Thursday 15th February 2007: Ahmedabad

I’ve now spent three days in Ahmedabad, and am off to Anand to visit IRMA, the stuff of last autumn’s legends. I’m glad to have had an opportunity to stay here for a few days and get something of an idea of the city, which gives even the most casual observer a feeling of its importance – culturally, commercially and historically. The  old part of the city was founded by Ahmed Shah in 1411 to serve as the capital of the Sultanate of Gujarat which had recently splintered from the Delhi Sultanate. Ahmed’s  successors included quite a number of Mahmuds and Mohammeds, and Bahadur Shah, the selfsame who enlisted Portuguese troops to sack Chittor in 1535.

Ahmedabad

   This old walled city is the part of Ahmedabad I like best. The walls themselves are no longer present, but various city gates are intact. Two main roads run east to west through this section: MG Road and Relief Road. The latter is a buzzing, traffic-choked artery, lined with medium-sized shops, businesses and hotels. I’ve grown partial to it, because it reminds me in a way of Bombay or even London. Coming off Relief Road on both sides are fascinating little enclosed neighbourhoods called pols.
    These tend to take the form of long, narrow, blind-ending streets, sometimes with a few offshoots of their own. They are dells of quiet, completely shutting out the noise of the nearby road. Either side of the paths are dilapidatedly attractive houses with wooden balconies, normally filled with plants in pots and hung with washing. Life seems to be lived outside in the pols, as men sprawl on string-bed charpoys and watch women washing clothes or pans, and kids playing cricket. Many families have a caged bird or two on their verandah. Some of the pols have small shops or businesses and many have their own temples. Judging by their names, such as Soni Pol, I suspect many of them were traditionally divided on caste lines, although I wasn’t able to ascertain whether this is still the case. Certainly there are several exclusively Jain neighbourhoods and many Muslim neighbourhoods.
   Much of the area to the south of Relief Road is entirely Muslim, with plenty of mosques and a chicken market, which in addition to live chickens boasts a number of street restaurants that serve tandoori chicken, fried fish, livers, kidneys, brains and other anatomical delicacies. In a spirit of mildly horrified fascination, I treated myself to two plates of Brain Fry one cerebral night, and suffered no ill effects.
   Overall, this part of the city is far grimier than anything I have seen in Udaipur. Alongside the deteriorating old houses are numerous chawls, modern but rapidly decaying concrete residential blocks, another feature that calls Bombay to mind. All this is to the east of the river, the wide Sabarmati, flanked by slums which back onto medium-rise tower blocks. The Sabarmati is at her most appealing at around sunset, when the unhealthy breeze is at least cool and an orange light is reflected in the river and in the glass of the tower blocks, allowing the slums to take on a misleadingly picturesque air. There are several very busy bridges leading over to the other side.
   The west side appears to be the more affluent of the two, if I read the fancy hotels, shopping complexes and Café Coffee Days accurately. Although it is quite as trafficky as the other side, there seems to be more of a sense of space here. This feeling is enhanced by the various parks, including the Law Garden. I strolled here in the dark of Valentine’s Night and it was predictably full of smooching couples, so I didn’t linger. Nearby is Gujarat College, a decaying collection of Indo-Saracenic buildings (i.e. red-brick, neo-Gothic and with oriental flourishes), many with dusty, broken windows. A student who didn’t speak much English showed me round and took me to some of his friends’ rooms – a fairly typical Indian all-male student scene, bordering on the homoerotic in places. Later I met a student who was at Gujarat University and he told me that Gujarat College was “a very lower-middle class place”. I think he was referring to its academic, rather than social credentials.
   Stretching out in all directions from this nucleus straddling the Sabarmati are broad, fast-moving highways flanked with low-rise concrete blocks – apartments, emporia, small businesses, big businesses – all sharing that one alien but coveted quality: personal space. Statistically speaking, this urban hinterland is probably where most of Ahmedabadi life goes on.
   Zooming back east into the older part of town, one of the most interesting features is the collection of sultanate-period mosques. Right near my hotel, on a traffic island, is the Sidi Saiyadi Mosque with beautiful latticed windows which I first visited on that afternoon back in September.

 Latticed windows, Sidi Saiyadi Masjid

Down near the river I visited Ahmed Shah’s Mosque which, with its thousand-pillar hall and ornate domes, reminded me more of a Jain temple than anything else. Subsequently I read on the signboard that this mosque, and many others in Ahmedabad built in the 15th-16th centuries, borrowed a lot from Hindu and Jain temple architecture. This particular mosque was apparently inspired by a Jain temple in Cambay. Most pleasing of all the mosques, near the station, was the Sidi Bashir Mosque, with two glorious, chunkily elaborate minarets. “Shaking minarets” to be precise, that were designed to withstand geological tremors and hence survived the 2001 earthquake. All these mosques, like the pols, provide a wonderful calm, away from the hectic city.
   Ahmedbad also has a crop of interesting temples. Just this afternoon I visited the Hatheesing Mandir, a Jain temple that dates from 1848. It is pretty and very ornate, like so many Jain temples, but verges on the twee. More interesting, culturally, is the Swaminarayan temple in the northern part of the old city. It is part-wooden part- marble and exuberantly multicoloured. The temple itself is housed in a courtyard surrounded by more marble buildings with sloping wooden roofs, which serve as offices and monastic quarters. Swaminarayan himself was a 19th century spiritual leader who travelled round northwest India propagating a new religion that is supposedly free from hypocrisy and sham, and open to anybody. The movement is huge worldwide, and this temple serves as its headquarters. Men and women are strictly segregated in the temple, as “you can’t mix petrol and fire together” according to one old devotee.
   There was a fairly relaxed darshan as the Narayan-Nara (Krishna-Arjuna, God-Man) idol was unveiled. It amused me no end to see one man video-ing the idol on his mobile throughout the darshan. I later explored the monastic buildings and chatted to some of the brahmacharyas (priests) and their disciples. I talked particularly to a disciple who, like me, was twenty-two and therefore able, I felt, to give me the most accessible picture of life as a devotee of Swaminarayan. He joined the sect in 2001, as far as I could glean of his own volition, and spends most of his life in the temple compound, studying under his guru, another brahmacharya. Of course this means no meat, no alcohol, no sex – he seemed to enjoy relating this last one, in a sort of ecstasy of self-denial rather than in a “holier than thou” sense. Perhaps most profoundly alien of all, this lifestyle means not being able to go out and have fun with one’s friends or even visit one’s parents, although this young man’s parents came to visit once a week and his sister would sometimes phone him. I wonder what they talk about! The current spiritual head (acharya) of the sect is a direct biological descendant of Swaminarayan, if I understood correctly, meaning that the acharyas themselves are not celibate. He comes to the temple every day and knows all his disciples by name. Most surprisingly, my friend, whose name I never found out (or if I did I forgot it straight away) is going to accompany the acharya to Kenya in May, on a spiritual journey.
   A visit to the city museum revealed many more interesting things about the city. After the sultanate crumbled, the Mughals predictably arrived, and during parts of the 16th and 17th centuries, Ahmedabad was once again answerable to the court in Delhi. Later on, in common with much of the west of India, it fell to the Hindu Marathas who held sway until the start of British control in 1818. A section of the museum was devoted to the religions of Ahmedabad, and as well as the expected displays on Hinduism, Islam, Christianity, Jainism and Sikhism, there were tantalising displays on Zoroastrianism and Judaism.
   Unsurprisingly, I made it something of a mission to track down these newly-learnt-about Jewish and Parsi communities, and made a note of the address of the Parsi temple from the museum display. With some help from a gang of Muslim friends I managed to locate the Parsi Agyari (fire temple) in Khamasa Marg. The compound consisted of a block of flats, a small garden, a fire temple and an office. After some slightly embarrassing loitering, my presence was noticed by somebody in the office, who reluctantly came out and asked what I wanted. Telling him I wanted to ask some questions seemed to mollify him rather than arouse his suspicions, and he gamely satisfied my curiosity on a few points. There are around 1,700 Parsis in Ahmedabad, living all over the city, and worshipping in two temples. I subsequently spotted the other temple, unmistakable by its vulture emblem, on the way to visit a lake and dramatically shouted at my rickshaw driver to stop, but the temple grounds proved empty of people then, and on two re-visits. The man I spoke to at the Parsi Agyari told me that the Parsis only came to Ahmedabad 100 years ago, but I am not entirely sure if he meant this. There have been Parsis in Gujarat, especially near Surat and Navsari, since 700 AD when they first arrived at Sanjan, via Diu, from Iran, and it seems astonishing that none would have found their way to Ahmedabad during the first five centuries of its existence. He also tried explaining to me why Parsis worship in fire temples, although I fear I may only have taken away half the argument – that is, that fire, alongside earth, air, water and, curiously, moon, is an element given to us by God (or rather Ahura Mazda) as a means of survival, and is therefore seen as the proper medium through which to worship Him.
   So much for the characteristically elusive Parsis. The Jewish community, replete with the only synagogue in Gujarat (the Magen Abraham Synagogue) traditionally resided in Bukhara Mohalla. Although I was not aware of this when I visited the Parsi Agyari, Bukhara Mohalla is in fact just across the road. I found the address, prosaically, on the internet and so headed back the next day to Khamasa Marg. I walked down the lane next to the Synagogue and spotted an old man and his wife in their kitchen, through an open door. He had a pale face and beard and wore a cap of sorts. Obviously, he must be Jewish! It was clear before I opened my mouth that I wished to speak to him and so he stepped outside and revealed himself quickly as a Muslim. He took me through a narrow passageway to the house of the only local Jewish family and called up the stairs. A good-looking boy of about seventeen and his pretty, slightly younger sister, came down the stairs. Abraham, who spoke the excellent English that can only have been picked up at an English Medium school, tried to let me in through a gate to the back of the synagogue, but was unable to unlock it. He then instructed me to go round to the front of the synagogue where I could meet his father, who worked in the office there. This I duly did. The father, who had no physical feature distinguishing him from any Hindu, Muslim or Jain I had met, was initially a little curt and suspicious but let me look round the somewhat dingy synagogue and slowly warmed to his subject.
   All the Jews in Ahmedabad (the father told me) are Bene Israel, the enigmatic Maharashtrian community who some believe date from the original diaspora, and came from Maharashtra around 150 to 200 years ago. Most speak Marathi, but pray in Hebrew, although I suspect many speak very good English like Abraham and his father. Today only sixty families remain in Ahmedabad, as many have moved to Israel and elsewhere, but (unsurprisingly perhaps, given the Jewish legacy elsewhere)
they are a notably cultured and academic community who have, in the past, included an eminent zoologist and a Sanskritologist among their number. Currently eight or so Ahmedabadi Jews run English Medium schools in the city. There is, however, no rabbi, and recently a rabbi (presumably Indian, although I didn’t ask) was flown over from Canada to perform a Bar Mitzvah.
    “Has the Jewish community experienced any difficulties in Ahmedabad?”  I asked him, as we walked out of the synagogue into the little vestibule that opened directly onto the street.
    “No,” he replied, not at all put out by the question as one might have expected in a city famed for its communal tensions. “Not yet, at any rate.”
    We parted, and I walked back round to the Bukhara Mohalla, hoping to meet some more Jewish families. A friendly Muslim man quickly put an end to any fantasies on that score – all the Jews on the street left decades ago except Abraham’s family. He pointed out two or three houses that had had Jewish owners when he was a child. All have gone to Israel now. Something slightly poignant about that.

Inside the Magen Abraham Synagogue

(Credit: Israelimages.com) 

*

Having unintentionally turned this entry into something of an epic, I’ve just taken an extended supper break in a thali place called Pakwan. Really one of the most terrifyingly efficient places I’ve ever been to. As soon as I sat down, an army of waiters descended on me, filling the little containers on my plate with all the usual tasty Gujarati thali standards – dal, bindi, palak paneer, aloo, along with tiny chapattis and crushed up papad that tasted more like Doritos than anything else. There was also some excellent carrot halwa and a bowl of something delicious and suspiciously like condensed milk!
   In general, the food has been very good here, particularly the thalis, composed of numerous dishes, including a couple that were intriguingly savoury and sweet in equal measure. I have been eating breakfast in a little joint called Lucky Hotel, across the road from the dump that passes as my hotel. Cheese toast and coffee has become my regular. Tea in Ahmedabad is generally flavoured with cardamom and tends to be more expensive than in Udaipur (Rs 5-6, rather than Rs 2-3), but usually served in larger quantities, in thick-rimmed china mugs. It is customary to pour the tea onto the saucer, from which it is slurped directly.

*

I visited Gandhi’s ashram, the Sabarmati Ashram, this afternoon. All the original buildings are still there. There is also a museum with a daunting array of display boards, the most interesting being a section on the “ashram years” (1917 – 1930), which included details on the origins of Satyagraha, several arrests, and culminated with the Salt March in 1930. Much as I admire what Gandhi stood for and achieved, and much as I find accounts of his thoughts and personality, not least his gently acerbic sense of humour, greatly attractive, there are aspects of his doctrine that I find hard to appreciate. These include some of the more self-denying ashram rules – celibacy, not owning anything that satisfies more than one’s basic needs and, most disturbing of all, renunciation of the pleasures of the palate. Food, Gandhi advocated, should be taken like medicine or as a necessity, not an indulgence. In a country with a collective food obsession (even in the poorest villages) to rival that of Italy or France, this tenet seems like a cultural barbarism to me, even if it stems directly from traditions of Hindu asceticism. Far more readily understandable are the more “obvious” principles of ashram life, such as truth (satya), non-violence (ahimsa) and the eradication of untouchability – it was Gandhi who called the lowest castes the harijans, the “Children of God” although they are now better known as Dalits, the oppressed.

 Sabarmati Ashram

 
   The ashram itself, by the banks of the Sabarmati, is shady and spacious and extremely peaceful, so that college students come here to study and revise for exams. The peace was shattered briefly when what appeared to be the whole of Western Europe flocked in without warning. I later heard, second hand, that they were Spanish. As I was leaving the ashram, peace long-since restored, I came up against a barrage of people at the exit waiting to leave. The road ahead was empty, and it turned out that everybody had to wait because the President of India, Abdul Kalam, was going to drive through at any minute. A couple of police cars passed at one minute intervals, presumably to ensure the road was safe, and shortly a fleet of twenty or thirty vehicles, police vans flanking a convoy of white Ambassadors, drove past. I didn’t see Dr Kalam himself, but I couldn’t help thinking how shocked Gandhiji would have been by this display of precisely the pomp that he had struggled so long and hard to avoid.

*

So what are my overall impressions of Ahmedabad? Its size is inescapable. In fact, at 4.5 million, I only know of six Indian cities larger: Bombay, Delhi, Calcutta, Chennai, Bangalore and Hyderabad. If it cannot quite be compared with the three greatest metros, then what about the triad of southern cities? It is not trendy like Bangalore and Hyderabad and has not enjoyed the same economic boom of the Silicon Age that these two have. The best model is perhaps Chennai, a working metropolis that functions in a regional language – Gujarati in this case, Tamil in the case of Chennai. It certainly has wealth, as evidenced by the shops over the river, but it also has poverty.
   I am a little confused as to its values – is it conservative, like the cities of Rajasthan, or more progressive? I would guess that it is relatively conservative, but less so certainly than Jodhpur and Jaisalmer, and probably Udaipur and Jaipur (although Jaipur, according to newspaper accounts, is “coming up”). Most women wear traditional clothes, but couples are a far more common sight on the streets than in Udaipur. As I say, it doesn’t appear to be a party city, although this is no doubt partly due to the illegality of alcohol in Gujarat. If the alcohol laws are relaxed, then things may change rapidly, especially with the country’s phenomenal economic growth rate. And judging by a pun-laden article I read in The Times of India yesterday, this policy looks likely to be under review soon:

“After tightly keeping it corked for almost half a century now, Gandhi’s Gujarat is finally letting the liquor bogie, oops genie, out of the proverbial bottle…[the article goes on to describe the debate “flowing freely” and highlights a “Malt March” [22] by local youths, which involved drinking in public view in Gandhinagar, the diminutive planned town which is actually the official state capital, and concludes that:] “Already Gujarati businessmen…are raising a toast to a softer policy on hard drinks.”

That aside, Ahmedabad has a strong history of public intellectuals and philanthropists and is generally regarded as the centre of a flourishing Gujarati arts scene, literature scene and regional-language cinema (“Pilms accha nahin lagti hain” – the films aren’t good – according to a boy who cut my hair). If I ever visit Ahmedabad again, I’d like to have some contacts, preferably of the educated, intellectual variety, who could help me unlock more of the city’s inner life.
   A few more impressions linger: a mad Muslim man dressed in green, peripatetically haranguing the streets of his pol on some issue of doctrine; an unexpectedly beautiful English teacher who broke off from her class in a dingy backstreet room to practise conversation with me. And lastly, on my way back from supper this evening, I dived into an attractive-looking pol and found myself having to explain my presence to its baffled, even suspicious residents. I was particularly intrigued by a large colonial mansion, set aside from the rest of the street and separated by a wall, with the name “Sunbeam” inscribed on its gate post. The people in the street told me that its owners were a pair of wealthy, elderly Parsi twin sisters. Another glimpse into the elusive world of latter-day Zoroastrianism.

Footnotes: 

[22] A reference, of course, to Gandhi's famous "Salt March" in 1930 where is troop of non-violent protesters marched from Sabarmati Ashram in Dandi, on the coast, and made their own salt in a protest against the British Salt Tax.


Next Post - Tuesday 20th February 2007: IRMA and Bhavnagar (will be posted Monday 20th Februrary 2012)