Assam’s Black Day: Seventeen Years On, We Remember October 30, 2008

October 30, 2008 — a day when darkness descended, but also a day when Assam discovered its light.
We will not let that light go out. We will not forget.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. That morning in Assam was bright, calm, ordinary deceptively so. The sky, pale blue over Guwahati and the first chill of autumn hung in the air. The markets hummed with the din of shutters opening, the smell of fresh vegetables at Fancy Bazar, the clicking of feet along Panbazar’s widing lanes, and the chatter of autorickshaw drivers at Ganeshguri. Throughout the state, in Kokrajhar, Barpeta and Bongaigaon, life unfolded as usual until, in a matter of minutes, everything changed.

At precisely 11:20 a.m., a thunderous blast tore through the heart of Ganeshguri. Seconds later, explosions followed in Panbazar and Fancy Bazar and then more across Assam. What began as an ordinary Thursday descended into a nightmare. By the time the smoke cleared, nearly ninety innocent people were dead, and more than five hundred lay wounded.

The blasts ripped through Assam’s soul that day. It wasn’t merely an attack on lives, it was an assault on our sense of safety, on the rhythm of our days, on our very idea of peace. Just after Diwali, a time of light and joy, the morning turned into a canvas of fire, sirens, and screams. Since then, October 30 has been etched into our collective conscience, a “Black Day” we relive every year with heavy hearts.

Compassion Amid Chaos

The minutes that followed the explosions remain some of the most haunting and yet, strangely, some of the most inspiring, I have ever witnessed. Chaos reigned, but amid that chaos rose an extraordinary wave of compassion.

At GMCH and Mahendra Mohan Choudhury Hospital, strangers lined up to donate blood. They came barefoot, many without even knowing who they were helping. The corridors were flooded with people holding saline bottles, pressing bandages, whispering prayers. I saw a young student take off his shirt to tie around a stranger’s leg to stop the bleeding. I saw women rush forward with water bottles, handkerchiefs, and trembling hands.

In those hours, Assam’s people became heroes without headlines. Volunteers, NGOs, rickshaw drivers, and shopkeepers, all turned rescuers. Trucks and private vehicles became makeshift ambulances. At the relief centers, the elderly offered food and blankets. Some lit candles by the roadside, murmuring prayers for souls they never knew.

The horror united us, even as grief shattered us. “The whole state remembered the victims,” an old newspaper line had read but it wasn’t just remembrance. It was empathy born from shared suffering, from the silent understanding that our pain was one.

Lives Forever Changed

Seventeen years later, the sounds, the smoke, and the smell of that day may have faded, but the pain hasn’t. It lingers in homes, in hearts, in the quiet corners of memory.

I have met survivors, people whose lives were forever reshaped by those few seconds of terror. Their stories are not of statistics or casualty lists, but of endurance and quiet dignity.

Candlelight Vigil and Eternal Tribute

Each year on October 30, as dusk falls, Assam stands still. Across Guwahati from Ganeshguri to Panbazar people gather, holding candles that flicker against the evening breeze. I’ve stood among them many times, notebook in hand, though I often find myself too moved to write.

At Ganeshguri, photographs of the departed line the walls. Families lay wreaths, flowers, and lamps beside their faces. There’s a hush not the silence of absence, but of reverence. In the crowd, survivors hold each other’s hands. Police officers, shopkeepers, students, priests all stand side by side, their faces lit by candlelight.

In Barpeta, Kokrajhar, and Bongaigaon too, similar scenes unfold. Schools hold prayer meets. People light lamps at temples and mosques, remembering those who never came home. Children write poems, young singers perform songs of peace. For them, October 30 is not history, it is inheritance. A reminder of resilience.
Even today, the survivors remind us of the same truth, remembrance is not just mourning, it’s defiance. To remember is to refuse to let terror erase humanity.

We Will Not Forget

As a journalist, and as someone who calls this land home, writing this today feels both painful and necessary. I remember the wail of a mother running through a smoke-filled street, calling for her child. I remember the stunned silence of office-goers watching flames rise over Ganeshguri. I remember the prayers whispered in hospital corridors, the smell of burnt paper and fear hanging heavy in the air.

But I also remember what came after; the solidarity, the way strangers held each other, the way we rebuilt. Because that’s what Assam does. We grieve, yes. But we also rise carrying the names of our dead like torches through darkness.

Seventeen years on, the anguish hasn’t faded; it has only deepened into something quieter, more resolute. Each October 30, I whisper their names again, just to make sure time hasn’t dared to erase them. Because memory is all we have and memory is sacred.

The Shadows and the Light

Even now, as dawn breaks on another October 30, the shadows of 2008 linger. Ganeshguri’s roads are wider now, the shops busier, the skyline brighter. But sometimes, when the evening light hits a certain angle, it almost feels as if the past still breathes here just beneath the surface.

We light our candles not just for those we lost, but for what they left behind courage, compassion, and the reminder that peace is fragile but worth fighting for. For seventeen years, Assam has carried this pain with quiet dignity.

And as I stand once more before the memorial at Ganeshguri, watching the flicker of flames against the wind, I feel the same lump in my throat I did years ago. Around me, people bow their heads some praying, some weeping, some just standing still.

Seventeen years have passed, but time has not healed this wound. Perhaps it never will. Perhaps it shouldn’t. Because to forget would be to betray them. To remember to light that candle every year, to whisper that name again is to promise that their stories will never fade.

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