Memories Of A Lost World

None of us saw the logic of travelling 18 kilometres from the city to Adalaj to see a defunct well. But we did make the trip and were surprised by the 15th century structure leading into the earth. Built over 30 years the water now lay contaminated. Shri Ram told us there were 400 step wells between Gujarat and Rajasthan of which only 25 remained. "Didn't know a well could be so interesting and beautiful," said Rosemary, who worked with the East European Bank of Reconstruction and Development.

Between billowing smoke from mills and torn kites on electricity poles from the recent kite festival, we made our way back into the city. "The Sabarmati Ashram" There was a stillness amongst us on hearing our arrival at this historic site. A respectful silence. With no traces of that debauched view held by the politicians who riled the Mahatma's contribution to India a few days back.

Sixty seven years ago, here at the banks of the Sabarmati, the Mahatma started the Salt March. And never returned. The Sabarmati, a river so closely linked to the nation's Independence, now runs dry. Buffaloes basked on its bed. That glorious river so momentous in our history was a slender trickle. I didn't know that and stood shaken by its dryness.

Vijaybhai, the ashram's manager, told us that Gandhi's grand-daughters Ela Gandhi and Sita Dhupelia from Durban had visited Sabarmati the week before. Original posters of the freedom movement adorn the ashram's spartan walls. We are disappointed to have seen just a section of the ashram before moving on.

"Ashoka, seems like an Indian favourite," says Colin Trigger, the Englishman who lived on the Thames. The legendary Mauryan king, the hotel group and now a tree called Ashoka in the Sabarmati ashram. The president of the British Association of Travel Agents, Colin seemed to have seen a lot of that name on his third visit to India. Though a little perplexed by the unavailability of wine in Gujarat he told us he felt privileged to be discovering this state. Colin and Rosemary were leaving The Royal Orient at Jaipur to join another group.

The Calico Museum of Textiles was our second stop in Ahmedabad. Housed in a haveli constructed from parts collected from different areas of Gujarat, the textiles are part of the Sarabhai collection. The museum has some exquisite samples of material used between the 15th and 18th centuries. "Like the Chinese, Indians too like the colour red," Colin declares after imbibing the sheer opulence of the textiles inside.

Dr Raj takes over from the guide this time, telling Colin how the people in Kutch and Rajasthan used bright fabrics to enliven the aridness of their land.

Though we had ready access to newspapers on the train, there were still some more rushes from that old world charm. We didn't realise this until the phone rang at the Hoilday Inn, Ahmedabad. The first time we had heard the phone ring all week. Gupte told us the Gujarat Tourism Development Corporation -- which runs The Royal Orient -- were working on installing telecommunication facilities on the train.

We only had a day before the trip drew to an end. The colourful capital of Rajasthan was our last destination.

"The Hawa Mahal is like a Hollywood set. Sometimes I think maybe it's not there when I go there next," Raj Singh had said about the monument during lunch in Udaipur. Jaipur was in the midst of feverish political development that day. A Congress rally had blocked the city's roads.

We met Geeta and Kewda outside the Rajputana Sheraton. She was sprawled on the hotel lawn, Kewda beside her. Every time Banwari stroked Geeta she would move a little. Banwari encouraged us to wrap her around us. I did and she nearly gave me a sprained neck. Kewda didn't approve of all this. He was seething. Each time Banwari got near him, he would lunge. They were under Banwari's control, swaying to his tune...literally. Geeta was his python and Kewda his cobra.

"Keep in touch," said Banwari sapera, giving us his card. Pleased with our visual souvenirs with Geeta and Kewda and the impromptu neck massage, we took off for the Amber fort.

The 16th century Amber fort lies in poor shape. Graffiti and messages scribbled across the structure. Monkeys eroding ledges and cupolas, hundreds of visitors each day, the old fort is under excessive tourist exploitation. "They should increase the entry fee. That's why miscreants come inside so easily," said Amit Prasad. A short elephant ride took us to the fort. Bijli, our elephant, was not in the most pleasant of moods. The mahaut said he did six to seven trips each day.

Emotions ran high at breakfast that morning. Chandra and Rosemary cried. We were all parting company, going to our corners of the world. "It's been so nice to be with a group of Indians rather than Germans, Americans or French. I take back memories of some great Indian friends and colours... of the beautiful saris of those women climbing the temple steps of Palitana," Rosemary said, tears streaming down her face.

It was Marilyn's turn. "Ollie always speaks in terms of A- or B+. Every day we returned to the train he made a similar assesment. He says our happiness in life is 85 %... but I think on this trip it has been 98%." Chandra invited us all to Madras. "My doors are open for each one of you morning, noon and...night," she stressed between sniffs.

Colin was most eloquent. "I had come onto the trip looking for a quiet Indian train ride, stopping at places of bustling activity. But here we were climbing 3,000 odd steps up the hill, walking 75 steps into the earth, wading in water, woken with rude jerks that made me fall off my bed at 3 am and guides who often know less than the people they were talking to."

On a cold and misty morning we pulled into the Delhi cantt station. It was a hasty farewell. Some had connecting flights in a few hours. Ollie and Marilyn were off to Banaras. Chandra and Raj to Madras. Prasad and Rani to Lucknow. The Chauhans to Navsari.

Like always, Parmar was behind us helping with the luggage. "You must take care," he smiled and stepped aside. His eyes were moist. We looked uncomfortable. The friend who came to receive me looked confused. Perhaps, it would take him a trip on the Royal Orient to understand.