The South Asian Divergence

18 Sat Feb 2017

Posted by Jaideep A. Prabhu in Book Review

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Army and Nation, commander-in-chief, India, Jawaharlal Nehru, KS Thimmaya, Muslim League, Nirad Chaudhuri, Pakistan, Qamar Javed Bajwa, SD Verma, Steven Wilkinson, Vallabhbhai Patel, VV Kalikar

army-and-nation Wilkinson, Steven. Army and Nation: The Military and Indian Democracy Since Independence. Ranikhet: Permanent Black, 2015. 295 pp.

It is not often that a senior government official publicly recommends a book by an academic, especially if the former is in the Pakistani military and the latter at an American university. However, that is exactly what Qamar Javed Bajwa, Pakistan’s new Chief of Army Staff, did in December 2016 during a gathering of senior army officers at Rawalpindi Garrison in the General Headquarters. The military had no business in running the government, Pakistani newspaper The Nation quoted Bajwa as saying, and the General asked the gathering to read Steven Wilkinson’s Army and Nation: The Military and Indian Democracy Since Independence to understand civil-military relations in Pakistan’s arch rival.

Broadly, Wilkinson asks a question that has perplexed many a scholar of postcolonial states – why have most of them proven inhospitable for the germination of liberal democracy and fallen to authoritarianism of various hues? Army and Nation focuses on one specific aspect of the answer, namely, the role of the military and its relation to the civilian leadership. Although ostensibly about India, the book cannot but be a commentary on Pakistan as well seeing as how the Islamic state deliberately positioned itself as anti-India. India and Pakistan present, in many ways, an interesting case study of a people with similar cultural heritage that diverged at independence and ended in drastically different spots on the political spectrum.

Wilkinson argues that the reason for India’s success in keeping the military out of political power is the apprehension of the Indian National Congress towards the profession of arms. Having participated, even minimally, in government, Congress leaders had administrative experience in thinking about the challenges their new country might face. Nirad C. Chaudhuri, for example, had argued for a more representative Indian military that was free of foreign officers in a 1935 policy paper; similarly, in 1938, VV Kalikar moved a resolution in the Council of States to restructure the Indian army more representatively. As a result, Congress moved quickly after independence to convert a colonial force that was fuelled by communal fissures to one that was more representative and firmly under the control of the civilian leadership. The Muslim League, on the other hand, had no such experience and complacently believed that statehood along confessional lines would solve all problems. It is such naivete that has led many to argue that Pakistan was insufficiently imagined; one must be careful, however, in differentiating between a thoroughly imagined nation and an insufficiently imagined state.

Punjabi over-representation in the army started from 1857, when India’s imperial master stopped recruiting troops from the Gangetic plains and instead brought in communities that had been loyal to Britain in the mutiny. This was the same pattern of recruitment the Crown followed in Nigeria, Ghana, Iraq, or elsewhere in the empire – favour minority communities against the larger population of the region. As a result, 60 percent of the Indian army was from Punjab on the eve of World War II. That number fell to 32 percent within a year of independence, admittedly aided in no small measure by Partition.

The Congress leadership, led by Jawaharlal Nehru, Vallabhbhai Patel, Baldev Singh, and others took several measures to insure against the military. First, officers commissioned after 1935 were given a massive 40 percent wage cut. Next, the commander-in-chief of the Indian army was removed from the governor-general’s executive council in 1947 and made him responsible to the Minister of Defence; eight years later, they abolished the post completely and the military was served by three service chiefs with lesser power and of equal status despite the size and importance of their service. Symbolically, Nehru took over the residence of the commander-in-chief, Teen Murti Bhavan, as the civilian prime minister’s official habitation. Three, a new military academy was created in Pune; the National Defence Academy would offer a different vertical from that of the Indian Military Academy in Dehradun. Along with careful recruitment, this would aid in the diversification among senior officers. The tenure for senior generals was also shortened and extension of their term became exceedingly rare.

To ensure that retired officers could not act on their political beliefs with the support of their uniformed comrades, senior posts were deputed to the Ministry of External Affairs which posted them to international destinations, separate from each other and distant to India. Nehru was not beyond using his intelligence agencies to keep a close eye on the military elite. Lt. Gen. SD Verma describes, for example, how, in 1960, he had to take a boat out to the middle of Nagin lake to speak privately to then CoAS KS Thimayya for fear that they were being spied upon. The corruption, bureaucratic lethargy, and lack of political vision in Indian politics frustrated many Indian service chiefs and some spoke approvingly of a short stint in power for the military – to “clean up” – and the limitation of universal adult suffrage to the literate population. Given the understanding shown by some of the senior Indian military officials to their former classmates from Sandhurst who had seized power in Pakistan, Nehru’s suspicions do not seem entirely unwarranted.

Another measure the Indian government took to ensure that the military does not enter politics is the creation of a large paramilitary force. Although such a force is no match to the regular army, it meant that the army need not be deployed extensively for domestic peacekeeping operations. This kept the army relatively isolated from national life. Civilian leaders thus hedged against the military in a manner similar to how the British placed white or Gurkha troops alongside suspect Indian units.

Wilkinson points out that while some diversification did happen in the Indian military, delivery fell far short of promises. The conflict over Kashmir in 1948, internal instability, nascent separatist tendencies, and the wars with Pakistan and China gave little room for a complete restructuring of the Indian military. Nonetheless, there has been a substantial change in the composition of the armed forces since independence.

Army and Nation etches out the path not taken by Pakistan. There were no efforts by Rawalpindi to forge a genuinely representative army. In fact, the cultural hostility between Punjabis and Bengalis impeded the integration of East Pakistan into Pakistani national life – something amply proved by the war in 1971 and subsequent secession. On the whole, Wilkinson is soft on Pakistan’s democratic failure. He argues that the country was dealt a worse socioeconomic and military hand that was compounded by the Muslim League’s amateur approach to national politics. It must be remembered, however, that this hand was demanded by the founding fathers of the Islamic state – neither the national religious imagination, the borders, and the population exchange were imposed upon Karachi by London or Delhi. Furthermore, conflict in Kashmir was sought, despite the challenges posed by inheriting a new state, by the Pakistani military whose raison d’etre was anti-Indian.

India’s solution to the potential for a military coup has come at a cost – the army has been unable to function efficiently and its role as a mute spectator in policy planning has left it unable to defend India’s borders as China showed in 1962. Civilian bureaucrats and politicians, the prime minister included, declared policies without making the necessary material and logistical provisions for them. Thus, Nehru embarked on his Forward Policy on the China border despite repeated warnings from officers on the ground that India’s forces were ill-prepared to handle any potential repercussions from the Chinese side.

Was the Congress’ evisceration of the military really necessary? Studies have repeatedly shown that class militaries – units drawn from similar ethnic, religious, linguistic, or other groups – perform better in combat owing to their closer bonding. The risks posed by such recruitment can be mitigated to a large extent by extensive training, professionalisation, and the weaving of a strong inclusive nationalist narrative. Congress leaders clearly did not trust their citizens to be ready for this sort of reform or were unable to implement it themselves. More importantly, the road not chosen hints at another way in which India and Pakistan stand as mirror images of each other: while Pakistan was a well-imagined nation and poorly envisaged state, India was the exact opposite in being a fairly well envisaged state and poorly imagined nation. Lost in the effort to control all the things that divided Indians, Nehru did not see what united his countrymen – or if he did, chose to ignore it and refashion them after his own image. Wilkinson’s study is an interesting hypothesis in not just what it says but also what it thus implies, for India as well as for Pakistan.

Army and Nation acknowledges the myriad other factors that have flavoured the divergence between India and Pakistan but is nonetheless the study of one institution and the reader’s judgment should be restricted to the topic at hand. An interesting comparison, which Wilkinson briefly alludes to in his introduction, is the Israeli state and army. While religiously homogeneous, immigrants to the Holy Land in the early years of the Jewish state were ethnically diverse. Tel Aviv managed to shape them in to trustworthy soldiers even so. What were the effects of literacy levels in the population on the army?

Bajwa’s boys will benefit greatly from reading Wilkinson’s book as they will from Christine Fair’s Fighting to the End: The Pakistan Army’s Way of War, or Myra MacDonald’s Defeat is an Orphan: How Pakistan Lost the Great South Asian War. The CoAS is known to be a keen observer of India whose interest goes back to his days as a young major serving at the Line of Control. His then commanding officer, Brigadier (retd) Feroz Hassan Khan, says that Bajwa belies the stereotype of the Pakistani military officer as someone who holds a visceral hatred towards India. It will be interesting to see if this alleged change in personality will amount to anything more substantial.

Can India and Pakistan be Friends?

01 Fri Jul 2016

Posted by Jaideep A. Prabhu in Book Review, India, Pakistan, South Asia

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Aslam Siddiqi, Atal Behari Vajpayee, Ayub Khan, Chaudhry Kaliq-uz-Zaman, Husain Haqqani, Hyderabad, India, Islam, Jawaharlal Nehru, Jogendranath Mandal, Junagadh, Kashmir, Khaled Ahmed, Liaquat Ali Khan, Mohammad Ismail, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, nuclear, Pakistan, Sajjad Zaheer, Vallabhbhai Patel, Waheed-uz-Zaman

Haqqani, Husain. India vs Pakistan: Why Can’t We Just Be Friends? New Delhi: Juggernaut, 2016. 200 pp.

More like a long essay than a book, Husain Haqqani’s latest book, India vs Pakistan: Why Can’t We Just Be Friends? is written for the layman. Yet its simplicity is deceptive – within its casually written, smooth-flowing narrative are a few insightful observations by a man who has served his country at the highest echelons of power. Some of these views these views are not popular, if not on one side of the border then the other. Haqqani has been hounded by many in his own country as unpatriotic, and some of his comments are bound to irk Indians as well. As an Indian myself, I cannot claim complete objectivity on the sensitive issue of India’s relations with its troublesome neighbour, Pakistan. That, however, may not be a bad thing, for human affairs are seldom dispassionate and rational: if a policy does not appeal to the emotions and aspirations of a people, as Britain’s recent almost-exit from the European Union demonstrated, its rationality is unlikely to provide it much succour. Besides, such objectivity, closely observed, is a myth.

Much of what Haqqani narrates is not new to anyone who has even peripherally followed South Asian politics. However, the author highlights events and views that raise tantalising ‘what-ifs’ of history and are often ignored in cynicism or frustration. For example, Haqqani reminds us how nebulous the idea of partition was even after the fact: that Muhammad Ali Jinnah wanted India and Pakistan to be friendly neighbours like the United States and Canada shows that the founder of the Islamic republic had not thought through the consequences of demanding a separate homeland for the subcontinent’s Muslims.

Another example is of Mohammad Ismail, the man Pakistan had nominated to be their first high commissioner to India. Ismail refused to adopt Pakistani nationality or move to the newly formed Pakistan despite his nomination. Others, such as Chaudhry Khaliq-uz-Zaman, the leader of the Pakistan Muslim League, went back and forth several times to see which country promised better prospects before settling down. Jogendranath Mandal, a Bengali scheduled caste leader, served as Pakistan’s first law and labour minister and second minister of Commonwealth and Kashmir affairs before returning to settle down in Calcutta. Sajjad Zaheer, an Uttar Pradeshi Muslim who had become the leader of the Pakistan Communist Party, was arrested for sedition in 1951 and was deported to India after he reclaimed Indian citizenship.

India vs Pakistan is not just about factoids that have slipped from public memory: Haqqani also has an interesting diagnosis of the South Asian rivalry. Although Islamabad treats Kashmir as the root of all problems between India and Pakistan, according to Haqqani, it is merely a symptom. We have heard this before from Christine Fair, associate professor at the Centre for Peace and Security Studies at Georgetown University’s Edmund A Walsh School of Foreign Service in Washington, DC. Haqqani adds that this arises from the deep insecurity Pakistan feels in the suspicion that India has not truly accepted Partition. Congress had, vehemently opposed partition when the British were still ruling the subcontinent, and several leaders, Jawaharlal Nehru and Vallabhbhai Patel included, publicly doubted the viability of the stump that had been hacked from the body of Mother India. The Congress resolution that accepted the partition plan nonetheless spoke of the geographic unity of an united India and the day the two-nation theory would be discredited and discarded by all. Pakistan interpreted this statement as an implicit Indian desire to undo partition even though Nehru also explicitly said in public that he would not want to inherit Pakistan’s problems on top of his own and did not yearn to re-embrace Pakistan. After the Third Indo-Pakistan War in 1971, that India did not seek to annex East Pakistan should have dispelled fears but even that did not drive home the point. For that matter, Atal Behari Vajpayee assured Pakistan during his visit to Lahore in February 1999 that India had accepted the creation of the Islamic state and had no desire to undo Partition.

For Pakistan, this is a fundamental question of identity: if they were not Muslims, were they merely second-rate Indians? asked one Pakistani official in a 1980 interview to an American newspaper. As the Pakistani academic Waheed-uz-Zaman wrote, “If the Arabs, the Turks, the Iranians, God forbid, give up Islam, the Arabs yet remain Arabs, the Turks remain Turks, the Iranians remain Iranians, but what do we remain if we give up Islam?” This was a poignant question for Pakistan then as it still is.

The power of Islam was, thus, deeply infused with Pakistani nationalism from the beginning and not the result of radicalisation in the 1980s as many believe. Even as early as the 1950s, Ayub Khan punctuated his speeches to the nation with references to the weak and cowardly Hindus, an ultimately flawed stereotype he had learned without reflection from the British theory of martial races. “The 100 million people of Pakistan whose hearts beat with the sound of la ilaha ill Allah, Muhammad ur rasool ullah will not rest until India’s guns are silenced,” he declared.

The Muslim League’s lack of preparedness for independence in 1947 is at the root of the Kashmir problem according to Haqqani. While the Congress party was able to cobble together a union of all but six of the 548 princely states, the Muslim League was unable to confirm the borders of their new state until a few months after the momentous occasion. Even then, the new state’s leaders were not able to persuade everyone and military force had to be used against Kalat in March 1948. Only Swat had voluntarily joined the Islamic republic by Independence Day. Additionally, Haqqani says, while Patel was willing to concede Kashmir to Pakistan initially, Jinnah’s claim to Junagadh and Hyderabad hardened Patel to Nehru’s position that not an inch of Kashmir can be surrendered. If the Muslims can claim Hindu Hyderabad on the basis of a Muslim ruler, why could India not claim Kashmir under similar circumstances? Jinnah’s ill-prepared and strategic blunder sowed the seeds for a multi-generational insurgency that would poison relations between the neighbours.

Haqqani also traces the use of irregular warfare by Pakistan against India to much before the war in Afghanistan in the 1980s to the late 1950s. Pakistan had used tribal militias in Jammu & Kashmir as early as 1948; Aslam Siddiqi, an official in Ayub’s Bureau of National Reconstruction, advocated as early as 1958 that Pakistan must use jihad through unofficial militias. In a report that warned Pakistan to prepare for the end of its alliance with America, the official asked, “why not train irregular fighters whom even the existing industries of Pakistan can well equip?” Siddiqi’s strategy involved spreading out and prolonging action, hit and run tactics that denied the enemy a firm target, and propaganda to fuel popular uprisings in the enemy camp. This was first tried by Pakistan in the prelude to the 1965 war.

In Pakistan, rather than inherit an army when the British left, it is the army that inherited a country. At Partition, Pakistan received 30 percent of India’s army, 40 percent of its navy, and 20 percent of its air force; in the first budget, Liaquat Ali Khan, the country’s first prime minister, had to allocate 75 percent of his finances to cover the salaries and maintenance of this enormous force. This lopsided relationship between Army and State has plagued the Islamic republic ever since. The military has had an unduly loud voice in the country’s governance and its obsession with India has perverted Pakistani society. To the horror of strategists everywhere, Pakistani generals speak casually of the use of nuclear weapons against India; Pakistan remains the only country whose nuclear programme is predicated with a single and named enemy in mind – India. To this end, Haqqani relates how the country’s diplomats covertly acquired equipment and material for the nuclear programme like smugglers, and proud of it they were, too. As Pakistan’s former ambassador to the United States puts it succinctly, to seek security against a conventionally armed neighbour far superior to you is understandable but to seek parity is folly. It is this military quest for parity over the decades that has twisted Pakistani mentality towards India. According to Pakistani public intellectual Khaled Ahmed, “Pakistani nationalism comprises 95 percent India hatred. They call it Islam because that is how we learn to differentiate between ourselves and India.”

Interestingly, while Indians berate Nehru, Haqqani feels that the Indian leader moved methodically and deliberately on the strategic chessboard to gradually integrate Kashmir into India; Pakistani-sponsored terrorism did the rest by shifting the world’s sympathy from Pakistan in the early years to India at present. This perspective from across the border, especially from a man who has walked in the corridors of power, whether one agrees with it or not, deserves some careful reflection.

As interesting and thoughtful a diagnosis of the sub-continental psychosis as this may be, what is the solution? Haqqani feels that the rise of Hindu chauvinist forces in recent years does not give Pakistan confidence in Indian intentions. The saffronisation of education – or attempts in the direction – confirm to Pakistanis that Indians still cling to the idea of Akhand Bharat. These developments compound the already irrational acts on the other side of the border. Although communal fervour has been painted as a problem of the Bharatiya Janata Party, Haqqani observes that Congress was the first to use the Muslims as a vote bank; they did this continually, “reminding the community that they would have been better off had Pakistan not been created,” that they had been abandoned. Of course, the comparison between an Indian Hindu identity and a Pakistan Muslim identity is not analogous for historical as well as philosophical reasons but this is not the space for that debate.

Asked about a potential future in this gloomy climate, Haqqani replies that his objective is to “change the context of the relationship, from the embittered twins born at partition in 1947 to neighbors who cannot get away from one another and must learn to live with each other.” Towards this end, he advocates the freer flow of students, artists, doctors, musicians, poets, and athletes between the two countries as it used to be in the first couple of decades after partition: until 1951, when Pakistan formalised its citizenship law, Muslims could travel back and forth between India and Pakistan without even a passport. That document was introduced in 1952, for travel just between the two countries; visas requirements came only in 1965. The former ambassador is aware that this will not happen overnight – as long as each side suspects the other of trying to destroy them, the guns will not fall silent. Yet it is only through greater people-to-people contact that Pakistanis and Indians can dispel their misconceptions about each other. If the commonalities between the two peoples can be reignited, “the contrived animosities could begin to diminish.”

Haqqani is also sceptical about the role outside powers could play. Historically, the United States armed the Pakistan which permitted the Islamic state to have delusions of grandeur in the first place and stand up to India. More recently, however, both the United States and China, Pakistan’s new best friend, have urged the country’s leadership to resolve its issues with India peaceably or at least shelve it for later. As Haqqani explains, such intervention inevitably fans the fantasy of parity in Islamabad. “India and Pakistan need to talk to each other because it is in their interest.”

Yet Pakistan does not trust India because the latter has not done enough to reassure the former that there would be no attempt to reabsorb Pakistan again into India. How can this mistrust be reduced? Like in a merry-go-round, we return to the issue of greater people-to-people exchange. The Pakistani military would be loathe to allow greater civilian exchanges and India is stuck on its principle of reciprocity. “Any Pakistani suggesting that normalization of ties with India can preceded a final settlement over Kashmir runs the risk of being dubbed ‘traitor’.” The problem for Pakistan’s military is that after seven decades of peddling Kashmir as their primary national cause, it is not easy to suddenly effect a major shift in priorities. If Delhi could show some flexibility and allow a small number of visits, it might begin to thaw an otherwise seemingly hopeless situation.

A question that has arisen recently in the internal Indian debate on Pakistan is with whom India should negotiate. On the one hand, civilian governments are, some would argue, the moral choice though they have proven to be ineffective at producing results. On the other, the military may be capable of delivering on their promises but they have a poor track record and prove an unstable partner for the peaceful future of India-Pakistan relations. Haqqani argues that ties at purely one level cannot succeed because any civilian leader that makes too much headway in peace talks runs the risk of being undercut by the military. Instead, India must encourage a civilian leadership but maintain ties at several levels as it does with other countries. Cooperation on addressing the melting of the Himalayan glaciers or irrigating the Sindh-Rajasthan desert will give both sides a mutually beneficial goal to work towards while simultaneously building relations beyond governments, civilian or military.

The Army cannot be sidelined or wished away in a state that has been a military dictatorship for most of its history. By far the most influential actor in Pakistani society, the military has cultivated a nationalist narrative that sees India as an existential threat; this narrative has been furthered by educational institutions and the media. Yet Pakistan has had two successive civilian governments and that is also an encouraging sign. This evolution, however, Haqqani notes, is a function of Pakistani politics and outsiders – China, the United States, India, or anyone else – cannot dictate it.

The essence of Haqqani’s solution boils down to greater contact between the two societies. It is not a quick fix, the author admits, but it is the only possible long-term solution towards peace on the subcontinent. As unappetising as this may seem to some sections of Indian society, there is something to this seemingly simple solution: during the Cold War, the West allowed citizens of the Communist East to visit, travel, and see their countries. For those who could not get the opportunity or permission to travel, the United States used radio and television broadcasting to target Eastern European and Soviet audiences. Democratic Western culture, despite all its flaws, itself became a powerful psychological weapon against the repressive Communist regimes. In the end, rock and roll had a role to play in the demise of the Warsaw Pact as did Wall Street and Minuteman missiles. An open, inclusive, and confident India, even unilaterally so, may just be the way to tilt the scales towards India’s side…not, of course, at the expense of conventional security wisdom.

At times provocative, sometimes insightful, and always simple and coherent, India vs Pakistan makes for an excellent introduction for laypeople to India’s troubled relations with its Islamic neighbour to the West. And for Indians, it provides a useful and articulate perspective from across the border.

A Gujarati Soujourn

24 Sat Jan 2015

Posted by Jaideep A. Prabhu in India, Society, South Asia, Travelogue

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Adalaj, agnikula, agnikunda legend, agnivanshi, Archaeological Survey of India, Arisimha, ASI, Bet Dwaraka, Bhavishya Purana, Bhimdev I, Bilhana, Chalukya, Champaner, Chand Bardai, chandravanshi, Chauhan, Dholavira, Dwaraka, Dwarakadhish Temple, Gujarat, Hutheesing Jain Temple, India, Jama Masjid, Keshavraiji Temple, Kirti Kaumudi, Lothal, Mahmud Begada, Mehsana, Merutunga, Modhera, Mohandas Gandhi, Pampa, Paramara, Patan, Prabhanda Chintamani, Pratihara, Prithviraj Raso, Rajput, Rana Veer Singh, Rani ki Vav, Rani Roopba, saat kaman, Sabarmati, Sardar, Solanki, Someshwara, Somnath, Sukrita Sankirtana, Surya Mandir, suryavanshi, travelogue, Udayamati, UNESCO, Uttarardh Mahotsav, Vallabhbhai Patel, Vikramankdevacharita, Vikramarjuna Vijaya, World Heritage

Gujarat has attracted a lot of attention of late. The outbreak of plague in Surat in 1994, the earthquake in 2001, the riots following the massacre of 58 Hindu pilgrims at Godhra in 2002, the state’s remarkable development story, and the electoral triumph of India’s new prime minister from Vadnagar have all fixed Gujarat firmly in the Indian and international imagination. An invitation from Amitabh Bachchan in his sonorous voice to visit the state clinches the deal and it is impossible to resist a trip to Gujarat.

Gujarat tourism For whatever reason, Gujarat has not advertised itself much as a tourist destination until recently. Even now, the promotion of tourism appears halfhearted compared to the glitzy campaigns of Thailand, Turkey, Malaysia, or even Singapore. Awareness of Gujarat’s sights, barring Gir Forest or pilgrimage spots, is very low. I would have suggested that the tourist infrastructure is almost non-existent and that also betrays the state’s apathy towards tourism but I realise this is true for most parts of India and not limited to Gujarat.

My trip started from Amdavad. I reached Amdavad by train in the morning and was ready to hit the road by noon. I am not particularly enamoured by the Mohandas Gandhi story and did not want Sabarmati Ashram on my itinerary. Thankfully, my friend did not insist on making me more closely acquainted with one of Gujarat’s great sons either. Apparently the state has only one great son in the modern era – Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel – and all others are liked only in varying degrees.

Our first stop was Patan, approximately 130 kms north of Amdavad. This was because I had arrived at a fairly fortuitous time, just after the Vibrant Gujarat Summit and the Pravasi Bharatiya Divas but during the annual Uttarardh Mahotsav. My initial thoughts had been to spend the day in and around Amdavad rather than squeeze a visit to a nearby site of interest. That changed even before I arrived in Amdavad because it came to my notice that a classical dance show had been organised in Modhera in front of the Surya Mandir that night. The setting was going to be seductive and I like classical dance – no way was I going to miss it! As we say back home, kmean kar roiam chivut kmean ney – without dance, life has no meaning.

The road to Patan was not bad. After all, Gujarat is famous for the quality of its roads. In a country where potholes are the norm, the western Indian state really stood out as an exception. Our destination in Patan was Rani ki Vav, a 950-year-old stepwell built by Queen Udayamati in the memory of her deceased husband, Bhimdev I of the Solanki dynasty. Also known as Ranki Vav, the structure was added to UNESCO’s list of World Heritage sites in June 2014.

I had little expectations from this stepwell – after all, I had seen several such decorated holes in the ground during my travels in Karnataka. Yet Rani ki Vav stunned me with its size and beautiful sculptures. The well is some 65 metres long and well over seven storeys down. Furthermore, it was not decorated with just a few geometric designs but extensively with sculptures of Mahishasuramardini, Parvati, Bhairava, Ganesha, Surya, Kubera, and the several avataras of Vishnu. Interspersed are the ashtadikpalas, yoginis, nagakanyas, and apsaras. I would not be exaggerating if I said that these statues could easily be compared to those at Belur, Khajuraho, or Ellora. I was especially pleased to see vigilant guards chasing away the idiots who wanted to climb or lean on the sculptures; I wish they had the power to levy hefty fines as well.

This comparison makes me wonder about the market for craftsmen in India a thousand years ago. It is obvious that works of exquisite beauty in stone were not the monopoly of just one kingdom or one short, golden period. The talent was widespread, as was the demand. Furthermore, there exists a span of a good five of six centuries between Ellora and the Hoysalas. Throughout this period, there seemed to be enough work for craftsmen to sustain themselves and not let their art die. As a scholar primarily of Europe, I found it an interesting comparative snapshot of the composition of the economies of the kingdoms of the Indian subcontinent ten centuries ago.

I would like to go off on a short tangent at this point about the Solanki kings of Gujarat because I was quite surprised to hear some of the theories of their origins and others might be too. Several theories consider the Solankis to be the descendants of the southern Chalukya dynasty of what is today Karnataka. To begin with the mythological evidence first, one theory suggests that ‘Chalukya’ was the name of a warrior who was born from fire and his descendants became the Chalukyas. The idea of a fiery birth is prevalent across Hindu epics and puranas and very likely fired up the imagination of a few poets in search of new euolgies for their royal patrons too.

The notion of Agnikula Rajputs was probably popularised by Chand Bardai, the 12^th century court poet of Rai Pithora, in his poem Prithviraj Raso. Rajput clans are broadly divided into three lineages – those claiming descent from the Sun, suryavanshi, those claiming the Moon as their ancestor, chandravanshi, and those born of fire, agnivanshi. This is drawn from the Bhavishya Purana, where it is stated that the agnikunda Rajputs – Chauhans, Chalukyas, Parmaras, and Pratiharas – were born at Mount Abu. As I said earlier, one of these warriors was called Chalukya.

Another theory, this one from Bilhana’s 11^th century eulogy to Vikramaditya VI, the Vikramankdevacharita, is that Brahma took some sacred water of the Ganges into his palm, from which he created a fearsome warrior. Since the word for palm is “chuluk” in Sanskrit, the warrior and his descendants came to be known as the Chalukyas. A third theory, proposed by the 10^th century poet Pampa in his Vikramarjuna Vijaya, suggests that the Chalukyas were the descendants of the great Pandava warrior, Arjuna.

Coming to the realm of history, several scholars such as Lt. Col. James Tod, Sir James Campbell, and Gaurishankar Ojha have speculated on the Kalyankataka – a town undisputedly under Chalukya suzerainty – origins of the Solankis. Their sources are inscriptions and chronicles of the period such as Merutunga’s Prabhanda Chintamani, Arisimha’s Sukrita Sankirtana, and Someshwara’s Kirti Kaumudi. Of course, the veracity of these chronicles must be taken with a pinch of salt, but they seem to broadly agree with each other.

No doubt, there are differences between the southern Chalukyas and the northern Solankis, but that is to be expected over a couple of centuries. In keeping with local customs, perhaps, the northern branch of the dynasty underwent changes in their kuladeva, their crest, their gotra, and their name underwent a linguistic as well as language shift. Language experts can tell you more about the shift from “ch” to “s” but away from home, the Chalukyas of Gujarat gradually became the Solankis of Gujarat. In a far less complicated manner, a modern example would be how the Scindias of Madhya Pradesh are the Shindes of Maharashtra.

Anyway. I had expected to spend at most half an hour at Rani ki Vav but ended up spending closer to two hours. What was supposed to be just another hole in the ground ate up much more time than I had expected. With sunset approaching, we headed to Modhera after the promise of song and dance.

The Surya Mandir at Modhera had been lit up in different colours and a stage had been built in front of it, this side of the kalyani, of course. The programme consisted of three segments: it would be an hour of odissi, followed by an hour of bharatnatyam, and concluding with an hour of Gujarat’s own gharba. Sadly, I am no dance connoisseur but I doubt anything on a stage with such a magnificent backdrop could look bad! I was mesmerised by odissi and the bharatnatyam but left before the gharba started – somehow gharba gives off the vibe that it is a participatory activity and not a spectator event. Due to a little logistical snafu, we could not get a hotel room in Mehsana and had to drive back to Amdavad. However, thanks to the good road, we made it home in good time.

The next day, we hit the road early because we wanted to see Modhera during the day and then move on to Dholavira and make it there before the sun set. The Surya Mandir at Modhera was quite beautiful, though heavily eroded. In fact, I was surprised to see the level of erosion the sculptures on the temple walls had endured. Going only by the erosion, had I not known the age of the temple, I would have easily guessed it to be at least 500 years older than it actually was. I suspect part of it is the constant touching and climbing by tourists, not to mention the sacking by Allaudin Khilji, but some of it might also be that the Gujarat air carries a lot of dust – not unthinkable in a semi-arid state.

The Modhera Surya Mandir was built by King Bhimdev in 1026, the same ruler in whose honour Rani ki Vav was posthumously built. It is built such that, on the summer solstice, the first rays of the sun fall on the deity, Surya. Our return to Amdavad the previous night had not been entirely foolish, thankfully: had it been an equinox, we would have missed an opportunity to witness this for ourselves. The temple has three segments: a pushkarini, a sabha mantap, and the garbha griha. The pushkarini is slightly larger than an Olympic-size swimming pool, and its steps contain tiny shrines to 108 deities though I did not count them! Also, I have not noticed such a prominent and stand-alone sabha mantap at any other temple that I recall. Even if such an arrangement exists, it does not seem common.

There was a small museum on site too. It is not really worth a visit unless you want to come away with horror stories of how the Archaeological Survey of India has just collected statues and fragments in there, or how the labels are atrociously vague. When we visited it, there were no guards or attendants there and even the lights were off. The museum, such as it was, stood only marginally above a lost-and-found goods warehouse.

Eroded idols at Surya Mandir, Modhera

We set off for Dholavira well before noon. The distance between us and our destination was approximately 250 kms and pace all the stories about Gujarat’s great roads, I knew that in India, the only sensible thing would be to plan to cover the distance in eight hours. Just the previous month, I had been stuck on a stretch of highway that took four hours to traverse a hundred kilometres! We reached Dholavira in four hours, but it was not all smooth sailing.

I must at this point register my strong distrust of Google Maps. The product is generally good, I will admit, but there have been times when I have also been terribly misled. This was one of them. We had driven north to Radhanpur from where got onto NH 15 as it would take us half way to Dholavira. Theoretically, we were supposed to turn off NH 15 onto Gujarat SH 52 just after Santalpur and towards Ranmalpura. From there, GJSH 52 would take us through a desert patch called Gadkibet and all the way to GJSH 51 near Balasar and on the last stretch to Dholavira. Except that when we left NH 15, we were quickly onto a dirt track to nowhere! We pushed on for a bit but there seemed to be no sign of civilisation. Finally, we came across a couple of people walking by and asked them for directions. For whatever reason, they seemed eager to tell us how to get to Dhoraji rather than Dholavira! I dare not contemplate the possibility that they had not heard of the ancient Harappan site.

Soon, even the bushes failed and we were in the open desert with not a point of reference on the horizon to guide us. Google Maps still showed us to be on the alleged GJSH 52 but I am wondering if that whole road is some sort of NREGA scheme Google cooked up! Life never gets better without getting worse first – in the middle of this nowhere, our car got a flat tyre. I know, oy vey! Common sensical folks that we are, we had serviced the car before leaving on our journey and we had a spare tyre. After changing the wheel, we pressed on with only the sun and our tracks as navigational references. Oddly, I did not feel at all scared to be out of sight of everything; it felt like I had the planet to myself for a few minutes, and that really wasn’t so bad 🙂 Finally, we reached a road and I am not quite sure whether by luck or by our rudimentary navigation. To be fair, we knew we would eventually hit a road somewhere; we just hoped we would not have to deal with another puncture. We reached Dholavira only half an hour later than we had expected, remarkable given our adventures.

There was no town around Dholavira, it was merely a marker on the map. There were two lodges and a shop in the vicinity of the Harappan ruins and that was it. I did not see anything else for a few kilometres. Normally, I review hotels I have stayed in on TripAdvisor to avoid clutter in the travelogue. However, there is an important lesson to be learned about lodging in the Gujarati wilderness – you really cannot call Dholavira anything else – that is best explained here. Both hotels were tolerable for backpackers, students, and budget travellers but there were no luxuries. Both places were somewhat clean though the paint was peeling off the walls at one place and the other place appeared too new for real wear and tear. However, one place had no bathroom infrastructure in terms of a health faucet, bidet, jet spray, or even toilet paper. The difference in price for these otherwise similar places was double for the one that had the facilities. The same was the case in Mehsana – in fact, the porter actually asked us what ‘toilet paper’ was when we asked about the inadequate bathroom! So the lesson here is: always carry a roll of toilet paper in Gujarat!

We had about an hour of sunlight and I could not resist the call of a 5,000-year-old settlement. We rushed to the Harappan ruins to catch a first glimpse of what life was like five millennia ago. Of course, the Indus Valley Civilisation was not the first settlement in South Asia though it was the first clearly urban one: the subcontinent’s history is considerably older if one considers the Mehrgarh discoveries of advanced farming communities. Unfortunately, those sites, or whatever is left of them, are in Balochistan and not quite accessible. After an hour or so on site, we headed back to our hotel for not only was it getting dark but it was difficult to figure out the significance of all but the most obvious structures such as the huge water reservoirs.

We arranged for a guide for Dholavira for the next day at our hotel. For all its primitiveness, the staff was very cooperative and friendly. There was little to do after that except have dinner and retire – there was no television and my phone was off network. It was not quite cold but we still started a small campfire for us to sit around and chat. It turned out to be a great decision – miles from nowhere, in the middle of a desolate salt marsh, the sky was clearer and more wondrous.

The next morning, we set off early to maximise our time at the Harappan ruins. We would have a long drive to Somnath later and the sooner we got out of Dholavira, the better. Our guide had himself spent 13 years assisting archaeologists excavate Dholavira and was quite knowledgeable about the area. The entire archaeological site is about 800 metres in length and 600 metres across. It took us approximately three and a half hours to wander through the citadel, midtown, and lower town. Dholavira thrived for some 1,500 years and at its peak, housed some 15,000 people. Dholavira is one of the five largest Indus Valley cities discovered so far, the others being Mohenjodaro (Sindh), Harappa (Punjab, Pakistan), Kalibangan (Rajasthan), and Surkotada (Gujarat). The city has seven layers so far – meaning that it was inhabited and abandoned seven times. Unfortunately for archaeologists, later layers freely borrowed building material from earlier ones, and separating the different stages without contaminating them is painstaking work.

The most immediate thing you notice about the ancient city are its massive water reservoirs and water filtration system, five out of an estimated sixteen of which have been excavated. In a place like Khadirbet, the reason for this is obvious. The only sources of water for the inhabitants of Dholavira would have been two storm water channels, the Manhar and the Mansar, that flanked the city. Additionally, they would have had to practice some serious rainwater harvesting. Given the shortage of water, it is surprising that the Dholavirans spent so much water in making the bricks for the high walls of the citadel. The only logical answer for such constructions is that they must have feared regular attack from their neighbours, wandering tribes, and bandits. For Dholavira to not just survive but flourish away from a perennial river or the sea, they must have been on some ancient trade crossroad; their fabulous wealth must have attracted unwanted attention.

Another interesting discovery at Dholavira is the famous signboard found there. Of course, there is no piece of wood or placard surviving from 5,000 years ago but the imprint of the gypsum used to make the sign remains. This is, unfortunately for tourists, covered to protect it. The urban planning and sewage systems of Indus Valley settlements is well-known and Dholavira is no exception. There are baths, water reservoirs, drainage channels, wells, and even storage tanks to keep water cool in the citadel. In the dried up river beds of Manhar and Mansar, evidence has been found to suggest that the Dholavirans built dams to divert the monsoon water in the rivers into their reservoirs. If one notices carefully, the slope of Dholavira will be apparent; this aided the flow of water the higher tanks to the lower cisterns to the extent that water was not in particularly short supply throughout the year.

It was just wonderful to let the antiquity of the place to engulf you. Yet it was disappointing to see the neglect of such an important historical place. For instance, Dholavira was discovered around 1967 by Jagat Pati Joshi but the ASI began excavating it only around 1990. Presently, all excavation in the area has stopped. Our guide told us that some portions of the site had been reburied by archaeologists for fear of damaging the artifacts through neglect. There has even been encroachment upon the site from nearby farms and it would be an uphill battle to reclaim those lands for archaeological excavations if they ever started again. Wild grass grows all over the site and no road has been created for tourists to walk around. There are hardly half a dozen placards around the site and even they are completely unhelpful in terms of information or directions. Had it not been for our guide, I am not sure how much we could have gleaned from piles of stone and brick lying around.

We had spent some three and a half hours on site and I was thoroughly shocked to note that we did not bump into a single tourist or official the entire time! The ruins of this city from near the beginnings of civilisation in India was simply not on the map; Belgium, on the other hand, advertises Manneken Pis – a bronze figurine of a small boy urinating – as if it is the greatest piece of sculpture in European history!

There is a small museum as well but most of the artifacts worth seeing have been carted off to Delhi, some to decorate the museums of the capital while most languish unappreciated in ASI warehouses. Other than the eponymous site, there is also a fossil park at Dholavira that we did not visit. Samples of fossilised wood from the park were available at the museum and we were not particularly interested in seeing more.

From Dholavira, we left for the temple town of Somnath. We had decided to skip Dwaraka. For many Hindus, our decision would seem sacrilegious but the fact is that I do not really care about modern temples lending substance to mythology. There are two temples in the area that pilgrims flock to – Dwarkadhish in Dwaraka, and Keshavraiji on Bet Dwaraka, 35 kms away. Admittedly, some of the pillars in Dwarkadhish Temple are close to two thousand years old but this only proves the borrowing of older building material. The finding is still too recent for it to be connected to the mythological Krishna story.

Excavations in the area have found interesting artifacts but most date back only to the Mauryan period. Some discoveries that indicate an earlier date of settlement in the area still do not go much beyond the late Harappan period. Of great interest has been a handful of items that have been carbon-dated to approximately 7,500 BCE. However, the findings are inconclusive at best and may even be natural formations. Suffice it to say that the jury was still out on the whole thing and it was not like we would be able to go scuba diving to see the really cool stuff anyway. Therefore, there was no cause to add Dwaraka to my itinerary.

The journey to Somnath was 450 kms long. In any other state, I would not have dared to start a journey of this length after noon but Gujarat’s roads gave me the confidence that this was doable. The road was iffy until we hit Chitrod, but it got much better from Rajkot on. In fact, we made Somnath in about eight hours, including a stopfor lunch and some shopping. We practically flew until Junagadh but from there, the road was good in spurts only. In the towns, the roads were quite bad. We had to stop in Junagadh for a bit to pick up a mundu for me because I was travelling in cargo shorts and that is not how one goes to meet Lord Shiva! Unfortunately, Gujaratis seem to be a race of midgets, for the mundu I could find was only up to my ankles and that too if I wore it dangerously low!

In Somnath too, the hotels had the same bathroom issue we had bumped into in Mehsana and Dholavira. Thankfully, there are plenty of hotels in Somnath and we could find decent and affordable accommodations quickly.

The trick about Somnath Temple is to visit it at the crack of dawn and avoid particularly holy days or the holidays. As the primary of the twelve jyotirlingas, it can get pretty crowded on Mahashivaratri for example. The next day, we were knocking on the gates around 05 00. The temple opens at 06 00 but the first aarti is at 07 00. To be fair, we got there so early to do a bit of photography. Security is strict around the temple, and cars have to be parked some 500 metres away. No cameras or leather items are allowed inside the temple, and one’s dress should be…modest. We were among the first in line and we could easily go in, get our darshan, and then wait on the side until the aarti started. It got crowded pretty quickly and any doubts I may have had about getting there so early disappeared as the ardha mandapam began filling up.

We observed the aarti in peace and then walked around the temple complex. I was surprised to see so many of my mundu brethren there and a couple of them were eyeing me strangely as if to wonder, Namma oorkaaranga maadiri dress pottuirukkara parasigan yaarappa? Somnath is by the sea and the spot is therefore naturally picturesque. An interesting factoid is that there is no land on the longitude of Somnath Temple south of it until Antarctica, about 10,000 kms away. Behind the temple, there is a covered promenade for devotees to sit and enjoy the view. I can only imagine how nice it must be during the monsoons. Right by the Somnath Temple, is another Shiva temple. That one was built by the Maratha queen Ahilya Holkar in 1783 and stands in the footprint of the original Somnath Temple. Since Somnath had been destroyed so many times, Ahilya Holkar had the garbha griha built in the basement as a security measure.

Everyone knows that the Shiva temple at Somnath was looted by Muslim armies time and again. What I did not know was that the present temple is the seventh one, built in 1951. No one knows precisely when the first temple was built but it is assumed to be around 4CE. The second temple was built by the Yadava kings of Vallabhi around 649. The third temple was built by Gurjara Pratihara King Nagabhata II in 815 after Junayd ibn Abd al-Rahman al-Murri, the Arab governor of Sindh, destroyed it in 725. In 1024, the temple was yet again destroyed in the infamous raid by Mahmud of Ghazni; it was rebuilt by Gujjar Paramara King Bhoj and Solanki King Bhimdev I in 1042. The temple was sacked in 1296 during Allauddin Khilji’s bloody invasion which saw over 50,000 Hindus put to death and over 20,000 sold as slaves. The Chudasama king Mahipala Deva rebuilt the structure in 1308 only for it to be destroyed again by Muzaffar Shah I in 1395, Mahmud Begada in 1451, and Aurangzeb in 1665. Somnath Temple was then rebuilt only after Maratha power waxed in India and the smaller Muslim kings of Gujarat and Madhya Pradesh were crushed. In between, Somnath had been sacked several times without the temple being destroyed.

The temple that we see today was constructed through the efforts of India’s first home minister, Vallabhbhai Patel. The ruins were pulled down and a fresh build was undertaken. During Islamic suzerainty over Gujarat, Somnath Temple had been converted into a mosque. This mosque moved a few kilometres away to make room for the new temple. Though Patel was the driving force behind the rebuilding of the Somnath Temple, he did not live to see it open. The temple opened in May 1951, five months after Patel’s death. Interestingly, Gandhi also supported the rebuilding of the Somnath temple as did several Congress leaders such as KM Munshi. Jawaharlal Nehru remained the voice of the tiny minority opposed to the temple project.

A Chalukyan style, or more specifically, the Kailas Mahameru Prasad style, was employed in the reconstruction of Somnath. I am no student of architecture but going by what I saw when I visited Badami and its environs, Somnath does not look similar. Perhaps the skills to produce such ornate pillars with such delicate features has been lost and what was achieved was a poor 20^th century imitation. Large parts of the garbha griha and sabha mantap have been plated with gold since 2008. Around the temple, some reclamation work has been done – traditionally, the temple sat on the shore but it is now slightly inland and the beachfront around it has big boulders to break the waves and deter potential attackers. Before the temple, a statue of Patel stands, gazing upon one of Hinduism’s holiest shrines.

I will say that Somnath Temple has been maintained quite well. Temple towns have a reputation for pushing the boundaries of filthiness but Somnath was a pleasant surprise. Even the railway station looked tidy despite handling what must be thousands of pilgrims daily. We came back to our hotel and rested for a bit before driving back to Ahmedabad, a distance of 400 kms. Gujarat is not a small state, and sometimes the distances to be covered are vast. It is only with the network of high quality roads that this trip was possible in so short a time. In fact, we made such good time on our journey that day that we decided to stop by Lothal on the way.

Lothal is another Indus Valley site and is famous for its dry dock (though there has been some debate over this and suggestions that it might just be a large irrigation tank), one of the earliest in the world. The settlement is smaller than Harappa and dates further back. It was also quite prosperous but was subsumed into the Indus Valley fold as waves of migration from the Saraswati-Sindhu basin occurred. The name, ‘Lothal,’ apparently means in Gujarati what ‘Mohenjodaro’ means in Sindhi – mound of the dead – but there is little evidence of burial and lots for cremation at the site. While we do not know much about what the town was like before the Harappans came there, the urban planning and the water management infrastructure mark Lothal as a quintessential Indus Valley settlement. The settlement’s dimensions are roughly 300 metres long by 200 metres wide.

Lothal looked different – less haphazard – from Dholavira, probably because Lothal does not have seven layers of habitation. The town is small yet suited to its purpose, i.e., manufacturing and trade. At Lothal, you see a variety of building materials – the town was built with sun-dried bricks, the water system mainly of kiln-fired bricks, and the wharf and warehouses of mud bricks. Since water was plentiful – too plentiful, in fact – the residents of Lothal could afford to use brick rather than stone and therefore their structures retain a clean and polished finish unlike at Dholavira. The town layout follows a grid, streets and buildings perfectly parallel or perpendicular to others. The superstructures have all vanished due to erosion and theft but the bricks that remain still hold true even after four millennia.

Like its contemporary, Lothal has also been virtually abandoned by the ASI. Grass grows wildly over the site and there did not appear to be anyone guarding it. It would have been very easy for us to pick up and spirit away a few bricks as souvenirs if we so desired. Moss grew over the walls of the dock and several bricks had fallen apart, I would venture from salinity. There is a small museum on site but it was closed when we were there. In terms of accommodation too, there did not appear to be much in the area. Ahmedabad, some 85 kms away, is not particularly well connected to Lothal either – one would have to go to Bagodara or Burkhi and then either catch a local bus or perhaps hitch a ride to Lothal. Thank the gods we were in our own car! There is no food either, the nearest stalls being on the highway some 20 kms away. Sorry, Mr. Bachchan, we would love to breathe in a bit of Gujarat but it is a nuisance to do so.

I should also tell you a little bit about Gujarat’s roads that no one else will. Sure, the roads are broader than they are in India and as smooth as many highways in the developed world. None of that really matters, though – if you are going to have goatherds wantonly cut across the highway with their flocks, people driving on the wrong side of the highway (!!) to avoid 500 m of extra driving to a nearby u-turn, drivers going slow in the fast lane, and an abject disregard for lane discipline, no quality of road will help you! So Gujarat’s roads are good but they also warrant caution, something one tends to forget when a beautiful, black ribbon unfolds to the horizon.

One more thing I found absolutely bonkers about Gujarat is its dogs. Unlike normal creatures that get up and run away when a hominid or a speeding car approaches, these canines do not seem to have a care in the world. I have seen cars slow down for them as they do for cows. The only difference is, drivers are a little less worried about hitting dogs than cows. Naturally. Dogs form the bulk of roadkill on Gujarat’s highways because they also have the habit of leaping at speeding vehicles. That whole thing about puppies and wheels during the 2014 general election campaign is now beginning to take on an entirely different hue – avoiding puppies would require extra care in Gujarat!

After three days of long drives and getting up early, we thought it best to lie in for a day. We stayed in Ahmedabad and explored some of its culinary options as well as a couple of local sights. After some spectacular vadapav in the early afternoon, we headed over to Adalaj to see its famous stepwell, some 20 kms away from Ahmedabad. A quick comment on Gujarati cuisine: I still don’t like it, but it is significantly better than I thought after eating what passes as Gujarati food in Bombay. The dhabelis are a great snack option and the vadapav in Ahmedabad is much better than in its home state of Maharashtra! I did not try all the variants of Gujarati cuisine and honestly, I do not think I regret it. My munching style is far more suited to Iran and the cuisines of the countries around the Mediterranean.

Anyway…Adalaj. The stepwell has an odd history, for starters. It was built by Mahmud Begada, the Sultan of Gujarat, for Queen Roopba, the wife of the Rana Veer Singh of the Vaghela dynasty of Dandai Desh as the territory around Adalaj was known then, after the former had invaded and killed the latter in battle. Begada was apparently overcome by the beauty of the slain king’s wife that he completed the project that Rana Veer Singh had started. Of course, the queen might have preferred that her kingdom not be invaded or her husband killed, but these are minor matters. The stepwell was built in 1499 and once Begada took over the task, in Islamic style. This meant that the well would have no human figurines but instead be decorated only by geometric patterns. Legend has it that the queen agreed to marry Begada only if he finished the well in the memory of her husband but committed suicide in the well as soon as it was completed.

Adalaj is supposed to be beautiful and I can understand that theoretically. Unfortunately, after Rani ki Vav, it was difficult to see Adalaj as much more than a hole in the ground. The well goes down about five storeys and is quite impressive nonetheless. Some Hindu motifs such as the kalpavriksha and Ami Khumbor have survived the Islamic construction and even blended well with Islamic motifs. On the walls of the well and the many pillars can be found carvings of elephants of different sizes, and occasionally, small figurines of women engaged in domestic chores, dancers, and musicians. One can tell that Adalaj was partially built by a Hindu king from its architecture – the trademark prop and lintel system can be seen in the construction around the funnel of the well. I do not wish to take away from Adalaj – it is indeed a beautiful stepwell – but mayhap a bit bland after Rani ki Vav.

We returned to the city and I decided that I wanted to try out the much talked about Bus Rapid Transport System. The system has its plus points and minus points. On the plus side, the buses are all air-conditioned Volvo wagons and the dedicated lanes for the BRTS makes the journey really quick, especially during rush hour. On the minus side, BRTS is not integrated with the older bus systems in Ahmedabad that serve the more crowded localities and have roads narrower than BRTS can navigate. The stealing of two lanes by BRTS from a regular six-lane road also frustrates many motorists. However, the dedicated lanes solve the problem only up to a point – BRTS is vulnerable at traffic junctions. Ticket prices are comparable to similar services in other cities such as Bangalore.

I took the BRTS to visit the famous Hutheesing Jain Temple. Built in 1848, Hutheesing took Rs. 800,000 to build and is dedicated to the 15^th thirthankara, Dharmanatha. The temple was built during a famine and its construction gave much-needed employment to hundreds of labourers and craftsmen. I was surprised to see the quality of craftsmanship that had gone into the temple; I did not expect to see a temple built so recently to even attempt to imitate the grandeur of the past. Hutheesing Temple does a decent job, though, and it makes me reflect unfavourably on all the Maratha temple renovations around the country that look amateurish by comparison.

On my last day in Gujarat, I decided to go see the other World Heritage site in the state – Champaner, or more accurately, Champaner-Pavagadh. I had not heard any great reviews of the place from any of my friends or relatives who had visited Gujarat previously but surely, a World Heritage site must have something to it! Champaner is 150 kms from Ahmedabad but a good chunk of that distance can be traversed on the National Expressway 1, perhaps the best stretch of road there is in India presently and running between Ahmedabad and Baroda.

Champaner is no more than a village and a dirty one at that, albeit a 1,200-year-old one, and the points of interest are scattered all over the place. The Heritage Trust of Baroda lists 114 monuments there of which only 39 are being maintained by the ASI. The entire archaeological park contains mosques, temples, forts, wells, tombs, custom houses, and all sorts of interesting structures. Champaner must have been a strategic place because of all the hills surrounding it. Indeed, the Rajputs used the town as a stronghold in the region until they were defeated by Mahmud Begada in 1484. The town went into rapid decline after Mughal emperor Humayun sacked it in 1535.

We did not intend to spend three days in Champaner, sifting through all the monuments. For one, my history of Gujarat is weak and were I to attempt such a comprehensive tour, all monuments would start to blur into each other. I was particularly interested in the Jama Masjid and the Saat Kaman. The Jama Masjid is an interesting construction with several Hindu features incorporated into it. The building is on a plinth, is decorated by motifs such as pots, vines, and even lotuses, and its dome is lifted above the structure on short pillars to allow air to circulate inside. The ASI manages the site and it therefore has the obligatory lawns; however, Jama Masjid and indeed, Champaner itself, had hardly any tourists. I was beginning to wonder if India’s Ministry of Tourism even exists and it is not all just a myth.

Jama Masjid was a beautiful monument, as were a couple of the other mosques we stopped to see on the way to Jama Masjid. There was, nonetheless, a visible qualitative difference between the Jama Masjid and the other mosques. From the mosque, we drove to Saat Kaman, half way up Pavagadh Hill. There is a Kalika Mata temple on top and the route up is called patha, or pilgrim’s route. This path is considered to be the soul of Chamapner and the saat kaman, or seven arches, have become a marker of the town. When I got to there, I was sorely disappointed.

The saat kaman are a very unassuming structure – small, tucked away, and simple. I have no earthly clue what made this one of the favourite subject for tourism posters of Gujarat. So shocked were we that we actually asked a guard nearby if this was indeed the much talked about saat kaman. The seven arches seems to have been a military outpost of some kind for the view from there was quite good and the breeze would be most enjoyable on a hot Gujarati summer’s day. We looked around a bit to see if we had missed anything – we still could not reconcile ourselves to the humbleness of the seven arches – and finally left.

There is much to see and do in Gujarat. One can visit the state as a pilgrim, a wildlife lover, a tourist, or even as a foodie. For me, it was clearly the history that attracted me. One thing that struck me as I readied to go home was that despite the shabby condition of several of the tourist attractions in Gujarat, not one of them sported the traditional Indian defacement of idiotic graffiti such as ‘Jignes loves Nehal’ or ‘Samir wuz here.’ I do not know how they achieved that – perhaps by not promoting tourism at all – but kudos, guys…excellent job.

Something else I noticed was the ubiquitous presence of signs in Gujarati. Everyone understands Hindi, at least in my experience, but signs in Gujarat, from signboards to nameplates, appear mostly in Gujarati. A distant second choice is English, but I saw very little Hindi. Of course, Gujarati is the state language and this should not have surprised me but I took for granted the presence of Hindi alongside English and the local language as I have experienced in Bombay and Bangalore. I suppose this will be an example for the parochially minded elements in other states I shall not mention!

All my travelogues have an ode to the Indian tourist, and this one should not be any different. The good news is that Gujarat’s historical treasures do not seem to suffer from the vandalism and littering other states in India do. The bad news is that the pendulum has swung to the other extreme on this, all the way to neglect and apathy. Dholavira and Lothal appear to be ghost towns in more ways than one but even at Champaner and Modhera, there were few tourists around. At Patan, Rani ki Vav had devolved into a picnic ground thanks to the beautiful lawns provided by the National Gardeners’ Association, also known as the ASI. People were eating, sleeping, and even playing badminton, all things I did not realise were on the agenda at the palaces of Schönbrunn or Versailles. What is more, I suspect many of them had come there with the express purpose of picnicking and not to see the stepwell.

I had a great trip. I already have two itineraries planned for my next visits, one exclusively focusing on the smaller Indus Valley sites that have fallen off the tourist map and another more general one covering the reserve forests, temples, and contemporary history – meaning post 1200 CE. Ahmedabad itself has a lot to offer that I could not avail of this time. This first reconnaissance visit achieved a lot in terms of sight-seeing as well as giving me a feel for the place, its infrastructure, and its logistics that you cannot get from the internet. Here is to hoping that “next time” will come soon 🙂

A few photographs from my travels: