Global warming may heat up conflicts, too

And politicians have used it, stoking local fears and heightening tensions.

"This [migration] is a design," says Prafulla Mahanta, a member of the state assembly of Assam and one of the leaders of Assam's antimigrant protests during the 1980s. "Their aim is to convert Assam into an Islamic state."

Police official Mr. Mathur has not seen evidence of this. The Bangladesh border has been a corridor for small numbers of terrorists to enter India, security officials say – a primary reason for the construction of a 2,100-mile fence. But migration and security "are separate issues," he says.

Militants have not found haven among migrant communities, he adds: "They are not using areas of Assam as a base of terror operations."

The depth of the distrust is compounded by the almost total isolation of the two communities from each other. Sitting on his porch amid the primary colors of Dhing's British-era bungalows, D.N. Hazarika says that he does not know what to make of the "many new faces."

"The newspapers are always telling us that they are coming with weapons in their hands, and the government always says that they are up to something," says the former high school principal with equal measures of consternation and confusion. "But I cannot give you any proof."

"We do not know where they come from," he adds. "What is their ambition?"

The divide is not the traditional Indian divide: Hindus versus Muslims. Like Mr. Hazarika, few in Assam draw any distinction between the Hindus and Muslims who have been here for generations. The concern surrounds Muslims who are more Bengali in custom and speech – and who, it is feared, will usurp the Assamese, either by migration or higher birthrates.

At this point, the potential for global warming to add to the trend has not reached the streets. "I have not come across views on this subject at all," says Mathur, the police official.

Memories of killings

But the past offers a window into what happened the last time the Assamese felt in danger of being overwhelmed by Bangladeshis. In 1983, at the height of a six-year antimigrant campaign of protests and strikes, a band of Assamese killed some 3,000 Muslims believed to be Bangladeshi migrants.

For Loknath Das and other former residents of the riverside village of Sutargaon, though, 1983 brings back different memories. It was the year that they say migrants killed Chandra Kanta Das as he walked back to his home alone. Within two years, all the original villagers had fled.

Tonu Ram Das, an­­other displaced resident, points out landmarks in the village: the pond where he fished as a boy; the place where his house stood – now two shacks by a stand of bamboo; his family's farmland, where he harvested rice and jute. At last, he stands gingerly on a small causeway. This is the place where Chandra Kanta Das was murdered, he says.

"I hardly come here anymore," he says. "It is painful because I remember my childhood."

Loknath Das is even more cautious. Seated under the shade of a simul tree, he says: "We don't dare to venture into their village after nightfall."

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