Shunya's Notes

Nagarjunakonda

About 1,700 years ago, Nagarjunakonda ("Hill of Nagarjuna") flourished as a city and a great religious and educational center of Brahmanism and Buddhism in the modern state of Andhra Pradesh, south India. Once called Vijayapuri ("City of Victory"), after king Vijaya Satakarni of the Satavahana dynasty, it later became the capital of the Ikshvaku dynasty (225--325 CE), falling into terminal decline after the demise of the last Ikshvaku king.

Its modern name derives from one of its illustrious citizens, Nagarjuna, a Buddhist monk-philosopher and founder of the Madhyamika ("Middle Path") school, who lived between 150-250 CE (est.). His exposition on the concept of shunyata ("emptiness") is regarded as an intellectual and spiritual achievement of the highest order. Recognized as a patriarch by several later Buddhist schools, his two basic works are Madhyamika Karika and Vigrahavyavartani, both critical analyses of views about the origin of existence, the means of knowledge, and the nature of reality. *

The ancient township was discovered in 1926 by an Indian teacher, S Venkataramayya. Much of it is now submerged under the third largest manmade lake caused by the Nagarjuna Sagar dam across river Krishna. Archaeological finds between 1926–60 helped establish a cultural sequence from early stone age to Medieval times. More than 130 sites over 24 sq. kms were excavated and some of the structures were moved and reconstructed on what is now an island on the lake and on its eastern bank at Anupu (much like saving Abu Simbel from the Aswan Dam project in Egypt).

From Vijayawada, it took us the better part of a morning -- three bus rides and an auto-rickshaw -- to reach the nearest village with tourist facilities. The buses stopped in towns and villages whose names were displayed only in Telugu (as in parts of Tamil Nadu, Hindi and English are of limited help to travelers here). We heard of a congregation to take place in a week at nearby Amaravati, comprising thousands of Tibetan monks led by the Dalai Lama. After years of drought, the monsoon this year had been good; we saw cotton and pepper fields in a region still infamous for its depleted water tables and farmers escaping en masse to Maharashtra, or committing suicide to be rid of their debts. A few days earlier, we were close to the massive Krishna and Godavari river deltas, and it struck me that all that water could be harnessed and put to good use here. Why are large rivers allowed to empty into the ocean nearby when they can bring real relief to these parts? But in India, such questions, as usual, are a dime a dozen.

Most visitors to Nagarjunakonda arrive from Hyderabad on weekend day trips. Highlights for them seem to be the scenic ferry ride across the lake to the island and a picnic under a shady spot. It is not clear how much of the ancient city still lies buried under water but the ruins of ancient stupas, monasteries, and burial sites, now strewn about the island, make for a pleasant yet haunting excursion. There is even a spot where the founder of the Ikshvaku dynasty performed the Vedic horse sacrifice, Ashvamedha. A reconstructed bathing ghat is a fitting place to end the visit and ponder the lives of people who once inhabited these parts.

A museum on the island holds many exquisite sculptures, artifacts, and archaeological data on the ancient city. But here too, as usual, the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) prohibits photography of works with long expired copyright claims. Why? Nobody ever has a good answer. "Orders from above" is the most common. "Apply for a permit in Delhi," they say. If this prohibition isn't evidence of a bureaucratic mind, I don't know what is. These finds, excavated with taxpayer money, are not only the inheritance of all Indians but of all humanity, meant to be photographed, videotaped, and marveled at. As usual, I attempted to sneak in a few photos but an overzealous guard, sensing my intent, followed me around. Nagarjuna would surely have disapproved.
 

* Source: Encyclopedia Britannica 2004

A Portrait of Kerala

Kerala is known for its long tradition of religious amity, high literacy rate, high social status of women (due in part to its former matrilineal system), and a relatively decent public health service. In 1957, it democratically elected the first communist government in the world. Owing to its high population density, long exposure to foreigners, and a mercantile spirit, lots of Keralites travel abroad for work, most to the Middle East.

Hindus, with their diverse sects and practices, form the majority. Christians, over a third of the population, belong to the Orthodox Syrian, Roman Catholic, and Protestant churches. While Muslims reside throughout the state, the Mappilas of the Malabar Coast constitute Kerala's largest Islamic community (the earliest known Indian Muslim community, having existed since the 8th cent. CE). Jains live mainly in the far north. The Jewish community remains a small, exclusive sect, centered around an ancient synagogue at Cochin.

First mentioned as Keralaputra in a 3rd-century-BCE rock inscription of Ashoka, the region was famous among the Greeks and Romans for its spices (esp. pepper). During the first five centuries CE, it was a part of Tamilakam, and so partially controlled by the eastern Pandyas, Cholas, and Cheras. In the 1st century CE, Jews arrived and St. Thomas the Apostle visited (or so the Syrian Orthodox Christians believe). Arab traders introduced Islam in the 8th century. Under the Kulaśekharas (c. 800–1102), Malayalam emerged as a distinct language and Hinduism became prominent. The Cholas often controlled Kerala in the 11-12th centuries. Ravi Varma Kulaśekhara of Venad briefly ruled southern India in early 14th century. After his death, Kerala became a conglomeration of warring chieftaincies, among whom the most important were Calicut in the north and Venad in the south.

The era of European intervention began in 1498, when Vasco da Gama landed near Calicut. The Portuguese superseded the Arabs to dominate the commerce of Malabar. Their attempt to establish sovereignty was thwarted by the zamorin (hereditary ruler) of Calicut. The Dutch ousted the Portuguese in the 17th century. Martanda Varma ascended the Venad throne in 1729 and crushed Dutch expansionist designs at the Battle of Kolachel. He adopted a European mode of martial discipline, expanded the new southern state of Travancore, and allied with the central state of Cochin (against the zamorin). By 1806, however, Cochin and Travancore, as well as Malabar in the north, had become subject states under the British Madras Presidency. In 1949, Cochin and Travancore were united as Travancore-Cochin state. Today's Kerala was constituted on a linguistic basis in 1956.

Tamil and Sanskrit literature flourished from the 2nd cent. CE. Malayalam, an offshoot of Tamil, absorbed a good deal of Sanskrit and has a prolific literature. Notable Malayali poets include T Eluttaccan and K Nampiyar (classical), and K Asan and Vallathol (modern). In 1889 Chandu Menon wrote Indulekha, the first major novel in Malayalam. Traditional dances in Kerala honor Hindu deities or depict scenes from the great Indian epics. In kathakali, the classical martial dance form of Kerala, males portray both male and female characters. Kerala even has a martial art form, Kalaripayattu, still practiced today. Kerala's writers and artists include TS Pillai, MT Vasudevan Nair, OV Vijayan, Kamala Das, Shashi Tharoor, Arundhati Roy, P Zacharia, and Raja Ravi Varma. Famous entertainers and sportspeople include Adoor Gopalakrishnan, Yesudas, John Abraham, M. Night Shyamalan, the Sarabhais, PT Usha, Shankar (the cartoonist), and Jimmy George. ♣

(Click below for pictures of Kochi / Cochin, The Backwaters, Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary, Kovalam, and Thiruvananthapuram / Trivandrum)

Children of a Lesser God

A disproportionately large number of Indians have congenital defects and visibly stunted growth. The poorest of them are often abandoned by their families and/or forced to beg. Tourist and pilgrimage sites inevitably become their favorite stomping grounds. Why does it seem so much worse in India, even compared to the lower GDP nations of, say, East Africa (the only part of sub-Saharan Africa I have seen)?

Excluding the unlucky rolls of genetic dice (many of which can be avoided by a medical pre-screening), most birth defects are due to maternal malnutrition and substance abuse, as well as exposure to toxins, pollution and hazardous waste. In India, the latter may be no less significant. Given India's worsening urban environments and anemic healthcare, one has to stretch facts, ignore evidence, and be a determined optimist to see light at the end of this tunnel. At least for the foreseeable future, India should remain the prime destination for photo ops of the kind below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Addendum: A regular reader of Shunya's Notes, a geneticist, emailed to say that these photos are more likely to be of early childhood polio victims rather than congenital defects, except the second photo which is "more likely to be a congenital disorder because both the upper and lower limbs in the victim appear to be severely deformed presenting almost a case of classic clubfoot which involves a congenital upward and inward twisting of the foot. Whereas in the other photographs the victims appear to have a lower motor neuron disease which is most likely Poliomyelitis and the upper part of the body remains comparatively unaffected ... unless one can do an Electromyography (EMG) on the victims, [one can't be certain]." Since they still fall within the ambit of this post's title, I am inclined to leave them as they are.

James Nachtwey

Among the most affecting and iconic works of photojournalism are those that capture the human experience at its extremities: war, famine, disease, torture, genocide. The best of these photographs reflect back to us our starkest human material, and bring into focus both the benefits and the costs of political events and policies. They give "a voice to those who would not otherwise have a voice [and] put a human face on issues which from afar can appear abstract or ideological."

For various reasons, not many photographers operate in this space. One who does is James Nachtwey; he has produced an enviable body of work from our war zones and brought to light vital stories from around the world. He wanted above all to be a war photographer, "driven by an inherent sense that a picture that revealed the true face of war would, almost by definition, be an antiwar photograph." Photography like his is much more than being at the right place at the right time -- it requires a certain eye, a special way of looking at the world, which can recognize and distill a significant human experience into an image. Above all, it is a work of demanding intellect, honesty, and empathy.

Visit James Nachtwey's website, read his bio, and hear his inspiring speech at the recent TED awards acceptance ceremony for 2007 (also explore other TED talks by some pretty smart people). I've chosen here a few of my favorite images from his website.

Anandpur Sahib

Anandpur Sahib is a holy city in Punjab. Its historical significance to the Sikhs is second only to Amritsar. Hundreds of Sikhs once embraced martyrdom here. Sikh history is deeply marked by their struggle for survival in a volatile land, especially during the peak of Mughal persecution under Aurangzeb, which radicalized the Sikhs  (many paintings in the museum at the Golden Temple in Amritsar record the horrifying persecution stories retold across the land). The mystical faith of Guru Nanak transformed into the fiercely spartan and nationalistic faith of Guru Gobind Singh, who also committed the Sikhs to the five Ks. In early 19th century, Maharaja Ranjit Singh further militarized the Sikh nation, creating the first modern army in the subcontinent. Reversing the dominant historical trend, he went west to conquer new lands (which later fell in the British lap).

 

Takhat Kesgarh Sahib—one of five Takhats, or seats of authority, in Sikhism—is the centerpiece of Anandpur Sahib. It stands upon a hill and is visible for miles. The Khalsa was revealed here by their tenth and last guru, Guru Gobind Singh, who selected the five beloved ones and administered baptism of Khanda (Khande di Pahul), instituting the Khalsa panth on Baisakhi, 30 Mar 1699.  A special congregation was held that was attended by thousands. Kesgarh Sahib Fort was built here in 1699, replaced long since by the Gurdwara (a room in its inner sanctum holds twelve important military relics of Guru Gobind Singh). The Sikhs celebrated the 300th anniversary of the day in 1999 with thousands of religious gatherings all over the world. Two Gurus and families of four Gurus lived in Anandpur Sahib for many years.

 

This transformation is still reflected in the iconography and practice of Sikhism. Swords, spears, shields, and daggers are a centerpiece display in all Gurdwaras, besides the Guru Granth Sahib covered in finery. Even today many Sikhs become Nihangs, an order founded by Guru Gobind Singh himself as the fighting body of the Khalsa. The Nihangs—in distinctive blue robes and armed only with traditional swords, spears, daggers—renounce worldly possessions and commit to embracing martyrdom should the need present itself. Even today a disproportionate number of Sikhs enter the Indian defense forces.

 

The evening I arrived here in early September '06, the Gurdwara resounded with a Hindu devotional well-known in the north. In its liturgical music above all, Sikhism still betrays its mystic roots. I was below the hill when a massive monsoon downpour began—somehow the sun, near the horizon, managed to stay out the entire time. I took shelter under a souvenir shop awning, bathed by sunlight and watching water rivulets gushing by with great force. When the rain stopped, I ambled up the hill and sat inside the Gurdwara, heard the three singers (one sang notably well), did two parikramas (circumambulations), ate the prasad of sooji halwa, and took photos.

 

I had dinner at the Gurdwara langar: a simple, tasty, nutritious, and free meal of thick dahl, roti, and pickle. Open to all humans twice a day, believer and non-believer alike (no questions asked), these meals are sustained by donations and volunteers who cook, serve, and clean each day. I was moved by this afresh, and it struck me that this is one truly meaningful service that major temples, mosques, and churches in a syncretic India would do well to emulate.

 

Potala-in-Exile

The seat of the Tibetan government-in-exile is in McLeod Ganj (upper Dharamsala), a picturesque town overlooking the Kangra valley, below the snowy peaks of the Dhaula Dhar range in the Indian Himalayas. At one end of the ridge in McLeod Ganj is the locus of the Tibetan community, the Tsuglagkhang complex, their Potala Palace-in-exile, though this is a rather modest affair by comparison. It contains the Dalai Lama's residence, a monastery, temples, and stupas. For visitors there’s also a café, bookshop, and the Tibet museum.

 

Visitors are free to roam except to the monks' residential quarters.  The ambiance is warm and collegial.  Wistful sketches of the Potala Palace hang beside paintings that depict scriptural stories and fierce Tibetan deities. Most monks are refugees from Tibet (rather than born in India) and speak only a smattering of Hindi or English; their monastic education is entirely in Tibetan. Each day they study philosophy, tantra, history, geography, Tibetan, etc. (but not Hindi or English, forcing an additional state of exile on the monks, some mere kids drafted into the order). Few among the Indian-born Tibetans — or Tibetan-Indians, depending on how they see themselves — choose to become monks.

 

Student monks gather each day in the courtyard and, in small groups, debate nuances of Buddhist thought, even as other monks and pilgrims in the complex indulge in the un-Buddha-like practice of mechanically turning prayer wheels. The monks also perform Buddhist rituals and learn the art of making tormas (butter sculptures) and sand mandalas. As they approach adulthood, monks are free to quit the order and join the laity, as many do; a few proceed to get the monastic equivalent of Ph.Ds; fewer still become rinpoches, or precious teachers. The monks don't study science — surprising, given the Dalai Lama's own interest in and openness to science, and the lack of an inherent conflict between science and Buddhism — but then Buddhist philosophy too is preoccupied with using a (different) set of disciplined, rational techniques to understand the nature of reality (I’ve discussed this topic further in section 3 of this essay).

 

While in McLeod Ganj, I also saw the annual Buddha Purnima festival around the Tsuglagkhang complex. It marks the day of the Buddha's enlightenment at Bodh Gaya, Bihar, India.  Since the Buddha is also a member of the Hindu pantheon—a slick retrofitting job by the Brahmins made him the 9th avatar of Vishnu—thousands of pilgrims, ascetics, and other poor Hindus descend from surrounding areas to pay homage or to collect alms. A few even arrive after multiple days of travel. I saw many severely disabled people here, including lepers with festering sores (some had also been cured of this easily curable disease; though leprosy rates have declined in India because of govt. programs, talking to the patients reveals the social stigma that still surrounds leprosy and the sad persistence of misinformation about it). Buddhist monks start their celebrations at midnight with chants and prayers and donate generously with open arms. This vast, deeply affecting, and uniquely Indian drama that unfolds is over by the evening with the visitors returning home.

 

When not traveling, the Dalai Lama gives occasional public audiences. Over 140,000 Tibetans (including those born after 1959, the start of the exile) live in India as refugees, 80% of whom have not applied for Indian citizenship, hoping one day to return to Tibet and regain their theocratic state. Oddly enough, their largest strength outside the Himalayan belt is in Karnataka. Each year, about 3,000 refugees still make perilous journeys across the Himalayas to come to Dharamsala (a good recent documentary is Tibet: Cry of the Snow Lion). Given the Dalai Lama's emphasis on nonviolence, compassion for the adversary, and peaceful negotiations, their hopes for Tibet rest entirely on a more enlightened Chinese government coming to power in their lifetimes. Meanwhile, smart money is not betting on this outcome.

The Birthplace of Ganesh

(Text below written by Usha Alexander in May 06. For more pictures click here.)

 

 

Dodi Tal, considered the birthplace of Lord Ganesh, is a lake in Garhwal, western Uttaranchal. We hiked 44 km in 3 days, going up and down from about 5,000 ft to 11,000 ft, where we camped near the lake. Unfortunately, it was drizzly or overcast the whole time, so we couldn't view the snowy peaks all around. Still, the walk was incredibly beautiful, through the luminously green, high mountain woodlands of the early rainy-season, the cliffs punctuated by streams of clear water gushing from the rocks, with breathtaking drops falling away on one side of the path.

 

We had asked for two people to accompany us: a guide/cook and a porter, but when they turned up on the first morning, there were five of them! It seemed like overkill for only the two of us, but they all had large packs stuffed with provisions for our trip and we figured we couldn't turn any of them away, denying them their day's wages [Rs 225/$5]. So, we hiked up with an entourage of five men—a bit silly, but we had fun; and, as it turned out, their knowledge and assistance was invaluable to us lowlanders. The cook made hot breakfast and dinner each day; lunch was cobbled together in sporadic and makeshift chai stalls; one night they cooked a local wild veggie that tasted like asparagus.

  

They were all friendly, kind men, aged 15 to 55, all refugees/illegal workers who had crossed the border from Nepal years ago. All but the kid were incredibly competent guides with years of experience leading trekkers through the perilous high Himalayas for their livelihood (the kid was on summer vacation, working for the summer with his dad so he could earn some money to finish his education in Nepal; a sharp kid from a dirt poor family, he dreams of being a doctor; this was his first time trekking). The men told us all kinds of chilling stories of glacier crossings with tourists, of deaths they had witnessed, of people trapped in crevasses, frozen in icy waters. eesh! And they themselves can rarely afford anything but the shoddiest of equipment, footwear, and woolens, risking their lives much more than the tourists. Fortunately, we weren't crossing any glaciers. Instead, we walked through tiny little mountain villages; lower down, they grow wheat; higher up, they are shepherds, living in very basic wooden and piled-stone houses.

 

We met Bachendri Pal, the first Indian woman to climb Mt. Everest (1984) and something of an Indian cultural icon; she just happened to be staying at the same campground as us that day, leading a group of young men on a trek arranged annually by the TATA Adventure Foundation, where she works (she said she was happy with her job and her employer, who had created a whole new department for her to lead). She seemed like a very sweet and gentle woman, also a native Garhwali who grew up in a village not far from here.

 

The people of Garhwal are an interesting ethnic blend. They speak Garhwali, closely related to Hindi (Nepali is a dialect of Garhwali); their religion is Hinduism. In appearance, they cover the map, ranging from light-skinned, brown haired (I even saw a couple of redheads), with European features (Eastern Europeans, in particular) to light-skinned, brown-haired, with more Tibetan/ East Asian features, to "red" skinned, to brown-skinned, and black haired, with or without varying degrees of the epicanthic fold. And all these different looks, that in the US might pass for different "races," were intermixed as the same people, in the same communities. We saw a demonstration of traditional Garhwali folk dance and I was surprised to see that it was nearly identical to Eastern European folk dance, and distinctly different from folk dance styles from other parts of India. It made me wonder about the population migrations and mixtures across the region in the centuries past. But so far, I haven't found anything informative on the subject.

 

(See more pictures from this trek. Read more by Usha Alexander: City of Joy?)

The Dilwara Temples

Many Indians claim that the Dilwara Jain temples of Mt. Abu are a more magnificient achievement than the Taj Mahal – both were stunningly ambitious, state-sponsored, multi-year, monumental, marble-work projects – but the claim is an imponderable to me. One difference, however, springs to mind: while thousands of art lovers and devotees also worked for a generation on each of the two Dilwara temples, the Taj, proof of an emperor's inability to rationally accept his lover's death, was built largely by hired men. I can understand a man's desire for a memorial to his lover; I also believe that a modest memorial need not be any less meaningful, but no, size clearly mattered to Shah Jehan. He had to divert enormous resources of state to fund his absurd private infatuation.

 

While I think the Taj is rather sublime – I am awed by its beauty each time I visit – the so-called "romance of its inspiration" bugs me. For the untold thousands who labored on it, Shah Jehan didn't even have the magnanimity to dedicate the Taj to, say, "all the lovers of Hindustan," or something similarly inclusive. The poet Sahir Ludhianvi, speaking for the masses, famously said of the Taj: "Ik shahanshah ney daulat ka sahaara ley kar / Ham ghareebon kee mohabbat ka uraaya hai mazaaq"  (An emperor relying so on his wealth / Has ridiculed the loves of the poor like us). On the other hand, the Dilwara temples, built half a millennium before the Taj,  seem to me expressions of a fairly democratic religiosity.

   

The temples lie a few miles from Mt. Abu, a picturesque hill resort centered on Nakki lake, atop an isolated feature of the Aravali Range in southern Rajasthan. Mt. Abu was once the HQ of the British Rajputana States Agency. If you read Hindi, check out the local rendition at a traffic square of the famous lines from Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.

 

The two main temples at Dilwara, built in the northern Nagara style (as opposed to the southern Dravidian style), are the Vimala Vasahi temple (1031 CE) and Tejpal temple (1200 CE), known for the audacity and the delicacy of their rich marble-work. Unlike most other Indian temples, their exterior is starkly plain; it is the interior that is far more magnificent, especially the breathtaking chandelier-like marble ceilings and ornately carved brackets and pillars. The two temples were commissioned by the Solankis of Gujarat (a branch of the Chalukyas of southern and western India) and one of their former feudatories, the Vaghelas, respectively.

   

Sadly, photography at this exquisite global cultural heritage site was banned in 1992 for reasons that no one at the temples is willing to articulate clearly (why not allow it for a fee during a designated visiting hour at the least?). Orders, say the orderlies, issue from a managing trust, one that seems to me dominated by conservative and obscurantist Jain elders who, in their infinite and timeless wisdom, also deem it proper to bar menstruating women from entering the temple precincts (enforcing this is fortunately not easy – I looked around but saw no sniffer dogs ;-).

Le Corbusier's Chandigarh

I have welcomed very greatly one experiment in India: Chandigarh. Many people argue about it; some like it, some dislike it. It is the biggest example in India of experimental architecture. It hits you on the head and makes you think. You may squirm at the impact but it has made you think and imbibe new ideas, and the one thing which India requires in many fields is being hit on the head so that it may think. I do not like every building in Chandigarh. I like some of them very much. I like the general conception of the township very much but, above all, I like the creative approach, not being tied down to what has been done by our forefathers, but thinking in new terms, of light and air and ground and water and human beings.  [-Jawaharlal Nehru. Speech, 17 Mar 1959]

   

Chandigarh may well be India's greatest achievement in urban town planning. But despite Nehru's enthusiasm, and the evident success of the experiment, the Indian political establishment seems to have learned nothing from it. Chandigarh ought to have become the harbinger for more planned cities. What came instead was unplanned urban sprawl, dispiriting shanties, and creaking infrastructure, punctuated now by gated enclaves built for the rich by a land-grabbing mafia of private developers. That Chandigarh did not inspire a hundred planned cities points to a colossal failure of the Indian imagination.

 

Plans for building the city began soon after Punjab was split up in 1947. Pakistan was ceded the larger western part, including the Punjabi capital of Lahore, leaving the Indian Punjab without an administrative, commercial, or cultural capital. It was hoped that a grand new capital would become a symbol of modernity, heal the wounded pride of Indian Punjabis, and house thousands of Hindu and Sikh refugees from Pakistan. Swiss-born architect Le Corbusier was commissioned to lead the city planning, aided by Indian architects and town planners. Construction began in the early 1950s, and much of the city was completed in the early 1960s.

 

Scenically located at the foot of the Himalayas, Chandigarh boasts a modern infrastructure, open spaces, greenery, cleanliness, and a relatively low population density. Divided into 46 rectangular sectors, numbered 1-12 and 14-47 (13 was deemed unlucky), most sectors have an area of nearly 250 acres and a housing capacity of about 15,000 people. Designed to be self-contained in civic amenities, the sectors are separated from each other by broad streets for the city's fast-moving arterial traffic. In the northeast is the artificial Lake Sukhna, a major recreational spot of the city.

 

Chandigarh is also an ancient Harappan site. In '69, while digging for a shopping center in sector 17, a Harappan cemetery was unearthed. Remains include painted pottery (jars, dishes, goblets, vases, bowls, cups, beakers), terracotta figurines, beads, toy-cart frames, wheels, faience and copper bangles, stone querns, pestle and sling balls, etc. This, along with their Gandhara, Mughal, and Pahari art collections, makes Chandigarh's museums among the best in India.

 

A wonderfully whimsical creation, unusual in modern India, is Nek Chand's rock garden, made from building and industrial refuse. I had seen it as a teenager in 1983 but nothing quite prepared me for its expanded scale and the audacity of its creations when I went back in Sept 2006. I stayed in a hotel in sector 17, probably upon the still buried remains of an ancient Harappan settlement, part of a civilization best known to us for its urban town planning.

The Rann of Kutch

The Rann of Kutch, an area of 18,000 sq km, lies almost entirely within Gujarat along the border with Pakistan. The Little Rann of Kutch extends northeast from the Gulf of Kutch over 5,100 sq km. Once an extension of the Arabian Sea, the Rann ("salt marsh") has been closed off by centuries of silting. During Alexander's time it was a navigable lake, but is now an extensive mudflat, inundated during the monsoons, salty and cracked otherwise. Settlement is limited to low, isolated hills.*

   

When I visited the Rann in April, 2006, the highs were already soaring past 110 F. The best way to see it, as I did, is in a 4WD stocked with lots of water. Dotting the parched landscape are desolate desert-like encampments, where a family or two combine forces to eke out a living by mining salt from the saline ground water, the biggest local industry. Legend has it that when a salt worker dies and is cremated, the soles of his feet survive – a lifetime of salt pan labor bakes them so hard that even fire cannot fully burn them.* Tata lorries transport their salt to small trading villages along a railway line. In the dry season, such villages host veritable hillocks of salt as far as the eye can see, where it's packed and sent out on trains.

 

Kutch is also home to numerous tribal groups, whose attire often adds a dash of color to the otherwise dull desert monotones. Many, such as the Rabari, are still nomadic or semi-nomadic pastoralists (these photos only show women, children, and older men with the camels; the younger men were out tending their sheep and would converge in the evening at a designated place, where the women would setup the tents and cook).

 

In the monsoon season, parts of the Rann fill up with seasonal brackish water and some locals harvest shrimp in it. They abandon their boats afterwards in the barren salty mudflats, creating a rather surreal scene for the spring/summer-time visitor. Heat mirages abound, making distant objects hover strangely above the land. The Little Rann is also a wildlife sanctuary that protects the Asiatic wild ass, a shy and handsome animal that can sprint at 70 km/h. Reduced to about 2,800 in number, they depend on the few grassy islands, or bets, nourished by monsoon rains. The sanctuary also contains a large number of local and migratory birds, especially flamingos, at its many wetlands. A memorable experience was to go wading knee-deep into the warm waters of a salt marsh with thousands of flamingos around.