Memories Of A Lost World
Continued...
Diu: The quaint Portuguese settlement at the tip of the
gulf of Kambhat was the loveliest town we visited. Neat, quiet
lanes with foreigners hanging out, completely at home with the
town and its people. It was reminiscent of the quieter parts of
Goa, though not as commercialised.
From the banks of the Yamuna in New Delhi we had now reached the
shores of the Arabian Sea. The beach, a clean expanse of sand,
pebbles and surf proved a welcome indulgence. It was here that
two of us decided to break away from the group and explore the
town independently.
We took a ride into the main the city in an Enfield converted
into an auto rickshaw. A few minutes into the ride the driver
stopped and refused to go any further if we were not willing to
pay Rs 40 for the one-and-a-half kilometres. We wouldn't comply,
to him or the burly guy who joined him. A trip to the traffic
policeman revealed the actual fare to be as less as Rs 1. Encouraged with
the victory of good over evil, we hopped into another rickshaw
and reached the Fort with renewed gusto.
The 16th century Portuguese fort now houses some administrative
offices of the Union territory of Daman and Diu. It also serves as a jail. Near the huge
entrance someone had put two Hindu deities decorated with gulmohar
flowers. With pigeons nestling in the crumbling walls,
the ancient edifice was littered with biscuit, toffee and jafrani
patta wrappings. Those historic, rusty cannons were desecrated
further by scores of love notes, some in bright yellow paint.
"Amma...amma," a beggar pleaded on our way out and
abused us in the foulest of terms when we went past without giving
him anything.
We quietly entered the Saint Paul's church during the evening
worship service. The intricate woodwork altars mounted upon the
walls distracting us from the Portuguese worship service. Adjacent
was the Nirmala Mata school. A board inside had a list of staff
names with qualifications, however only two names had no qualifications
specified -- the peon and the principal.
A peak inside the church a little later revealed the priest lying
in the pew with a doctor attending to him. He had fainted after
the service. There are about 30 to 40 Portuguese-speaking families in
Diu. Paul, who lived across
the church, took us to his home. Prominent in his living room
was a framed picture of Portuguese President Mario Soares on his visit
to Diu. "That is me standing behind," he pointed proudly.
"All of us have some member of the family living in Portugal,"
he said.
Chauhan's, our British Columbians, that's what we called them
had their entire family in Vancouver. With five sons, 14
grandchildren and 65 years behind them, the past 12 years of retirement
gave them plenty of opportunities to travel. "We set aside
$ 20,000 for travelling every year and each time we visit India
we come through different routes," Chauhan said. Halting
in Bali on their way back they had already slated Australia, Fiji and
New Zealand as next year's destinations.
Dolis and bagghis.
Palitana had some regal transport waiting for us. Going through the city in a horse drawn
carriage, hopping into a doli at the foot of the Shatrunjaya
hills -- ready glimpses from that lost world the train
promised.
A prominent pilgrimage centre for Jains, Palitana was
dotted with dharamshalas and white clothed monks. 3,572
steps led to the
Jain temples
situated on top of the hills.
While some of us alternated between walking and sitting on the
chairslings carried by four men, most climbed the steps on foot.
There were devotees singing hymns, women carrying babies in cloth
slings with tiny toes sticking out and jazzily dressed boys wearing
glares under an overcast sky.
It took us over an hour to reach the top. No half sleeves or shorts.
No leather. Cassettes from video cameras censored and later dispatched
to the forwarding address. There were several instructions to
maintain the sanctity of 863 temples. Amongst an argument of sorts
between Prasad and Ram about the year of Mahavira's birth we reached
the first temple.
And just as Ram was giving into Prasad, the
sky broke open into a steady downpour. The Royal Orient plastic
laundry bags on our heads, crisscrossing between the scores
of people in the complex we saw the beautifully carved Adhishwara
temple under a cold January shower.
Bakshish...bakshish. The doliwallahs demanded
Rs 200 as a tip. With just stray customers every three to four days
they were coercive enough to ensure you shelled out that amount.
Tired, with feet in wet sneakers we didn't have the energy to
protest and climbed back onto the waiting bus.
Our bus driver was amazing. Through four days and seven cities
he drove with the train, waiting for us at every station to take
us further for sightseeing. We parted company in Ahmedabad. "You
must sleep it off nicely at home," advised Dr Raj. A member
of the World Psychiatric Association, he was in the prelimnary
stages of migrating to Australia. "I have some good job
offers there but my wife is not very interested in moving out
of the country. She likes people and might have some difficulty
in settling down there," he said.
His wife Chandra was the most vivacious amongst us. They were
travelling with their niece Natasha because their daughter couldn't
make the trip. "Her guruji didn't give her leave,"
Chandra explained.
Ahmedabad
was our last stop in Gujarat
and our second overnight halt at a station. It was also the filthiest
station we crossed.
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