Oh, no, not to my Gujarat

BHUJ-KUTCH. Vast stretches of parched, arid land, baked by the summer sun and frozen cold in winter. No vegetation for kilometres around. In the wilderness, the Rabaris and Bharwads, both men and women, walk long distances tending their cows and sheep. The men are tall and sturdy. The women walk with them till days before their confinement and resume the routine within two or three days after delivery. There is a kind of savage beauty everywhere. From the Banni sector, you can watch the Pakistani armed outposts across the border. The region is drought-prone most of the time but the people are amazingly cheerful. Any outsider is an honoured mehmaan (guest) and must be treated with locally brewed tea saturated with gur (jaggery).

Rajkot. The hum of factories manufacturing oil engines. This is the city of teliya rajas (Oil kings), who controlled the government and the politicians. No government dared antagonise them. The city is shabby, mosquito-ridden, but minted money.

Jamnagar. Every home, small or big, is a mini-factory. Oh, the items they make at home! Buttons, bicycle valves, spare parts for all industries, fishing nets. One of the most industrious people in the country, they have magic in their hands and their innovation is amazing.

For 12 years, as an active journalist, I went around these regions frequently. The newspaper office I worked for labelled me unofficially, the "Disaster correspondent". Nature was never kind to this region which would have blossomed if only the Narmada waters were made available. Saurashtra and Kutch always thirsted for water, every year was a drought year, with the emaciated cattle migrating to the greener pastures of South Gujarat where Sumati Morarjee of the Scindia Steam Navigation Company regularly organised cattle camps. "You are as regular here as the cows," she once laughingly told me. I covered drought, famine, cyclone damage and the occasional flood and wondered at the toughness of the people.

But not earthquakes. Bhuj did experience minor quakes but nothing like the recent monstrous cataclysm which almost destroyed the region. A long-standing friend from Bhuj telephoned me on the night the quake struck, "You don't have to come here any more. There is nothing left."

Can this be true? Bhuj, Anjar, Bachhau, Lakhpat. The names bring back memories. The wonderful handicrafts. Typical Kutch border sarees. Sharp knives and assorted tools. I once bought an entire set of tools used for domestic chores and presented it to my father, who liked nothing better than to fiddle with them. He was thrilled. In winter, the thick, butter-smeared rotlas made from bajra, along with garlic chutney, raw onions, chillies and potato curry made an unforgettable meal. This was the stuff relished by the hardy men of the soil and I took to it readily.

And now, according to my friend, there is nothing left in these towns. I find it hard to believe. The people here are used to hardships. The quake is the biggest disaster they have had to face, but the towns will rise again.

But my depression continued. Who would have thought that Ahmedabad, where I spent 20 years, would be flattened by the quake? The city's greatest enemy was man-made, frequent communal riots which appeared to have created a permanent divide between the Hindus and Muslims. Occasionally, the Sabarmati overflowed and the huts on its banks submerged. The affected people would rebuild their huts once the floods receded.

I could not get through to friends and relatives in Ahmedabad through telephone. Listening and watching TV news bulletins and reading the newspapers was a nerve-racking experience. The names of the affected areas sounded so familiar. I had walked along in those areas, talked to people, eaten at their homes which had now become grotesque structures.

Gomtipur, Dariapur, Shapur, Jamalput, normally torn asunder during communal riots. But the quake spared them. Was it because the Lord Almighty decided they had had enough suffering and tragedy and should not be burdened with flattened homes? No one mentioned the six bridges linking the old city with the new. One of them, Ellis Bridge, was more than a 100 years old. Did it survive the quake?

The devastation was more in the normally posh areas. Take Law College Garden. During my days in Ahmedabad, it was a favourite haunt of lovers. Hawkers sold varieties of excellent ice cream, the kaju draksh being my favourite. The traditional rich lived around the Law garden and soon multi-storeyed apartments began to appear. Chinai Baug building was easily recognisable from the press pictures, but it looked like the leaning tower of Pisa. Another palatial residential building showed enormous cracks. How will it survive? And whatever happened to good old Ambawadi where we lived for nearly 10 years? A huge shopping complex crashed down and people could still be under the debris. I prayed nothing had happened to my old landlord,

Mr. Amin, who so meticulously cared for his home that he would not hesitate to spend Rs. 70 ( this was in 1973) on an Italian- made electric switch to replace a damaged one. Other landlords would have bought a switch priced at Rs. five. The city had also extended on the Vastrapur side, buildings had mushroomed on the Satellite Road area. The soil had always been loose and thin here, no wonder the Mansi shopping complex was the first to tumble down.

I could not bear it any more. It was true that my affection for the city which made me had been dwindling. The communal divide was something I could never put up with. And now the extremist Hindu parties with the blessings of the Keshubhai Patel government were targetting the Christians in the state. Ahmedabad was no longer the kind, tolerant, easygoing place of my days. Everytime I went there, I came back disillusioned.

But I was not prepared for this kind of fate for the city. Yet, there is a flicker of hope. The citizens of Ahmedabad have always excelled in disaster management. Rich and poor, Hindu or Muslim, they would gather to cook puri shak (puri and potato vegetable) and pack food packets to be rushed to trouble spots. The work was often led by wives of the multimillionaire textile magnates. I hope some of them are still left behind to carry on the good work.

V. GANGADHAR

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