Ruins, Rocks and Stars I

(Warning: Lots of rambling ahead of a trip in May 2012)

We could see a weakly swirling mass of dust in the foreground with bits of paper and plastic. "That's a twister", pointed out Frenil and with it started our trip. A trip to explore one of the hidden gems in India's western corner - the great ruins at Dholavira, located between the large white salt flats of the Rann.

After three failed attempts at planning the trip and being muscled out of the tatkal reservations, we finally managed to snare the last three sleepers in a bus to Bhachau. Our morning was spent in Ahmedabad, the city of 24x7 eateries and the Siddi Sayyid's Jali. The Siddi's are African communities in India, mostly slaves brought in by monarchs - a digression for another day.

Ahmedabad is curiously small and surprisingly clean for a Mumbaikar. The Sabarmati riverfront, forever under construction, is emerging beautifully. Camel carts dot the sides of the bridge.  Narendra Modi posters are ubiquitous. On a side note, purely from posters, his personality cult seems far behind those of our competing UP leaders.

Around 50 - 100 kms outside the city, our horizon starved senses could feel a singeing 360 degree view. We were on wide plains. Though the Rann had yet to start, it was sending us feelers. On both sides were large salt pans, fed by small creeks, arms of the sea that burrowed landwards. This was where most of India's kitchens sourced their taste. Far afield were the outlines of almost endless windmills churning in tireless beauty. Wagons upon wagons of rail were carrying containers and coal. A signboard indicated their provenance as Kandla  and Mundra Port. Our bus left us on the gates of Bhachau - and trundled onward to Bhuj. Our cab, a Vertio, or a Logan if you prefer original names, had been chasing the bus for half an hour. We saw the twister as we got into the Logan.

Our chatty driver filled us up on facts: we were going around 140 kms beyond into the heart of Kutch, which gets its names from 'Kachhbo' - Gujarati for tortoise. If you look at the map, Kutch looks like an inverted tortoise shell. Driving through a gate that welcomed us to the Harappan heartland of Dholavira (Dholavira -  122 km), you could sense an eerie quiet. Few vehicles passed us by. After Leh (which I have seen) and the Northeast (which I have not), perhaps Dholavira is one of the few roads to nowhereland in India. The last outpost Rapar, where the BSF camps, is still 76 kms away. Here you can stock on a limited paraphernalia of modern life. We got a cup of tea and a day's stock of fruits - just in case. 

The small island is Kadir Bet and around it is the sea / white salt flats (Courtesy Google Maps)

The salt flats up close

The Rann is a vast salty desert, India's very own Uyuni. Some call this the mouth of the Saraswati. This river, like a dying parent, over the last 6000 to 4000 years, partitioned its water to the Indus and the Yamuna. The sea claimed what the river abandoned and the delta turned into a desert. In the Rann, every monsoon, the sea, full of salt, brims onto the flats and with water, migrate birds - by the thousand. Flamingoes, pelicans, egrets and bird-watchers of all variety flock the place. In summers, the water starts drying and leaves in its wake miles of crystallized salt. This sublime whiteness is bordered by small pickled fish. It's so salty that the fish and insects do not decompose. Hordes of bird feathers lying on the shore stand testament to their avian owners.This year, it rained hard and it rained long. In April, the Rann was yet drying with parts of it becoming giant mirror.

Pickled fish of the Rann

Dholavira is located in an island, the ‘Bet’, between this salty madness. Around you, signs of hinterland abound. Old men are herding goats in the traditional dresses and old women, many-a-times wonderfully tattooed all over, cross your path. The younger men dispense with the dresses and the women with the tattoos. We overtake bullock carts pulled by frighteningly large and hefty bulls with intimidating horns. One look and you understand why many cultures, including perhaps the Harappans, thought of bulls as the ultimate alpha males. The bigger houses in the scattered villages or hamlets are made of stone, the smaller ones are circular huts, essentially unchanged for thousands of years.

We reach the government guest house Toran, surprisingly well maintained but completely empty. The guest book tells us we are the second group of vistors to dare venture here in the sweltering April heat. November to February are busy months - remember the bird watchers? Around the complex we see the modern ruins of a great plan to turn this place into a tourism hub. Remains of a fountain, an amphitheater, an earmarked area for a handicrafts bazaar lie abandoned. The hotel, however, has tasteful rooms modeled on traditional round kutch huts and has, with some measure of irony, thatched roofs.

With some time on hand, we try taking the car to the nearby Park and fail miserably. On the advise of the site caretaker, we hire a local jeep used on farmland. While the jeep was about to start, a small boy, around 6 - 7 years old, a bundle of energy with green eyes and shining teeth jumped in. He was going the same way and was visibly excited on getting a ride. Sohil spoke with him along the way. This boy was delivering tea, food and a strong stick to his brother who lived an almost permanently pastoral life. The stick was to keep away wild animals (wolves?). He would return in the morning with goat milk. These here, I thought, were some of the last pastoral communities of the world. 

Also visible with the agro - pastoral life was abject poverty. Having seen and heard a little bit of the Indian countryside, I found the level of poverty here to be, if we search for a word, more endurable. In the middle of nowhereland, it had access to an excellent motorable road, a school to the 7th class and 24 hour electricity connections - if you could pay for it. This was definitely not the state I had seen  in Bengal about an year ago. While returning by car, others started discussing in kutchi. The topic was of rising farm wages, not so high prices for produce, lazy labour and so on and so forth. They were chatting on progress and one thing of concern was education - grassroots aspiration and capitalism asserting itself ! As an interesting aside, you sense them converting a lot 'S's into 'H's, like 'Samjho' was 'Hamjho' - a fragment perhaps of a Central Asian ancestry (remember Sindhu = Hindu). 

As we returned, the slimmest of all moons was setting in twilight. Orion, the hunter was visible on the western  sky. 

We return to the guest house in anticipation. This is by far the clearest sky we have ever seen....