting fares to the moon. After a round of haggling that satisfies both sides, we climb the muddy banks into a realm where indigenous boatmakers shape traditional vessels, and artisans handcraft striking masks. Yet with floods steadily eroding the land beneath their feet, these makers now race against time to keep their centuries-old craft alive.
A slice of riverine history
Located in India’s northeastern state of Assam, Majuli is the world’s largest inhabited river island. It is one of more than 2,200 char or riverine islands, formed by the Brahmaputra River, which flows from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal. Home to 139 villages, Majuli is not just geographically significant but is steeped in history and spiritual legacy.
A packed Majuli-bound ferry waits at Nimati Ghat in Jorhat, filled to the brim with locals, tourists, luggage, and livestock.
The Ahom dynasty, migrants from the Siam region of Southeast Asia, arrived in the 12th century and ruled Assam for over 600 years, leaving behind a deep cultural imprint. Later, in the 15th–16th centuries, coinciding with the Bhakti movement, Srimanta Sankardeva — a saint, cultural reformer, and proponent of Neo-Vaishnavism — came to shape the religious and spiritual imagination of the Assamese people.
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Sixty-five satras were established across Majuli, each serving as a vibrant cultural and religious hub. A typical satra features a prayer hall facing a shrine, a sacred pond, granaries, and modest quarters for monks and devotees.
However, not all monks here observe celibacy, nor do all satras specialise in teaching arts and crafts. Each has its own distinctive purpose, supporting sattriya (members) families who continue age-old traditions of devotional dance, music, literature, and craftsmanship.
Take, for instance, the Auniati Satra, where Lord Krishna is worshipped as Govinda. It also houses a small museum displaying artefacts from a bygone era, including the personal belongings and weapons of Lachit Borphukan, one of Assam’s most revered Ahom warriors.
Unmasking the world of Majuli masks
On the other hand, Samaguri Satra is the heart of Majuli’s unique mask-making tradition. A peek into the residence-turned-studio of Hem Chandra Goswami, a Padma Shri awardee (2023) and one of the last pioneers of mukha shilpa (mask art), reveals a world where Ravana jostles for space with Garuda, and life-size masks stand shoulder to shoulder with palm-sized ones.
Hem Chandra Goswami proudly holds up a brochure from an international exhibition— its cover adorned with a Majuli mask handcrafted by him.
The tradition of mukha shilpa is both spiritual and theatrical. These masks are used in performances of Indian epics like the Ramayana and Mahabharata, but “with a difference,” says Goswami ji. He explains that Srimanta Sankardeva wrote Ankiya Nat, a form of dramatic composition in Brajavali, a literary language developed by him and his disciples, which blends Maithili and Assamese. These performances, known as Bhaona in Assamese, are based on episodes from the Bhagavad Gita and the Ramayana. But not every character could be convincingly portrayed by human actors, which gave rise to the need for expressive masks.
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Before getting into the process of Majuli mask-making in-depth, Goswami explains the different types of masks used in Bhaona performances. There is the mukha mukha, or face mask; the lotokori mukha, which extends to include parts of the body; and the cho mukha, a full-body mask that completely envelops the performer.
Eco-friendly long before it was trendy
“Our masks are made from bamboo, clay from the banks of the Brahmaputra, cloth, and cow dung, depicting gods, demons, and heroes from Hindu epics,” he says. “We paint them only with natural colours, avoiding artificial ones altogether.”
He adds that using bamboo allows for flexible masks with a sturdy structure. Since bamboo is abundantly available locally, it not only supports the art but also sustains the livelihoods of Majuli’s residents, making the craft sustainable in more ways than one.
Seems like Majuli’s masks were eco-friendly and biodegradable long before those became buzzwords!
Crafted and passed through generations
Mask-making in Majuli has always been a deeply rooted, generational art, traditionally passed down in the ancient gurukul style. Goswami ji recalls how he began learning the craft at the age of ten, under the guidance of his father and guru, Rudrakanta Deva Goswami, and has been innovating ever since.
A colourful collection of Majuli’s traditional masks on display inside Hem Chandra Goswami’s modest studio
One peek inside his modest studio reveals masks in various stages of completion, as Goswami ji passionately walks us through both their history and the intricate process.
The base of each mask, he explains, is woven from fine strips of bamboo into a lightweight frame. Over this, layers of clay — sourced from the banks of the Brahmaputra — are applied to form the contours, then left to dry in the sun. Once hardened, a paste made from cow dung and cotton cloth is added, lending the mask its signature strength and texture. It is then dried once more under the open sky, allowing nature to work its quiet magic.
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The final step is painting: traditionally done using natural colours. Though nowadays, commercial paints are increasingly used, the result is always a striking, emotive mask, ready to add life and colour to the spiritual theatre of Bhaona.
Innovation, evolution: the way forward
Goswami ji also shares how he has introduced innovations like movable jaw and eye mechanisms to breathe life into the masks, adding a striking sense of realism to each character. “With movable parts, dialogue delivery during performances becomes much easier,” he explains. It is indeed a commendable evolution, especially considering that most other traditional masks in India remain static.
On Majuli river island, fishing is more than livelihood, it's a way of life passed down through generations.
“T. Richard Blurton, the curator at the British Museum, visited Majuli in 2015,” he adds, with a glint of pride in his eyes. “In 2016, impressed by our mask-making tradition, Blurton organised an exhibition titled Krishna in the Garden of Assam, where some of our Majuli masks were displayed.”
Today, while Majuli still remains the spiritual heart of Assam’s Neo-Vaishnavite movement, only 22 satras remain. “Constant soil erosion,” Goswami says, “has forced many monasteries to shift to the mainland.”
Holding onto hope and identity
The centuries-old art of mask-making in Majuli now faces a double threat: erratic rainfall patterns leading to large-scale soil erosion and flooding, and a waning interest among the younger generation.
While the vagaries of nature remain beyond human control, Goswami ji believes that the gurukul system of teaching, along with exhibitions, tourism, and demonstrations in other cities, has given a much-needed fillip to Majuli’s mask-making tradition. “We are losing land, but not our identity or hope,” he says with quiet resolve.
One of the island’s last master mask-makers, Goswami ji has been instrumental in rekindling interest in mukha shilpa, both among international visitors and a new generation of Indians.
As we return to Aphalamukh Ghat after meeting him, the ferry’s siren sounds. Our boat eases away, slicing through the sober, non-monsoon waters of the Brahmaputra. Behind us, ripples trail and gently lap the eroding muddy banks, like a soft message of departure, received and acknowledged by the river.
