Acclaimed Assamese writer Namita Baishya has emerged as one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary Assamese literature. Known for her psychological depth, lyrical storytelling, and nuanced exploration of human emotions, her works often move between memory, history, dreams, loneliness, and the fragile complexities of human relationships.
Baishya first drew wide attention with her short story collection Sna Aru Kisu Galpa, which established her as a sensitive and intellectually engaging storyteller. Her acclaimed novel Halodhia Ghehur Pothar Aru Ejak Kauri further strengthened her literary reputation through its philosophical undertones and vivid portrayal of inner emotional landscapes. She has also authored the notable short story anthology Herai Jowar Galpa, centred on themes of loss, memory, and emotional disintegration. Her latest collection, Hitlarar Xesh 24 Ghanta, has received critical appreciation for its originality, historical imagination, and psychological insight.
In this interview with Northeast Now Executive Editor Mahesh Deka, Namita Baishya speaks about history and fiction, the emotional architecture of storytelling, loneliness in modern society, literary influences, and the mysterious process through which stories come to a writer.
Edited excerpts:
Mahesh Deka: Your short story collection Hitlarar Xesh 24 Ghanta has received wide appreciation for its originality and historical imagination. What inspired you to explore history through fiction?
Namita Baishya: It is difficult to explain directly. Historical events and facts had been working somewhere in my mind for a long time. I often wondered whether I would ever be able to transform those thoughts into fiction. Such ideas would come to me occasionally, but they would disappear just as quickly. Perhaps it was all a matter of destiny. One day, the idea for Hitlarar Xesh 24 Ghanta suddenly came to my mind. At the same time, I realised that the incidents that take place in history and those that unfold in human life often share striking similarities. In many ways, politics and history mirror human life itself. Through this story, I wanted to establish a connection between these different layers of existence. I also felt that the conflict that constantly takes place within the human mind is reflected in society as well. The battles we fight internally are often the same battles that shape politics, history, and human civilization.
Many of your stories move between reality, memory, history, and philosophy. How do you balance these layers without losing emotional intimacy?
I believe that, apart from being a writer, I am also a good reader. While writing, I often think from the perspective of a reader—what kind of metaphors would move me, and what style of presentation would feel engaging and meaningful. I keep these things in mind throughout the process. At the same time, many elements in my stories emerge unconsciously and spontaneously. There are moments when certain images, emotions, or ideas appear while writing—things I had never planned or even thought about beforehand. Sometimes, the story itself seems to guide these layers into place. Because of this, I feel that writing is, in many ways, a divine act of creation. The emotional intimacy comes naturally when I allow the story to evolve honestly, without forcing it.
Your writing often contains rich imagery, symbolism, irony, and subtle wit. Even if these emerge spontaneously, do you later revisit and refine those elements during editing?
Normally, I write in a single flow. These elements—imagery, symbolism, irony, and subtle wit—emerge spontaneously as I write; I do not consciously insert them later. They appear vividly before my eyes, and I simply follow them through the narrative. At times, I may refine or polish them during editing, but that does not necessarily mean they were added afterward. The essence of those elements is present from the very beginning of the writing process.
You once said that “a story chooses its writer.” Could you elaborate on how a story first arrives to you — as an image, a character, a memory, or simply a feeling?
Stories arrive in different ways—sometimes as a fragrance, sometimes as a sound, a fleeting scene, a memory, or even a single word. There is no fixed process. At times, an entire incident appears in my mind at once; at other times, only a small image or feeling stays with me and slowly grows into a story.
For example, while writing Hitlarar Xesh 24 Ghanta, the word “Hitler” itself came to me first. From that single word, the story gradually unfolded. Sometimes a story begins when I see something ordinary—like a shop with its shutter down—or when an old memory suddenly returns. So every story chooses its own path to the writer. That is why it is difficult to explain exactly how a story comes.
Stories like Harappian and Buddhang Saranam Gocchami show remarkable thematic diversity. Do you consciously avoid repeating yourself as a writer?
Yes, I consciously try to make each story distinct in theme and treatment. I do not want to keep writing the same story in different forms. When I write, I do not want to repeat the same story or emotional pattern again and again. I have always admired the stories of Saurav Kumar Chaliha. If we read his body of work carefully, we notice that each story carries its own unique voice and atmosphere; there is very little repetition. That quality deeply inspires me as a writer.
Your novel Halodhia Ghehur Pothar Aru Ejak Kauri deals with dreams, loneliness, memory, and self-realization. What drew you towards this deeply philosophical theme?
I had carried this story within me for 20 long years. When the thought of becoming a writer first came to my mind, I knew this was the story I wanted to write. I wrote my first story when I was in Class 8, based on a real incident. Over time, elements like dreams and philosophical reflections emerged naturally, but the core story had remained in my heart for years.
Loneliness and silent emotional suffering recur in many of your works. Do you think modern society is becoming emotionally more isolated?
Yes, I do think modern society is becoming emotionally more isolated. People today are losing their sense of social and emotional connection, and community life has gradually weakened. Much of my writing is rooted in urban life, and loneliness naturally becomes a recurring theme in my fiction. The silent emotional struggles of city dwellers, their inner emptiness, and their inability to communicate deeply with others often find a place in my stories.
You admire writers ranging from Gabriel García Márquez and Haruki Murakami to Mahasweta Devi and Saurav Kumar Chaliha. How have these diverse literary influences shaped your own narrative voice?
Yes, they have definitely influenced me, though I try not to imitate them. Sometimes, while reading a writer’s work, certain ideas strike my mind and encourage me to write. My desire to become a writer began after reading the works of great authors. In many ways, the idea of becoming a writer took root in me through their books. These writers continue to leave a deep impact on my narrative voice and way of thinking.
What kind of stories emotionally disturb or stay with you long after reading them?
Stories based on incidents or experiences connected to deep human emotions stay with me for a long time. However, a story alone does not always attract me; the style of narration is equally important. Sometimes, we come across stories where very little seems to happen on the surface, yet something in the treatment, mood, or emotional depth remains with the reader. For instance, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez may appear simple in terms of plot, but the sense of pain and emotional intensity woven into the narrative leaves readers deeply captivated.
Finally, is there any particular book that transformed your understanding of literature or changed the way you write?
Yes, the writings of Saurav Kumar Chaliha had a deep impact on my understanding of literature. I first read one of his stories when I was in Class 8. At that age, I could not fully understand it, yet I was deeply fascinated by his writing. He is the kind of writer whose stories can be read again and again, with new meanings emerging every time. There are many good writers whose works we read only once, without feeling the urge to return to them. But Saurav Kumar Chaliha’s writings are different—they invite repeated reading and deeper reflection each time. If I were asked to choose just one book to keep with me, I would definitely choose his complete works.