by David Yeadon
“Western man is a crisis-torn, self-divided, cosmic misfit. Excuse my saying so, and a terrible generalization I admit, but I have found it to be often true. Western man tends to be bound up, imprisoned, by his materialism and the limits of his conscious mind. Unless one has the urge and the means to find out what is beyond mind—the conditioned brain, so to speak—to discover what is beyond the experience and the act of experiencing; beyond the act of observation and the observer; the thought and the thinker; what is beyond space and time, in fact—what is beyond all these symbols. Unless one has an innate passion to find out, to discover for oneself, one will never be equipped to live in a full way—a full life.”
He paused to point out a collection of music boxes and clockwork toys cocooned in dusty spider webs and scattered randomly over an enormous Rococo table, a gift from the French royal family prior to the revolution that rocked Europe.
“You see, you must have understood this from all your travels in Nepal and India. Meditation, detachment, and self-control are the steps by which human beings remake themselves closer to their origin. Unless outside the mind and in touch with the timelessness of being—what is man? What is the point?”
We were now at the top of the palace tower (after climbing a hundred or more steps whitened by decades of droppings). Bhuj lay below us, a tight winding warren of streets and alleys bound by those gray walls. One of the main gates ended by a broad man-made lake in which the towers and turrets were reflected. The water was gold in the late afternoon sun. Women were pounding clothes on the stones at its edge. There were tree-lined walks and little temples and oxcarts and bell-ringing pedicabs. And beyond stretched the bare land, rising to the fort-encrusted ridges of the Black Hills, and then fading into the silver haze, out across the edges of the great Rann.
“But I’m not a pessimist. Honestly, I don’t think I am.” The prince (in name only) added, “The world is becoming a small, better place, I think. I believe we are on the threshold of a new time when man—particularly Western man—will come face to face with the boundless energy in himself. We are all moving toward the inward and the beyond. At least”—he smiled and shrugged his shoulders—“that is what I would like to hope.”
We stood quietly watching the timeless scenes in this strange little city on the edge of the world’s greatest nowhereness.
“Now, come on. Let me show you the real palace. Come and see how the Raos once lived when all this was ours.”
The contrast with the dusty hollowness of the new palace was immediate. We walked past the “Ladies’ Palace” with its finely carved wooden-lattice windows (“so the ladies could see everything but not be seen”) and stepped through thick studded doors into an Aladdin’s cave of regal splendors. Enormous silver-encrusted thrones; ornately carved carriages for state occasions; doors of the most intricate inlaid teak and ivory designs; displays of jeweled swords and fans; more hunting trophies and lions’ heads from the Gir Forest. We ended up in a magic place, the Pleasure Hall, deep inside the palace where fountains once played and a miniature moat of cool water ran around a central dias covered in gold-and-silver-threaded cushions. Here the Maharao would recline, reflected in mirrors all around the walls. “There was so much fun,” the prince told me, “singing, throwing water, games—and other things—all in lots of candlelight reflecting off these gold decorations. Can you imagine how it was?”
I could indeed. What a life these Maharaos must have lived in this Pleasure Hall, conveniently close to the Ladies’ Palace, enjoying all the perks of seemingly boundless power, plotting new glorious battles, parading around in those elephant-drawn carriages. I wondered if the titular prince was perhaps a little envious. But he was far too self-controlled to let on.
And I had other things to think about anyway. I wanted to get to Rann.
On the way back to the hotel, a little event occurred that made Bhuj a warmer place for me, a touch more accessible than I’d first thought.
I was passing a baker’s shop. The smell of hot flat bread was enticing, and I paused to buy a small chapatilike round, toasty hot and bubble crusted. And then I noticed a street vendor nearby cooking up all kinds of vegetarian delights in black iron cauldrons over charcoal fires—kormas, palaks, bhaturas, and masalas, brimming with chunks of eggplant, peas, lentils, and beans. For a few pennies I bought a large spoonful of eggplant curry and asked him to place it carefully on one half of my chapati. I folded the other half over, pinched the edges and made a sort of Indian version of an Italian calzone. It was delicious! All those rich spices locked inside a patty of hot bread.
The baker was watching me and smiled as I filled my mouth with my improvised snack. Then I had an idea. Why couldn’t the baker make some more of these by layering the thin raw dough with any kind of curried filling and then baking them for the normal ten minutes or so in his oven.
He seemed a friendly type so I stepped back into his store and explained my idea. At first, and quite understandably, he seemed reluctant. I mean after all, who the hell was this crackpot foreigner to suggest changes to his centuries-old, father-to-son-to-son traditions? But when I explained that I’d buy half a dozen of these custom-designed calzones for double the selling price, he laughed and agreed to perform the experiment.
The street vendor joined in the fun, suggesting the various fillings, and we watched as the baker pushed the little dough creations deep into his oven. Ten minutes later they were done—and they were magnificent! The flavors of the bread and the curry melded together in a hot, fist-sized snack. No mess, no fuss. A perfect Indian fast-food concept.
I shared my six “Bhujizones” with the curry vendor, a nearby tailor, two wide-eyed children, and a man on a mule who had stopped to enjoy the fun. I only got to sample one of them. The others were gobbled up in a few minutes. Then the tailor ordered two more; another man in long brown robes, who seemed very self-important, ordered three; more kids clustered around, and pretty soon the baker had a street-blocking audience as he stoked the fires and set about baking fresh batches. Everyone was laughing and chewing and ordering more. Suddenly the city seemed like a fun place to be.
Later on in the evening I passed again and the baker was still churning out his new creations. I waved and he came running over carrying two of them wrapped in little squares of newsprint. He gabbled something very fast (complimentary I think), shook my hand vigorously, and vanished again to tend his baking Bhujizones. I have often wondered since if, together, we’d added another variant to India’s wonderful street-food offerings.
The following day brought another unexpected series of incidents.
“Please, sir, do not forget, if you wish to visit the Rann, you will be required to carry a permit,” the hotel manager advised me.
Getting a permit. Okay—no problem. I was more familiar with Indian behavior now and forsaw no difficulties….
“It is best, sir, if you will get to the office early,” he advised. It was not even two o’clock in the afternoon. Plenty of time.
But I should have known better.
The process required visits to three separate government offices; endless filling out of forms (and filling them out twice due to a clerk’s inability to spell my name correctly); langorous pauses for betel nut chewing and tea; returning to previous offices to “clarify” form entries; minute inspection of every detail of my passport (including the binding!); an impressive display of seal-making using a stick of red wax and a candle (only to have the seal snapped into half a dozen pieces a few minutes later by the next official on my list—in the next room); constant confusion over the forms themselves, which were all in English, only hardly anyone spoke English; meticulous compiling of papers (at one point I carried fourteen different sheets of paper from one department to another held together by sewing pins); a warning from the next to the last official that if the forms were not all completed by closing time at 6:00 P.M. I would have to start the whole process over again the following morning; and finally, at five minutes to six, w
aiting for the last signature from a man who looked very imperious and sat on a tall chair raised on a carpet-covered dias and seemed to be far more interested in the condition of his fingernails than in my pile of wilting, ink-stained forms.
But I was proud. Throughout the whole four-hour ordeal I had never once raised my voice or played the arrogant colonial (whom I’d discovered deep in my psyche while traveling in India). I smiled. They smiled. They shared tea with me. They offered me betel “pan” and I accepted (it took hours to get all the little pieces of nuts and spices and whatever else goes into its elaborate preparation out of my teeth). I offered them bidi cigarettes, which they accepted (but on one occasion politely mentioned they would have preferred Marlboros). And then—clutching my precious papers like winning lottery tickets—I returned to the hotel for a traditional vegetarian thali dinner (usually the only food available in Bhuj hotels).
Tomorrow I’ll finally be off to the Rann, I told myself. I celebrated by ordering a second enormous metal tray of thali and was just finishing off my rice, dhal, vegetables, and paratha when someone started beating on my door with the urgency of a fireman in the midst of a blazing inferno.
“Police. Open.”
Now what? I opened the door.
Two neatly dressed policemen stepped promptly into my room with the worried manager trailing behind, shrugging hopelessly.
“Passport.”
Keep calm, I told myself, don’t blow a fuse. Be like you were earlier on at the government offices.
So I was.
I answered all their questions, let one of them search my luggage, smiled as they meticulously inspected all my permits, and smiled again as they saluted smartly and left. The manager was very apologetic.
“They very nervous, sir, of people going to Rann. Much trouble with drugs and weapons.”
He couldn’t seem to stop shrugging his shoulders.
“That’s okay. I’m just a tourist.”
“Yes—I am knowing that, sir. But they…” His twitching shrugs completed the sentence.
“Honestly. It’s okay. And thank you for looking after me.”
He left, bowing and shrugging simultaneously.
Five minutes later, another knock on the door. This was becoming an Inspector Clouseau nightmare. I opened it. And behold—another enormous tray of thali with two bottles of Thums Up Cola.
“Complimentary manager,” the young boy said.
What a nice way to end the day. Three dinners!
This had been a long journey, one of the longest of my world-wanderings. All the way from Kathmandu to the far western limit of India to the vast nothingness of the Rann of Kutch.
And was it worth it?
Definitely.
The drive north from Bhuj began as sensations of diminishing stimuli, leaving the city and then the Black Hills behind, easing further and further out into a flattening desert plain. I paused in one of the few villages on the edge of the Rann and was entertained by the headman while his wives and daughters paraded past me in brightly embroidered jackets decorated with hundreds of tiny mirrors. I watched them sewing and sifting rice in the shade of their mud huts and among the circular granaries topped with conical roofs of reed thatch. Out under the thornbushes beyond the village, herds of white cud-chewing cattle sat in statuesque groups, guarded by naked, gold-skinned boys.
Nearby were two camels commencing the rituals of courtship. At first it seemed gentle enough—a bit of nudging and polite nipping of flanks—but then the screaming and spitting began. Either the female was in desperate heat or she was merely trying to discourage the gallant male who was now attempting to mount her. The more he tried to climb on her back, the more she spat and screeched. The boys lay on their stomachs, laughing. Finally the male forced his seemingly reluctant mate to the ground where she quieted down and just sat on her haunches with a kind of “Well—c’mon then, get on with it” look. But the poor male was obviously past his prime and for all his mounting and bellowing, just couldn’t seem to make it. So they ended up together, side by side, eyes closed, like a couple of old pensioners ruminating about prior conquests in the virile days of youth.
Further on, way out across the salty flats, a herd of over three hundred camels were being led by a group of raiskas to a market near the coast. Raiskas have a notorious reputation as fly-by-night seducers of village women as well as their more traditional roles as balladeer-historians, news carriers, and nomadic traders. I wondered what the decibel reading would be for a herd this size enmeshed in mating rituals.
Later on, at another village close to the edge of the Rann where this story began, I joined in a wedding until I felt that my presence was taking the limelight away from a visiting dignitary. He was being lauded to the skies by a “walking historian” (a charan or bhaat) whose job it was to act as the official greeter and sing long—very long—ballads in praise of the achievements and successes of each important visitor to this desolate region. A role similar to that of a wandering bard in medieval England.
The elders of the village sat around the dignitary, nodding agreement, as the historian sang his homage-filled rhymes. I always love to watch these old men of rural India. They seem to live such gentle, quiet lives, respected by their families, cared for by their children, sleeping the hot days away in the shade of their homes, or huddled in whispery bunches, seemingly involved in the slow resolution of weighty matters.
I sat a distance from the wedding party so as not to interrupt their celebrations and chatted with a young man who had just returned from Bombay to his village to attend the festivities. We sipped tiny glasses of “dust” tea made from finely ground tea leaves mixed with cardamom, sugar, and milk. Very sweet but refreshing, particularly on hot days like this. He seemed a little bored by the endless (and to him) sycophantic, antics of the singing historian.
He spoke an English I could understand so I asked him about the daily routine of the old men of the village.
“Oh this is very much our tradition, this taking care of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers. A young man of the family will always be looking after him. The old man knows how things should be, and he sees that everything in his house and in his farm is in good order. When he is at home—the women have cleaned up and all those things—and he sits down. People come to call on him and take advice. If there is any calling to be done then he goes out and calls on them. Ladies of the houses, they are doing household work, grinding millet and corn, giving children their bath, making the bread, and seeing for all things for a rainy day. They clean up. If there are any rats here then they will see that a cat is there who finalizes everything. Then, if it is very hot, the old man may sleep—whenever the body requires it—and before sunset he eats his food and usually goes to sleep after sunset because there is no electricity here, you see….”
I asked about the younger men too.
“Oh, a young man is very strong. He will go to the fields every day. He will take the animals out for grazing—or he may not. He may have a little porridge in the day to keep his reserves, then he will pay social calls, and the rest of the time they are sitting, discussing, talking. It is not a very hard life. But when it is time for cultivation, then you will find everyone out in the fields. Then it is very hard. But it does not last for long.”
In an adjoining courtyard I could see four men in the shade of a line of round-walled granaries, furiously weaving blankets, which were stretched out on wooden trestles and using bright red, purple, and yellow threads of wool. They had obviously not been invited to the wedding and seem to be ignored by everyone.
“Oh, they are not of this village. They walk around, all over, and make blankets when they are asked.”
“They seem to be working very hard.”
“Well, yes. They work whatever time they wish but they must complete each blanket in three days or they will starve. God will not give them food. But the talent is there, isn’t it, and as long as the talent is there, they do not have to bother about an
ything. No red flags of communism here y’see!” He laughed at his own wit. “And that is why we in India are safe from all that because it is embedded into us that we are satisfied with what God has given us. The cycle of karma plays a very important role in our day-to-day life and we say, if I don’t have it, it is because God did not will it. I must do something good in this life for my rewards in the next one, d’y’see.”
The singing historian was coming to the end of his ballad. His voice rose, the nodding of the old men increased, and the dignitary sat very straight and stern as the last refrains rang out. My companion translated (with a sly grin):
“And you have been just, with authority, with kindness and with love for our village. Here you sit in these four walls and we feel proud when we see you here, a descendent of the old house of our rulers that began here in the year 1212 A.D., in this place. But do not forget your duty. You are a political power and you are also a social power of great importance and we are all standing here and respecting you and remembering all the great deeds of your revered family.”
The nodding reached a crescendo; the dignitary nodded gravely too, waved his hand limply at the wedding party, indicating that the celebration could now continue, with his blessing.
I wandered on around the village of tight-packed mud houses surrounded by high mud walls, trailed by a snake of children who giggled as I walked and then scampered and ran when I turned to talk to them.
A group of old men, in huge grubby turbans, sheltered in the shade of a goat-nibbled tree, the only tree I’d seen for miles, drinking something black in finger-long glasses. My English-speaking companion was still with me.
“That tea looks odd,” I said.
He laughed, “It’s not tea. It’s a kind of opium. Only the old men drink it. It strengthens the weaknesses of the body.”
“Really?”
His city cynicism flashed again. “Well—that’s what they say. I think it just makes them sleepy.”