Our life, their lives - Kutch

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- Our life, their lives - Kutch, Gujarat
-Hector Dsouza
It was mid morning when we reached the outskirts of the village of Nirona in Kutch, Gujarat. The nomadic (rabaris) tribe seemed to be in wait for us. We took our places in a make shift courtyard and listened to what our amiable guide, Mahesh, had to say. 'The tribe lives on the outskirt of the village eking out a living by making woodwork items like rolling pins, ladles, spoons and small wooden vessels. Others design purses, cushion covers and table cloth. Suffice to say life is extremely hard, considering most are exposed to vagaries of nature and they all live in poverty.’ They displayed their wares and quoted a princely sum of Rs 100/- for each item on sale. We didn’t have the gumption to bargain but resigned ourselves to the fact we were probably helping them out in their battle to survive, and picked up as many items as we could. There’s no saying when the next set of visitors would arrive. Dressed in colorful hand woven and intricately carved dresses, I couldn’t help noticing that while they were in extreme poverty, the smile would never leave their faces. Some distance away a mentally challenged child moaned at irregular intervals, as though to suggest he not be left out from the rest.

The mid-day sun was relentless, we quickly hurried to the comfort of our air-conditioned coach waiting to ferry us to the main village, where more surprises would await us. I thought to myself, when would the gap between 'us’ and 'them’ finally disappear and realized it wouldn’t happen during my lifetime. Nevertheless, me the superficial tourist had a journey to cover and a tale to narrate when I got back home. I swallowed my guilt and joined the rest in animated conversation and realized we all had something in common. We were all thirsty! Mahesh had his task clearly laid out.

We were in Kutch, Gujarat the second largest district in India after Ladakh and covering close to 40,000 square kilometers of land mass with spectacular scenic beauty, exotic land formations, miles and miles of saline soil covered with cacti and plants which survive on low moisture, and amazing variety of birdlife. Kutch is virtually an island, bounded by the Arabian Sea in the west; the Gulf of Kutch in south and southeast and Rann of Kutch in north and northeast. The border with Pakistan lies along the northern edge of the Rann of Kutch which the latter claims a small portion of the Kori Creek as part of the maritime boundary dispute. The district came into limelight when a devastating earthquake took place in Bhuj 2001 obliterating life and erased the villages of Jawaharnagar, Khirsara, Devisar, Amarsar and Bandhdi situated in the blind thrust in the eastern part of the district. In all seriousness the authorities reconstructed village block and rehabilitated those affected, a lot remains to be done.

The main village seemed in much better shape, with prosperity showing up in the form of well decorated houses, shops selling a variety of provisions, villagers dressed in finery and well embroidered dress and children happily tagging along. We reached the doorstep of a renowned personality Abdul Gafoor Daud, known for perfecting the art of Rogan painting on cloth. Living in a joint family Abdul went on to explain the main ingredient for his craft is 'rogan’, a thick bright paste made from castor oil. The oil is boiled for two days forming a thick residue which is then mixed with a mineral pigment. This substance is then applied to the cloth with a stick, resembling a pen and onto the fabric. By folding and pressing one half of the cloth on the other, a spectacular hand design is created. After hours of drying the cloth in the sun, colors are filled, and new sophisticated decorated designs are created with a fine and simple hand-made technique. According to Abdul his most memorable painting is titled 'From Heart to Head to Hands’ and was done on silk cloth measuring 115 * 153 sq cms in 2002. It depicts an event relating to the earthquake which struck Bhuj at 0846 a.m on January 26, 2001 - a day celebrated all over India as Republic Day. It shows a group of school children gathered around our national flag, which was just hoisted. Many school children disappeared after the earth’s surface caved in. I imagine many were saluting our tricolor when they suddenly felt the ground slipping away from under their feet. They left, without a whimper or a cry; we term it 'sudden death.’ The other half of the image shows Abduls vision for the future and his unflinching faith and hope for a better and improved life, it also has school children gathered around computers. Abdul is optimistic about the future, and genuinely envisions Bhuj becomes a beautiful place and touches the lives of both- those visited and the visitor. I left Abduls house shell-shocked, yet hopeful and headed towards the bell-makers house, situated a short distance away.

The story goes that the bell maker inherited the art from his predecessors and makes copper bells of different shapes and sizes, each has a distinctly audible sound and can be heard over long distances in the open desert. Quite naturally these cow-bells are tied around cattle necks, left to graze in semi arid grasslands. Should one get lost, it is easily traced, thanks to the distinctive sound of the copper-bell. Yousuf showed us a variety of cowbells in cozy workshop, suggesting we could use them as decorative items to be hung at door entrances. I now have them at my workplace, strung along in a row of varying shape and size. I gently remind myself to tie one around my neck, considering the number of occasions I slip in and out of reality into my dream world! I need a melodious distinct sound to bring me back into the real world. What’s better than a handmade copper cow-bell!

Our bus was now on uncharted territory on the way to Birandhara, the dirt road neatly bisecting the semi-arid desert filled with babool trees on both sides. The afternoon sun began creating artificial images, which seemed to suggest pools of water lay in the distance. Having adjusted my eyes, my sight was drawn to a nomad family crossing the wide expanse, with cattle and sheep in tow. A pack of dogs guarded the cattle, while the nomad who was well above the average height led the way with a giant staff in hand. We were further to learn they did carry firearms, for protecting life and belongings. In his right hand he carried the charpoy which doubles up as the family bed at night. His wife followed behind, a child in her left arm, delicately balancing his weight on her hips. Not so long ago, many nomadic tribes moved from one grazing ground to the next, now most settle down in villages, the few that have stuck to the traditional lifestyle belong to the Muslim tribes from the Banni region, others include Dhanetah Jats, Halepotra and Sammas. I remained glued to the window and wondered whether we would see more of them. Luck was on our side.


Birandara is also a village belonging to nomads who have now settled for a less demanding lifestyle and fewer surprises. While woman are adept at embroidery on fabric creating many outstanding decorative pieces, the men build 'bhungas’ or traditional earthquake resistant circular houses. Among the cluster of sixty villagers, some double up as musicians, salesman selling wares to tourists who visit their village, while the rest are cattle herders. Arjun Velji Marwada is one such person, having a constant grin on his face, unaffected by the fact he has six mouths to feed besides his shy and reticent wife. Arjun was married at the age of eighteen, and was quite curious to know about our urban lifestyles. He showed us around his circular abode made of mud with mirror work and hand painting on the interiors. The wall cupboard consisting of family valuables is the center of attraction, above decorative vessels hung on the upper shelf, taking up most of the available space. The rest of the space was used for the family bed which is nothing more than woolen blankets or dhurries spread on the dung coated floor. I had to remind myself man can lead a life of contentment with few basic necessities.

Our base was Nakathrana, sixty kms from Bhuj where we were holed up for the night in luxury tents surrounding a spectacular rectangular garden. Birandara is 50 kilometers west of Nakathrana which technically means we need to drive east to get to Nakathrana. Remember luck was on our sides, for the third time in three days (since our journey began from Ahmedabad) our driver lost his way, took the wrong turn and started driving west towards the last post of India, a few hours later it would be no-mans land and then into our enemies hands. None of us realized the folly, as we treated ourselves to some outstanding scenic spectacle, the sight of the fading sun on the humungous desert, now stretched out in front of our open eyes. The nomadic families once again came into view, some herded camels, while others roamed with cattle; some were simply on their own. A few that walked on the dirt track, avoided our stare and our cameras. The day was coming to a fascinating end, the rabaris (nomad) contributing in no mean measure, their colorful costumes, jewelry and tattooed bodies standing out in the vast expanse of a not-too friendly desert, where snakes and scorpions offer regular company. The juxtaposition of life and lifeless seemed to be perfect, or harmony in the midst of harshness was also a justifiable conclusion.

Our journey reached its logical end, when a passing rabari pointed it out we were going in the opposite direction. We needed to turn back, our driver was admonished by Mahesh, the cleaner given a handful as well. We surmised Mahesh was guide only for the villages, and not meant to point out directions! We could be forgiven, there was no chance in a long while to come, we would be able to experience this magical evening. For some part during the day, I had shed my superficial tourist tag and attempted to be like one of the villages and attempted to imitate their lifestyle, but failed miserably. There was one constant, though. We are born nomads, some continue to be so for the rest of their lives, while others (like me) choose to sit behind a glass window and watch the world pass by.

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