“I do milk-work,” he said in Hindi with no Assamese accent. “Next time you come to the area, call me. Take my number.” He fished out a tiny 2″x 1″ booklet from his breast pocket. Hunted for the number, showed it to me, reading it upside down in English. Mistaking the 9s for 6s and correcting himself.

“Call me. I will make sure a meal is ready for you. I will feed you well. You must come and eat with me and my family.”

Then this milkman, this Bihari settler Mr. Jadhav, continued on his way, crossing sand and water towards his makeshift home 45 minutes away.

I learned later that he had, not two months ago, lost four out of six cattle, his farmland, and a homestead on the banks of the Brahmaputra to erosion.