Kachh derives its name from the Kachhi word Kachbo, which means turtle.
This exotic landscape in the western tip of India is shaped like a turtle. And like its namesake, it is amphibian in nature. It's land by summer, and island by monsoon. And it extends from the arid and inhospitable tracts of the Great Rann and the Little Rann to the bustling sea-front in the Gulf of Kachchh.
As our train chugged along to Bhuj, we passed by Anjar, one of the villages devastated by a massive earthquake in 2001. The tectonic shifts in the underbelly of Mother Earth had brought down the houses of Anjar, and the stretchmarks were still there as a reminder of man's helplessness against the cosmic fury of Mother Nature.
My friend from college, Manilal, his teacher-wife Heena, and their home-taught son Parju, were waiting for us at Bhuj. We got into the mini-bus they had brought along, and we drove to the first of the many amazing sights and sounds of Kachchh.
Parju, a 10-year old who had never been to school but was taught at home by his parents, regaled us with Kachchhi folk songs that sang of the valorous deeds of erstwhile kings, and of the exciting lives of peasant folk. Then he narrated the story of how Kachchh came into existence.
Once upon a time, the people of Kachchh had no land to live in and they requested a saint of the Nath sect named Dhoramnath to give them a place to inhabit. Being a saint he had no land in his possession, but he promised to help them. On a bare hillock next to his ashram, he meditated standing on his head for 12 long years. His severe penance created so much thermal energy that when he opened his eyes the sea that had submerged the whole of Kachchh dried up instantly. Leaving behind a barren landscape dotted with sparse vegetation and lined with endless white lines of salt.
Living in one of the most inhospitable of Indian terrains, the Kachchhis are a toughened lot, braving extremes of climatic change and subsisting on resources that are meagre. Thus making them frugal in nature, but compassionate in spirit. All along our trip across the length and breadth of Kachchh, the people were warm and hospitable, always sharing whatever little they had, with a disarming smile.
By dusk we reached Kaala Dungar or the Black Mountain. Dumping our rucksacks in the dormitory of the lone ashram there, we rushed to witness a miracle that was to unfold in a few minutes in front of our disbelieving eyes.
We climbed down a steep hillside, and hid behind thick shrubs. Our eyes were riveted on a raised platform at the distance. Soon, eight people carrying a large vessel passed us, shouting, 'Lo ang, lo ang, lo ang!' When they reached the platform, they kept the vessel down and overturned the contents. It was khichdi, whispered Parju, a dish made of rice and lentils cooked together with a generous helping of jaggery. Slowly, from behind the bushes now blackened by night, glowing eyes appeared in pairs. There were at least two dozen pairs. As they came closer to the platform, we realized they were wild jackals coming from the yonder mountains. They climbed on to the platform, and took disciplined turns to finish off the food served to them. And slowly they went back, their luminous eyes glancing back for one last time, as if in gratitude.
Parju explained the goings on. Over four centuries ago, there lived on these black mountains a Sufi saint named Pachmai Peer. One day a pack of wild jackals appeared in his ashram and stood expectantly in front of him. Looking into their eyes, he realized they were famished. All that he could offer them was a spartan meal of rice and dal, the staple diet of the ashram. And offer he did, and the jackals went back with their tummies full. He brushed it aside as a one-off incident, till he saw them at the same time at the same place the next day. The ritual of feeding continued for months on end, till one day when there was no food in the ashram. The boy who had gone to get the provisions hadn't returned, but the jackals reached at the appointed time. Realising that his guests would have to go back hungry, the Peer, in a gesture of unimaginable generosity, chopped off his hand and offered it to the jackals saying, 'Lo ang', which meant 'Here, eat my hand'. The jackals, as on every other day, went back satiated. But from that day onwards, the inmates of the ashram have made sure that the jackals of Kaala Dungar are fed, not once but twice a day. And they haven't missed it even once in the last 400 years.
Today, as the inmates take the vessel to the jackals, they chant 'Lo ang, lo ang, lo ang', reminding themselves constantly of their Guru's spontaneous generosity. This chanting is also accompanied by the peeling of temple bells, both of which have a Pavlovian effect on the hungry jackals.
This centuries-old tradition has had a positive impact on the conservation of wildlife: The highest density of jackals in the world can be found in Kaala Dungar. In around 20 square kms of scrub jungle, you have as many as 150 jackals. Of these, around 20 to 30 come to partake of the vegetarian offering. The others must be strictly non-vegetarian!
It's not known whether the same group keeps coming back to the temple or they take turns. But one thing is clearly noticed: They prefer to come under the cover of night. Because the average number of jackals that come to eat during the day is 4 to 5, whereas the number swells up to 20 to 25 by night.
Parju tells me that jackals are omnivorous. They feed on small prey like jungle rat, hedgehog and dung beetle, as also on carcasses. The vegetarian part of their diet comprises ripe fruit that falls on the ground. In the absence of such fruit-bearing trees in the scrub jungles of Kaala Dungar, the rice-dal-jaggery combo meal must be considered a good substitute.
The next day was our trip to a school in Banni, where Heena used to teach. There I had a near-brush with death. I had gone to fetch drinking water for the team, and on my return I had to cross a low-lying playground. As I was descending the steps, I heard a sound that curdled my blood. My mind raced back 18 years when I heard that sound for the first and the last time. It was when Afzalbhai the Snakeman had caught a cobra from a tribal chieftain's house and had deposited it safely in his circular snake basket. And in a magnanimous gesture, he had asked me to carry the live cobra as I walked along with him. Intermittently, the captive cobra would let out a 'hiss' of wild protest that would send shivers down my spine. Yes, it was the very same sound, and I froze involuntarily.
I looked down at a glistening spectacled cobra, with its hood spread out and ready to strike; and I was indeed within striking distance.
Instinctively, I took a step back with my eyes sharply focussed on it. And as I retracted my step, almost as if in acknowledgment, it went down matching the speed of my withdrawal, and slithered back into the security of a nearby bush.
Our next trip was to Khavda, where we saw the repercussions of the seasonal island becoming part of the mainland after the monsoon. The water had withdrawn completely, leaving behind parched earth that was laced with wavy lines of dried up salt, and lakhs of dead fish with their mouth wide open asking for a drop of life. A tragic curse that's lived out every year, year after year.
On our way, we met the wandering tribe of the Rabaris. They recognized Manilal, as he had lived with them and had made a documentary on them which never saw the light of day. Undeterred, Manilal had gone on to make one more documentary on the dying, by now almost dead, art forms of Kachchh. Still finding no buyers, he went on to compile the first dictionary of the Kachchhi language, a language that has no script of its own and is purely an 'oral' language. Borrowing the written Gujarati script, and using a phonetic system that's gleaned from spoken Kachchhi, Manilal soldiers on against all odds, to this day.
The Rabaris originally hail from the bordering deserts of Rajasthan. During the Mughal Era, they were persecuted by the Muslim rulers; and they escaped to Umarkot in the erstwhile Sindh province to avoid persecution. Here they were protected by a valiant Hindu king called Sumro for many years. And then a battle ensued between the Muslim rulers and the Hindu king. In this fierce battle, Sumro laid down his life fighting for the Rabaris. When he died, the Rabari women were so forlorn and so inconsolable that they decided to don the black robe of widows. And to this day, every Rabari woman is dressed in black as a sign of perpetual mourning.
As Manilal chatted with the chieftain of the Rabaris, we were served tea made with camel milk. It had the unmistakable taste of salt. Yes, in Kachchh everything has to be taken with a pinch of salt, as the land is extremely saline. All that grows here – a plant called 'Laana' that's used to make curry and the grass that the camels eat – everything is salty. So is the milk.
In the afternoon, we stopped by a typical Kachchhi village for lunch. There were a handful of bhoongas left there. Bhoonga is a dome-shaped hut with a traditional architectural design that can withstand severe earthquakes because of its innate ability to disperse impact. In fact, if Anjar and its neighbouring villages hadn't demolished their beautiful bhoongas to erect ugly concrete structures, maybe their houses wouldn't have collapsed like a pack of cards. So much for architectural progress.
After we had our lunch, the lady of the house asked us whether we liked the food. We told her it was delicious. She said, 'Then wash your hands in the plate.' We did it reluctantly. Then she asked us to wash the plate with that water, and we did. Then she said, 'Drink it.' We were repulsed by the very thought. Guessing there must be a valid reason for this strange command, I ventured to do it. And as I somehow gulped it down, she looked at me and smiled. In her smile, I saw the deep meaning of conserving resources. By washing my hands with water, and then washing the plate with the same water, and then drinking it, I fulfilled three tasks in one go. And helped her conserve the most precious thing in the barren land of Kachchh: life-giving water.
The next day, we stopped by a village known for its artistry: embroidery, cloth dyeing and jewellery. As I looked at the womenfolk there dressed in vibrant colours, I realized an anthropological truth. In Marubhoomi, or the Land of Death, you want to be in lively colours in stark contrast to the desolate
landscape of the desert; whereas in a colourful land like Kerala you wear plain, simple, white clothes. All in an attempt to complement your habitat.
Then we proceeded to the Little Rann. At the last village before we reached Rann, we were lucky to find an old man of the desert who offered to be our guide.
As our vehicle entered the endless stretches of cracked earth, we saw the amazing sight of water that didn't exist. The sun beating down mercilessly on the desert sand had created waves of heat on the horizon that looked like shimmering water. Slowly, there emerged some eerie forms in the non-existent water. Our guide told us that they were the elusive, Asiatic wild asses, locally known as khur. These animals looked as if they were floating on water, adding to the enchanting quality of the landscape.
The sight of the mirage opened my eyes to the Islamic belief of not depicting Allah in any physical form, be it a drawing or a sculpture. Islam has its origin in the deserts of Arabia, and centuries of witnessing the elusive, non-existent mirages must have taught the man of the desert that any physical image is not to be believed. The only truth that exists is the abstract image of God that you carry in your mind; not the image that seemingly exists in the outside world. Yes, there is a deep connection between religious beliefs and the geography of a place.
Since the wild asses were in no mood to come to us, the mountain decided to go to Mohammad. Speeding through the pathless land of Rann, we soon reached the spot where they were grazing. When we got too close for comfort, they started running, picking up speed to cruise at 30 kms per hour. The shutterbugs among us clicked away from every available window till we captured them in every possible galloping pose. Suddenly a stentorian voice woke us from our reverie: 'Bahut photo liya na, ab bas karo. Thak jayenge woh log!' Meaning, 'You have taken lots of photos, now stop. Don't tire them out!' That voice was the voice of compassion; the voice of a son of the soil who was living in perfect harmony with the other living beings that shared his habitat.
Then we proceeded to the place of our night halt. A place so tiny it doesn't feature on the map of Kachchh: the Mardak Bet or the Mardak Island. We reached there by late afternoon, and learnt another technique of conserving water in the desert. When thirsty, don't take swigs after swigs. Just take a small sip, roll it in your mouth and then gulp it. The punishment for running out of potable water was a 3 km walk to the nearest pond.
At dusk, we pitched our tents in the vast desert, at a place that had large crusts of salt. This was to prevent snakes from silently slithering into the tent at night. Then we cooked a spartan supper on a campfire next to the tent, and retired early. The sunset had brought out the stars one by one, till the entire stretch of 180 degrees was covered with thousands and thousands of twinkling stars. There was not a single house for kilometres on end, not a single soul, except for us in that vast area of nothingness. We were lying there on the warm desert sand, staring at the ultramarine sky and realizing that we were just an insignificant speck in the infinite cosmos. But a speck that was blessed with the ability to be aware. Aware of the star-spangled divinity that was slowly enveloping us.
