Changthang in Winter

THE CHANGTHANG IN WINTER


The Changthang is a forbidding place. Altitudes range from 14,000 to 18,500 feet above sea level - the air thus gives a person a little over half the oxygen that is available in the plains, making any form of activity, physical or mental, an ordeal. The sun's rays cut a swathe through the thin air in all seasons, burning any exposed skin with ultra-violet radiation. Temperatures drop to forty-five below in winter, and diurnal variation is high throughout the year. Temperature differences between sun and shade make it one of the few places in the world in which one can get chill blains and sun burn at the same time. The stark and barren landscape and the wide valleys provide little protection from the elements, especially the wind, which blows through at high speeds and enhances the cold with a wind chill factor that decreases the temperature by upto another forty degrees. The desert air is extremely dry, and soaks up body water content without the person realising it. Weather is unpredictable and snowfall or landslides can block roads for weeks at a time. The main road through the region, the Leh - Manali highway, is blocked due to snowfall for nine months a year, and communications within the region are particularly weak. Field work in the Changthang, for all these reasons, plays havoc with schedules, PERT charts, and other project planning tools. The region also provides conditions that test the motivation, commitment and endurance of any research team.

Most of this report is about the Changpas, and the means by which they eke out an existence in these conditions. In the process of compiling this information, a team of twenty people have spent a total of two hundred and fifty person days in the Changthang, working through the best and the worst the region has to offer, in winter and summer, through rain, snow, hail and shine and at altitudes of up to over 17,000 feet. Most of the team are from Leh and its surrounding villages, only four are from the plains of India. Six members of the team had been into the Changthang before the study, of which four (all from LNP) had previous experience of its winter. This chapter chronicles the experiences of the team in working in the Changthang, the difficulties faced and the realities of collecting information with the communities here. It is hoped that others planning similar exercises in harsh regions can gain some practical advice from the team's experience.

The team's first experience of the Changthang was in December 1997, when five of us gave our baseline methodology a trial. We chose the small and relatively accessible village of Sumdo for this. The trial itself went like a dream. We reached the village easily. The listing averaged between 10 and 15 minutes per household, and the detailed questionnaire between 40 and 50, within the targets. The questions were easily understood, people were willing to give the time, and most of the information was readily forthcoming. The only problem area was the household wealth ranking exercise - the community were not willing to say that one household was richer or poorer than another. This was adjusted for by obtaining from the community a basis for categorising households into economic slabs, which we then used along with our listing data to slot households into economic categories. Our methodology held out, and we got that first experience of what genuine cold is like. The trial visit to Sumdo gave our confidence a great boost.

Needless to add, the actual baseline survey in late February was not quite as smooth. The logistics of taking a (much larger) team into the interiors of the Changthang were quite different from that of reaching the small and accessible Sumdo. It was considerably colder, and the passes had more snow. Much time was spent in carving a route through the snow along the Polokhonkha pass to reach and leave Samad. The researchers were of diverse backgrounds, and, despite the training they underwent, initial problems with the questionnaire were experienced. For example, the listings were taking too long - from 30 to 60 minutes each - apparently because they were too small to cover what a people who had not been 'surveyed' before had to share. Respondents were also unhappy with the detailed questionaire because it began with household morbidity and mortality issues. The learning curve soon sorted these problems out.

Other problems relating to the baseline survey remained with us right through the study. It was decided to undertake baseline surveys in Kharnak and Korzok in the summer due to logistical difficulties - the road into Kharnak was completely blocked with snow and the Korzok Changpas were wintering in the remote and inaccessible location of Thagajung. This created three problems. The first was one of methodology, collating and equating data collected from different villages in different seasons. The second was that the same researchers were not available to us in summer, and we were unable to invest the same level of effort and resources in training the new researchers again. Our expectation that reduced training would be offset by the new researchers' higher qualifications and previous development experience in Ladakh (though not in Changthang) did not prove true. They brought stereotyped Ladakhi perceptions of the Changpas as being poor, miserable and pathetic with them, which were played up by those being surveyed to the detriment of the quality of information collected, especially on assets. The third was that about sixty of the Korzok Changpa households were away with their herds towards Manali, and therefore fell out of the ambit of the survey. For these reasons, we decided to abandon the baseline survey of Kharnak and take our Korzok information with a pinch of salt. Therefore, while our qualitative information has been evenly collected from all the villages except Angkung, we back it up with quantitative information only from the first baseline survey.

A word about the training. It was held for the baseline survey team in early February at Dharsiks village (Batalik region, Kargil district), thanks to the hospitality of Kargil Development Project, a local NGO. The Dak Bungalow in which we stayed overlooked the Indus, whose waters were tinged with blue and whose banks were lined with snow - a stunningly beautiful location. The training was to familiarize the team with the objectives of the study, the research tools and basic PRA techniques. The practical aspects of research were learnt in the adjoining villages of Dharsiks and Garkon, both of which were adversely effected by the war two years later. This was an interesting place to be in - along a hostile border where strangers are viewed with great suspicion. Discussions here often took a hilarious turn, such as one on the local community's pure Aryan antecedents and how neo-Nazi women from Europe come here to quote get crossed unquote. This was verified, to our surprise, by an article in an issue of The India Magazine around that time. Our heart goes out to the fine people we met at that time.


The baseline survey and a depth studies session were done in the worst of the winter, across February. The feedback session in the field was conducted in November, in the midst of an unprecedented cold wave. Dealing with the cold was thus an important component of our own survival strategies. More so because the Changthang has no staying facilities for outsiders - we stayed in open stone and mud huts, community tents or rebos which offered little protection from the elements.

The first aspect of this was preparation. Finding out what extreme cold is, and preparing oneself mentally and physically for it. It was difficult, in an office room in Delhi or even in the comfort of Leh town, to visualise what minus forty-five really meant. We located people who had experience of such temperatures, such as an ex-soldier who had done a stint at Siachen, a retired merchant navy man who used to do the Alaska Seattle run in winter and a Norwegian friend who had done his military service in the northern Finnmark region of his country. They gave us an idea of what extreme cold really is, how it effects one and what protection mechanisms are necessary. Physical fitness was also worked upon, and heavy multi-layer jackets and sleeping bags procured.

And yet, nothing can quite prepare one for the biting cold in the Changthang. For the abrupt changes, from -13c when it is snowing to -25c when it stops and the sun comes out, all in the matter of half an hour in February. Or when the evening sets in in November, and the temperature drops from -15c to -35 over one hour. For the bright sunny days, when the sun is sharp and yet the temperature reading is -25c. For having to perform your morning ablutions in the open in -28c temperature, squatting in the snow and minimising the surface area of the bum that is exposed without impeding free fall of the matter. For fine tuning your body's water content before sleeping such that you do not require to urinate at night, and yet do not let the dry air dehydrate you. And when you do have to urinate at night, to get out of three layers of sleeping bag, put on enough clothes and shoes to take on the -45c outside temperature, avoid the dogs, expose yourself, do the job, and then return and tuck yourself in once again. Experience is the only effective form of preparation.

In that, we were lucky. The LNP people knew the conditions well, and influenced us accordingly. Each field expedition was accompanied by a cook, whose sole job was to ensure that the team was fed in style and plenty and that hot tea, coffee and goodies flowed through the day. This may come across as a luxury to the reader but, we assure you, this man made life in difficult conditions much much easier and was worth his weight in gold. We also followed some basic principles, such as wearing as many layers of clothing as possible and tightening the ends so that air was trapped in between layers. These layers of air were most effective in keeping the cold out. A kerosene bukhari was used to bring warmth into the tent during crucial periods, such as when we got out of our sleeping bags in the morning (in February, it was -14c inside the tent when we woke up). Activities such as washing, brushing and changing clothes were minimised, and bathing did not even venture into our imagination.

Being there in winter had its rewards. The Changthang is a different experience in different seasons, and winter gives it its harshest hue. The landscape, when combined with the elements, is so beautiful at this time that it defies description. Just standing outside in the evening with three hundred and sixty degrees of white snow and clear blue sky, and taking in the cold, dry air with the sun going down, is an experience that makes one believe that God has to exist. The very exclusivity of the experience, the knowledge that few people from our world will ever be here at this time to take this in, enhances the reward considerably. Those of us who participated in the February field work walked taller upon our return, and peppered our conversation in Delhi with snippets like 'oh, you know, minus forty'. Despite the difficulties, we all agree that we would not have missed this for the world. In addition to the experience of it, our work in winter gave the study considerable credibility, especially with the local government and with the Changpas themselves.

May had minimum temperatures in the region of -10c, with sudden snowfalls on most nights we were there. After February, we found this positively pleasant, and the more hardened among us slept outside in these conditions. The weather and the staying conditions made the August field work feel like a holiday. It was bright, sunny and warm, requiring a little more than a T-shirt during the day. Being in the tourist season, a tent camp accommodation was available to us at Korzok with running water and showers. Our perfect record for not bathing was spoilt when Dr. Dhruv Mankad, one August morning, made use of the latter facility.

The general daily schedule followed by the team during field work was as follows. We were ready and breakfasted by 0930-1000 hours, and then broke up into smaller teams as pre-ordained in the team meeting of the night before to settle into allocated tasks for the pre-lunch session. Lunch would be taken between 1300 and 1400 hours, which was followed by undertaking tasks of the post lunch session. The evening programme involved a team meeting and dinner. The post-dinner period was reserved for non-work related discussions on various subjects, and rendering of flowery Urdu poetry.

Group discussions with the community required a fair amount of innovation. Getting people together was not difficult, especially in winter and spring when we had some curiosity value, but keeping them there was. Groups broke up for the usual reasons, people had work or they were getting bored, as well as some unusual ones, such as when a wolf attack had us all scurrying for cover. Maintaining the focus of the discussion was often a problem, usually caused by a divergence between what we the researchers wanted to talk about and what the people we were talking with wanted to talk about. For example, when we talked with a group of women at Tibra on their understanding of poverty and development in May, just after a long and arduous winter in which livestock losses had been high, all that was on the women’s minds was compensation from the government. We managed to change the focus of the discussion to responsibilities of the government to the community, and came out with an interesting analysis - that the important things the government should do were in the fields of education and health.

Map drawing with the community used to always be an interesting exercise, as they found this the best method by which to explain their migratory cycles. On one occasion in February, Mr. Nawang Skalzang, the then Goba of Samad, drew out his village's migratory routes with a stick on the few inches of snow that covered the ice on Tso Kar lake, out in the open during a snow storm and in temperatures of -13c. We managed to photograph the event - possibly one of the most exotic locations for a PRA exercise.

The field team's main assets were the members from LNP, who knew each and every household in the region by virtue of their ten years of work among the Changpas. Their rapport with the community had an immense benefit for the study, as contact and credibility were never an issue. Staying arrangements would be made for us by the community in all the villages we visited because LNP was with us. The goodwill LNP enjoys among the Changpas is despite the fact that they had pulled out from the Changthang in deference to funding shortages some years ago, and only maintain a basic community contact programme here. They must have done some incredible work here.

Thanks to them, discussions on issues such as love, courtship and marriage were possible with both men and women. One such discussion, between us and a group of young girls took place at Kharnak in August. This turned quite frank, so much so that the younger children hanging around had to be turfed out because the girls were afraid they would tattle to their parents. The girls managed to turn the interview around by asking us about our work, and then about which of the Changpa villages did we find the girls prettiest and about courtship practices in Delhi (neither of which was an area of expertise for us). Our diplomatic skills were put to considerable test by them. Another discussion, with a young boy of 20, had him reveal his love for a girl which he was sure was returned but not yet expressed by the girl. We met the girl later during a night jhabroo session and looked for signs as to whether this was the case, and did not discover any. Yet, when he asked us the next day what we thought (being from Delhi apparently makes one an expert on such issues) we told him that she seemed to like him, and that he should go ahead and take a positive step. Hope he's OK!

Working with women was quite easy. There were no social barriers to discussions with us, though free time was a problem. Their level of participation in mixed groups was at almost the same level as in women only groups, and age hierarchies appeared to be more constraining than those of gender. To those of us used to working in U.P and Rajasthan, where one has to meet the eyes only of the oldest women in group meetings, it was quite a new experience. In fact, in Changthang, there appeared to be few specific barriers to women in terms of mobility, economic participation or access to services. It was therefore a considerable surprise to us when we analyzed the listing data from three villages and found a sex ratio of Jaisalmeresque proportions, i.e. around 800 females per thousand males, which was even lower among children. Much time was spent searching for social practices which were female unfriendly, both in the field and during feedback sessions, but no serious explanations emerged. The most colourful one, offered by Frederic Drew in a book written in 1875, was that fewer women were born to the community and this is nature’s way of adjusting for extra women in polyandrous communities. Any takers?

Good information often came from unusual places, such as the old folks of Samad. The Samad Changpas are permanently nomadic and have an unusual system of retirement for those past the age of being peripatetic. The old all stay in one location, Thukshey, around the year, apart from the community except for 15 to 20 days in winter when this forms the village camp site. We stumbled upon them by accident, as we used Thukshey as a base for field work in Samad and generally chatted to them in the evenings until we discovered their potential as a source of information. They were a pleasure to work with, tuned in to the latest in village affairs, memories of past events crystal clear, untiring and thrilled at the prospect of having a captive as well as attentive audience. The enormity of the Indo-China war of 1962 and its effect on the Changpas, the turf wars with Tibetan refugees over pastures, the inter-village feuds, these wizened old men and women were decision makers at the time of these events and they brought in a perspective and level of detail which we would have missed completely.

There were instances when the differences between us, the settled city dudes, and them, the nomadic free spirits, came across quite starkly. It was felt the most when we were discussing health problems in Korzok, and touched upon the issue of mental health. We asked the group we were discussing this with whether anyone in the past ten years had committed suicide. They went into a discussion among themselves and then posed a counter question to us - do people actually die in such a manner? That sure gave us some food for thought.

While roaming around in August, we came across an Amchi on his rounds somewhere near Sumdo, along a stream with a fair amount of green grass. Dhruv Mankad, a medical doctor who was with us at the time, sat him down and they had a long discussion on the relative merits of the allopathic and Tibetan systems of medicine. As the two systems have a history of being conflicting and competitive in Ladakh, the rest of us were reminded of summit meetings between Reagan and Gorbachov in the eighties. Unlike them, mutual respect was achieved between Tsering Phuntsok and Dhruv at Sumdo.

As a topic of study, change was discussed in considerable detail by the project team and the advisory groups. We initially felt that we would study two changes in great detail for the Changpas, the first being the change from polyandrous to monogamous systems of marriage (a social change) and the second being the change from a nomadic to a settled lifestyle (an economic change). It was then decided that, in an attempt to be more participative in our approach, we would let the community define what they understood as change and study the processes involved in that change. This approach had interesting results - to the community change was the Indo-China War of 1962, the supply of subsidized rations, or (in the case of women) the introduction of smokeless chullas. Change was essentially events which unfolded on the community to which they had to adjust; they had little role in the decision making process that led to these events taking place. The processes by which adjustment took place and the effects on the community had immense learning value. On the other hand, we were not able to concentrate on processes which create change within the community. In a way, not thrusting our view of change on the study has been a loss as well as a gain.

Teamwork was an important factor in the field. The team for each field work session was made up of different people, with a core group who participated in every field work. The team would divide itself into several two or three person groups for the depth studies, with local language skills, extrovert personalities and greater knowledge of the project being shared across the groups. The same groups worked together for the duration of the field session, which led to each individual being able to make his or her own space within the group. The advantage of working with people experienced in the field of extension came to the fore during the field sessions, as a cheery and fun atmosphere was maintained throughout and team spirits were never low. No doubt hot and tasty food played an important role. The only time of worry was when a team member had difficulty in adjusting to the altitude and dryness in May, and had to be evacuated back to Leh.

A description of field work in the Changthang would not be complete without a mention of jhabroos and dogs. The jhabroo is a dance form wherein young people of both sexes get together, the males and females hold hands and form separate lines, and then move alternatively towards and away from each other, singing loudly right through. These happen at night and carry on till late, more often in summer, and quite spontaneously. Apparently married people have seperate jhabroo sessions to that of the unmarried. We outsiders were always invited to the jhabroos if we happened to be around, and also encouraged to participate. We found that the vigour required to jhabroo invariably helped us adjust to the altitude and the cold, and alway joined in whenever we could.

And the dogs, aah, the dogs! Large hairy dogs that are indispensable to the herders for controlling their livestock. They guard the village at night, and warn the community of the presence of wolves or snow leopards. Unfortunately, as a breed they do not like (to put it mildly) strangers, and are apt to tear them apart if they get a suitable opportunity, making simple activities like walking in the village, taking a leak or going for a crap a life-threatening exercise. Many close calls were had in the course of the field sessions.

Logistics was always a problem in the field, and we were often in difficult situations regarding mobility. In February, we spent considerable time clearing snow from the passes so that our vehicles could move onwards. In August, two researches got thrown into a stream they were crossing by their donkeys. In November, one of the vehicles packed up. Considering the conditions, maybe we do not have much to complain about.

A word of advice on logistics to those planning excursions into Rupshu-Kharnak in winter. Use petrol vehicles with drivers who are familiar with winter conditions in the area. Carry everything you will possibly need for at least three additional days to the time you have planned. Have a few extra spaces in the vehicles as there will be patients who need a lift back to Leh and you will be their only source of transport. When members of your team show signs of difficulty with altitude, evacuate them immediately.

On the whole, the field studies in this beautiful region have been fun, though arduous, strenuous and, at times, exhausting. We all learnt alot, including those who have been working in this region for over ten years. We take back a great deal of respect for the Changpas, for the great joy they derive out of a difficult life and for their dependence, for the important things, only upon themselves. We also take back some amount of respect for ourselves, that ordinary people like us have managed to go there, take the worst the region has to offer, and still be around in one piece to talk about it.

Punjab - 23 Years After

PUNJAB – 23 YEARS AFTER
By Ajit Chaudhuri

I bunged the family into the car and set off with a sense of déjà vu. The last time I had travelled in Punjab was in December 1984 – the dark days after Operation Bluestar and Mrs. Gandhi’s assassination. I still remember the journey from Delhi, and the way the Punjab Roadways bus changed its music from Hindi and Punjabi pop to aggressive religious stuff that began with ‘Raj Karega Khalsa’, and the way I was one of four people in the bus with cut hair. I still remember the sandbags in the Golden Temple and the bullet holes in Harminder Saheb. I still remember the empty youth hostel in Amritsar, where I shared the whole building with the two cops posted outside.

I also remember the humour, warmth and friendliness of people I met, even in hotbeds like Gurdaspur and Batala. The way I got off the bus at some vague place outside Phagwara with a stomach upset, and was given a bottle with some water and sent off into the fields for a crap, and then given a place to just lie down and relax until I felt better. The way people sat on top of the bus in the freezing temperatures as though they were in the comfort of their drawing room easy chair, the way the conductor swung from inside to the top and back inside while the bus was at full speed, and the way people gave me some protected space on top because I was cold. The way the jampacked minibus from Wagah to Amritsar kept cramming in more people, the conductor saying ‘go to the back, go to the back’, until somebody said ‘yes, yes, there’s a balcony at the back’ – a bit lame now but very funny in Punjabi and in the situation. These guys are very different from our Delhi Punjus, I remember thinking.

Why did I go to Punjab then? Because I did not know whether it would be part of the country for long, and therefore if I had to see these places I would need to do so soon. Laughable now – it is India’s no. 1 state (according to the annual India Today State of State surveys) on most indicators except sex ratios. It says something about our country.

This time, the journey into Punjab was mostly in Haryana – national highway 10 via Rohtak, Hissar and Sirsa before crossing into Punjab at Mandi Dabwali and driving another 70 or so kilometres into Bhatinda – one of those rare occasions today where one can do 400 km without paying a toll tax. The ordinariness of Punjab’s roads took me by surprise; the highways throughout were better in Haryana (sorry Punjus, but little brother is one over you there). We spent two nights and a day in Bhatinda before heading off to Amritsar, taking in Wagah, the Golden Temple and Amritsari food over half a day and one night, and then back to Delhi on national highway 1 (the old Delhi – Lahore road).

Why the visit? Less high-funda reasons from 1984 – the push factors were that my kids had there pooja holidays and that our colony in Delhi turns into a cesspool at this time, and the pull factor was that I have cousins (technically Aunt and Uncle) in the Army who we had not seen for some time and who offered the kids a ride in a tank.

Bhatinda was a delight! My cousin commands a cavalry unit, and had us billeted in the unit’s mess. This sounds basic, but actually entailed two 2-room suites with separate dressing rooms, fridges stocked with beer, cold drinks and goodies, and meals in a dining room with tiger skins, deer heads and tank replicas. When we weren’t sleeping, gossiping and partying, we were cavorting around the countryside in a T-72 tank. The kids were neither seen nor heard for the most part. The relatives are lucky to have got us to leave.

My cousins also got a colleague, who commands an armoured unit somewhere between Amritsar and the Indo-Pak border, to put us up. He also very kindly organised a military escort for us to the border and then to Amritsar to see the Golden Temple.

I had seen the flag down ceremony at the Wagah border in 1984. At the time, there were about 20-25 of us general public watching the ceremony, the BSF and Pakistan Rangers (the paramilitary forces on both sides that control the border and conduct the ceremony) were in near perfect sync, and it was pretty obvious that they knew each other well despite the various aggressive gestures during the ceremony. Rumour had it that they used to booze it up together in the evenings, and party with Bangladeshi women (most illegal crossers of the border were poor Bangladeshis with only one asset available for bribes). After the ceremony, we were allowed up to the gate to peer at the Pakistanis and vice versa and wonder at how we looked exactly alike. I remember that there was one cute chick among them who had smiled at me, and I had contemplated writing my name and phone number on a paper plane and sending it across.

There are now huge crowds on both sides of the border, with stadium like facilities to seat them, and the soldiers on both sides seem to have been selected for their looks. The Pakistanis look different to us – the women are mostly covered, and the sexes are segregated. They play loud religious music in the build up to sundown, and they are constantly making calls to Allah. Apparently they also pay ten bucks each to watch, unlike us. The Indian crowd is much more restrained and confident, as is the Indian component of the ceremony. The Pakistani Rangers retain their aggressive gestures while the BSF dropped theirs – the Rangers explaining to the Indian side that nobody on their side would pay ten bucks to watch unless they did all that stuff. Neo-liberalism zindabad!

The Golden Temple in the late evening is truly beautiful. We put stuff on our heads, got rid of our shoes and went in, even into the Harminder Sahib in the centre. A peaceful and satisfying experience, much like it was in 1984. While we were there at the time of the langar, we decided to skip this for some Amritsari food at a restaurant called Crystal somewhere nearby – tandoori chicken, dal makhni and the works.

I am now back in Delhi, where we have all settled into our normal routine – the time in Punjab, the food, the T-72s, the border and the Pakistanis, the Golden Temple lit up in the evening, the long drives, and the Army hospitality are all in the past. I only hope that my next visit is not 23 years away.

A MID-TERM REVIEW OF MY ADULTHOOD

A MID-TERM REVIEW OF MY ADULTHOOD

By Ajit Chaudhuri, written in August 2007

I will shortly turn 44 years old. Assuming that I reach the ripe old age of 66, the booze, meaty rich food, stress, bad lifestyle, et al notwithstanding, this is the two-thirds point of my life. I look back at the day that I turned 22, on August 16th 1985, the one-thirds point. I had an honours degree in Economics and little else – no money, a job with no prospects (teaching at a school in Rajasthan, far away from my friends and family), no girlfriend, and no future. I was happy enough in that there was food on the table and I was playing a little football and anyway there was little that I could do about my situation. I celebrated my birthday alone, and wrote ten things that I had to do in my life – not professional, not connected with achievements or money, just things that I should do. I list these out especially for the benefit of my nephew Eshaan, who had just been born at the time and who turned 22 a few days back. At this point, midway between making the list and my expected demise, I also explore the extent to which these ambitions have been achieved.

1. See a Tiger in the wild: Yes, done, twice so far – once in the Corbett National Park and once in the Panna Wildlife Sanctuary, both times in the early 2000s. The sight of a Tiger in the wild is much more magnificent than the ability of the English language to describe magnificence, and so I will not even try. Suffice to say that it is a much, much better experience than I could possibly have imagined back in 1985. And I envy my kids, who were there on both occasions and who have thus achieved this before age 10. But then, given the rate at which India’s Tiger population is diminishing, this experience may not be available to them later in their lives.
2. Travel overland from Murmansk to Vladivostok: Nope, not done, and I see the prospects of doing this journey across Russia diminishing by the day.
3. Take a journey in a helicopter: Yes, done thanks to my tsunami relief and rehabilitation duties in the Nicobar Islands. I travelled from Port Blair to Komorta once, in January 2005, and Port Blair to Car Nicobar, Campbell Bay and back in August 2007. This too is difficult to describe – the take off, the noise, the way the Nicobar Islands appear from the air, as little round green bits of land with concentric rings of golden beach and then light blue to aquamarine to deep blue sea all the way around them. My expectations of 1985 have been met in every way.
4. See the Northern Lights: Nope, despite my best efforts. I went to Tromso (Norway) in winter, which at 70 degrees latitude is well inside the Arctic Circle, in 2001 but the damned lights refused to oblige. This was a fascinating experience in every other sense, from the violence of the snowstorms to the absence of daylight to the glimpse of life in the far north. Another time – but I would have to rob a bank.
5. Trek at over 18,000 feet altitude: Yes, done, once in 1995 on a trek from Leh in Ladakh to Kaza in Spiti while crossing the Parang La pass. Why the number 18,000? Because the highest road in the world, across the Khardung La Pass, is at 17 thousand something. The trek, like most treks, was rough, tough and a test of endurance – but I am glad that I did it and survived to tell the tale. And no, I would not attempt it again!
6. Have an affair with an older woman: Nope, sadly not achieved, and I must admit to this one having moved off the ambition list over the years – even younger women have been too old for me for some time now.
7. Travel to the corners of the country – Mizoram, Kutch, Indira Point in the A&N Islands and across the Indus in the north: Yes, mostly achieved! I went to Mizoram three times in 1996 and 1997, crossed the Indus many times in Leh and Kargil districts of J&K in 1997 and 1998 including walking across it when it was a solid block of ice in –30 temperature, and visited Kutch many times from 1988 onwards. Indira Point does not exist courtesy the tsunami, but I have visited the southernmost Great Nicobar Island. All are must visits to those of us born under a wandering star.
8. Watch a World Cup Football match live in a stadium: Again, not done despite my best efforts. I visited Germany in 2006, during the World Cup, but was unable to gain entry into a stadium for a match. South Africa 2010 – here I come!
9. Take a long journey on an Enfield Bullet: Yes, many times on my beloved DBW 1768! The longest was a six-day journey from Baroda to Bangalore back in 1990, alone, slowly and peacefully, with a detour through Saputara and Nashik (and thereby an avoidance of Bombay) and a day’s break in Pune. Definitely worth it!
10. Save someone’s life: Nope, not yet that I know of!

TEN BEST PLACES TO EAT IN INDIA

THE TEN BEST PLACES IN INDIA TO EAT

By Ajit Chaudhuri - July 2007

To the genuine foodie, there is one and only one criteria by which to judge a restaurant – the food! Whether the Maitre Dei welcomes you in French, whether the waitresses are topless, whether the décor is resplendent, whether the wine cellar is well stocked, whether the view is splendid – these are all irrelevant! The service matters to the extent that it adds to the eating – the rotis need to arrive hot and on time, as do the second (and third) servings.

What follows is my take on the ten best places to eat in this country. I have eaten in each and every one of them many times, and over years, and can personally vouch for consistent excellence. I write this in the chronological order of my familiarity with the restaurant (and not in any order of merit). The list does tend to leave out some fantastic places that I have eaten in only once – may be the subject of another list another time - and many that I have yet to try.

1. Bukhara – Maurya Sheraton – Delhi

This restaurant is famous! It is in a 5-star hotel, and is expensive. You cannot book a table in advance here – you have to hang around outside and wait for a table to be free – and this takes time, it is always full. And you have to be careful – the place attracts the well-dressed sort of crooks that steal handbags, laptops and whatnot (an attempt was made on my wife’s handbag once – maybe a one off, maybe not). But – the food is worth having to enter a snotty hotel you would not normally be seen dead in, worth the dollops of money you would have to pay, and worth the hanging around with Delhi’s hoi polloi outside the restaurant with your hands on your belongings. The cuisine is from the Northwest Frontier, and the Sikandari Raan, the kebabs and the Dal Makhni makes you think that perfection does exist. I am unable to eat here too often, the leanness of my wallet being the major constraint, and haven’t for some time. But if I get an opportunity (please read as ‘someone willing to take me’) I would jump at it.

2. Chhotu-Motu – Outside Railway Station – Bikaner

This restaurant serves puris made in desi ghee, hot aloo bhaji and a certain pickle type of thing, topped up with tea or makhaniya lassi. There is a certain taste to the aloo bhaji that I have yet to experience anywhere else, and while you know that the puris will contribute to your cholesterol levels you will still indulge in that second plateful of five. The restaurant’s location is convenient – the Bikaner Mail from Delhi arrives early morning, one just steps out of the station and settles down to breakfast at Chhotu-Motu’s, and it is only after stuffing oneself that one continues for the day. Worth a visit to this otherwise rather unremarkable town!

3. Pawan Dhaba – Outside Bus Stand – Barmer

This one is the most obscure of the listing – it is a mere hole in the outer wall of Barmer’s Bus Stand, with a few benches out encroaching on the desert sand between the wall and the road, and it serves only dinner. The clientele, usually 3 or 4 other people at any point of time, are mostly farmers visiting Barmer town and bus drivers and conductors. But the food – fresh bajra rotis that resemble thick plates, served with a wet sabzi and khato (a Rajasthani kadhi)! The rotis need to be softened and crumpled in desi ghee and then mixed into the sabzi, and eaten while gulping the khato on the side. I usually also add some curds into the combination, into which I mix some jeera, lal mirch and salt. A full meal for one in the early and mid-1990s used to cost about Rs. 12. And it has never disappointed!

4. Tundey Kebabs – Kashmiri Mohalla – Lucknow

I once spent a month or so, back in 1996, in Lucknow on a survey. It was a month without vegetables in the diet, the city has so much to offer for the carnivorous foodie. And one place stood out – the Tundey-Kebab joint in the alleyways of Kashmiri Mohalla in old Lucknow. These are beef kebabs cooked on huge flat pans and then cut up and served hot to the multitudes, who eat it standing there or pack it up to knock off later. It is an experience!

5. Karim’s – Jama Masjid – Delhi

This is another famous restaurant that is on everybody’s list – but if you’ve ever been there you will know why. The Jama Masjid Karim’s is not to be mixed up with its poncy imitation at Nizamuddin. This is the original and, to the foodie, the only one. It is now easy to reach –the Metro from Connaught Place to Chawri Bazaar, a cycle rickshaw at Rs. 5 per person and voila, there you are. It is not an expensive or fancy restaurant, but a certain ‘we are simply the best’ arrogance permeates through the décor, the service, and the food. And it has to be said that it is almost as good as it thinks it is.

6. Gopi – Ellisbridge – Ahmedabad

Everyone wonders why I only stay in the rather crummy Hotel Golden Plaza when visiting or passing Ahmedabad, and why I never eat when on the evening Delhi to Ahmedabad flight. Both have to do with the existence of Gopi – the hotel’s proximity to it, and my need to have an empty stomach before tucking in to the Kathiawadi thali there (Gopi also offers the regular Gujarati thali with sweet dal and all, and I have yet to eat it). The Kathiawadi thali is served only in the evenings and is served in two forms – the Kathiawadi Fix and the Kathiawadi Unlimited. The latter is advisable only when seriously hungry to do justice to multiple helpings of dal, kadhi, three types of vegetables, white butter, chaanch, a choice of wheat or bajra rotis and various knick-knacks like farsaand, pakodas, and whatnot.

7. Annapurna – Bhuj

Under normal circumstances, I go through withdrawal symptoms if I am forced to eat vegetarian food for more than 3 meals consecutively. That I have no such difficulties in Bhuj is thanks to a small restaurant that is within walking distance of my regular hotel. Annapurna serves Kutchi food, not the sugar-in-the-dal stuff that is available across Gujarat, it is spicy, oily, curdy and is eaten with coarse Bajra rotis that are soaked and crumpled in home-made white butter (with fresh ones served hot just as you finish the previous one), washed down with chaanch and rounded off with a sweet shrikhand. You come out stuffed to the gills in about Rs. 50. Annapurna is the main reason for all my hard work under the Kutchi sun not resulting in a corresponding reduction in the waistline (and my wife suspecting that the time away from home was probably in Mumbai’s nightclubs).

8. Bar-b-q – Park Street – Kolkata

Punjabified Chinese food, but this is as good as it gets. The Sichuan cooking is genuinely spicy, the Hot and Sour Soup is both hot and sour, and the waiters do not look at you vaguely when you ask for a bowl and chopsticks.

9. Ponnaswamy – Royapettah – Chennai

South Indian non-vegetarian cooking at its very best – varieties of sea food, chicken and mutton, and even exotic stuff like rabbit and whatnot are available at extremely reasonable rates, eaten with rice, appam or porrotta.

10. Ahdoos – Lal Chowk – Srinagar

The Ahdoos Hotel, like Srinagar itself, has seen better days. And you can imagine this restaurant once having been a bustling and happening place. But some things do not deteriorate easily, and quality of cooking and service is one of them (more so when there are no alternative job opportunities for waiters and cooks). The wazwaan here is out of this world – the rishta, the goshtaba, the tabak maaz, the yakhni, followed by pherni for dessert. It sounds horrible to say this, but I am grateful to the earthquake for having introduced me to these pleasures.

Drying Out - Kutch

DRYING OUT – THE SEVEN WONDERS OF KUTCH

Ajit Chaudhuri

“You will come to Kutch crying, and you will leave Kutch crying!”[1]

Written in July 2007

Background: I have been to Kutch many, many times – I have long lost count – a few times by choice, but mostly because of work. I have been in many guises – as a broke student, as a trainer to local women’s groups, as a representative of a development donor agency, as a tourist with my family, and as an aid worker in the aftermath of drought and an earthquake. Familiarity has yet to breed contempt. Why? Certainly because it is large, remote and colourful! The people are nice, the food is great, and the women combine good looks with backless blouses. There are many exciting places to see and experience, many of which I am yet to do. And also because of something intangible – the n + 1th visit offers the possibility of learning something new, every single time.

Kutch is a real corner! It is among India’s largest districts, and is also its western-most. It is separated from the rest of India (and from Pakistan) by a curious land form called the rann, salty marshlands that appear to have been formed from the Arabian Sea receding, home to abundant wildlife (and the natural habitat of the Wild Ass) and birds (such as the Great Indian Bustard[2]) but inimical to human survival because of heat and salinity. The Kutchis are a colourful people; they speak a dialect that spans Gujarati, Marwari and Sindhi, they are equally divided between Hindus and Muslims, and they are great seafarers and businessmen. Kutch is also a disaster-prone area, suffering droughts and cyclones at regular intervals and major earthquakes about once every fifty years.

Kutch is reachable by various means. The most boring is the daily flight from Mumbai that takes one directly to the district headquarters, Bhuj. Boring because flights are intrinsically boring, and boring also because the route is operated only by Jet Airways[3] and you get a glimpse of the airline in a non-competitive environment – unreasonably high fares, vegetarian food only, and no support from the airline when they cancel the flight. There are also trains, but these are convenient only if you are coming from Mumbai. The easiest is by road, with two routes in – one from the east from Palanpur via Radhanpur, Santhalpur westward into Kutch, and the other from the south-east from Ahmedabad via Morbi. A third and much shorter route from Ahmedabad was added through Dhrangadhra in the mid-1990s, ultimately joining the Morbi route and cutting the distance between Ahmedabad and Bhuj to about 350 km.


Kutch too has its wonders – and in this age of the seventh month of the seventh year I identify seven of them that I have experienced and would strongly recommend. I write them in the order of chronology of my own visit to each of them.

Narayan Sarovar: This is possibly the western-most place in India – it is a lake just next to Sir Creek (across which lies Karachi), and a small town called Koteshwar. I visited in October 1988 along with my batchmates Som and Balu, all of us broke students at the time in search of a place as far away as possible from anywhere else. We took a Gujarat Roadways bus from Bhuj that went through Nakhatrana and Matanamad and ended up in the evening in this tiny town where the only place to stay was some religious complex. One room for the three of us – Rs. 1.50 with dinner included, and no, I haven’t mistakenly put the dot – but we had to sing ‘Ram Ram’ while being served dinner and put up with suspicious looks from the complex authorities because Som and Balu were both bearded. This was unfortunate, because we decided to head back to Bhuj the next morning rather than put up with another day of that sort of crap. Before that, we did manage to look around at the sea and the saltpans on all sides, make friends with some fellow Bongs at the Border Security Force outpost, and watch the sun go down for the day on India in one of the most beautiful sunsets I have experienced. I wish that we had been able to spend another day or two there, Ram Ram and all (at that price I would be willing to sing anything including gangsta rap), but I suspect that my friends were quite happy to head back to the bright lights of Bhuj town.

Bhuj: KMVS Annual Day Function: I have once had the opportunity, somewhere in the mid-1990s, to attend a Women’s Day function at the Kutch Mahila Vikas Sangathan (KMVS - this is a district level federation of women’s groups) office in Bhuj. No, I was not an invitee – I just happened to be visiting at the time and they were probably too polite to tell me to shove off because of my gender. So there I was, with about a thousand women from all over Kutch around me, in all sizes, ages and colours. It is, no doubt, political incorrect to size up women at occasions to commemorate Women’s Day, but I have never regretted doing so at this one. The speeches wound down and the dancing began, including one called the Ahir dance that remains etched in memory – black clad Ahir women moving in circles to the beat of one drum. It had a rhythm and synchronicity that is difficult to describe. All good things come to an end, however, and this one wound down because the NGO type khadi-clad babes, without exception with two left feet, insisted on joining in and screwing it up in the name of sisterhood.

Bhuj: Annapurna: Under normal circumstances, I go through withdrawal symptoms if I am forced to eat vegetarian food for more than 3 meals consecutively. That I have no such difficulties in Bhuj is thanks to a small restaurant that is walking distance from my regular hotel. Annapurna serves Kutchi food, not the sugar-in-the-dal stuff that is available across Gujarat, it is spicy, oily, curdy and is eaten with coarse Bajra rotis that are soaked and crumpled in home-made white butter (with fresh ones served hot just as you finish the previous one), washed down with chaanch and rounded off with a sweet shrikhand. You come out stuffed to the gills in about Rs. 50. Annapurna is the main reason for all my hard work under the Kutchi sun not resulting in a corresponding reduction in the waistline (and my wife suspecting that the time away from home was probably actually in Mumbai living it up with Ash and Sush). Honourable mention in this regard must be made of the Egg-wallah next to Bhuj bus stand, who makes a mean double-desi-omelette cooked in butter in the morning and follows it up with strong tea.

Vyar: This is a village in Nakhatrana tehsil that is mainly populated by the Rabari community. Rabaris, for those who don’t know it, are a cattle herding and rearing community who are distinctive in dress and whose women are particularly beautiful (the men, for those interested, are very good looking too). Vyar itself is nestled in a slightly undulating part of Kutch that turns green and stunning in the aftermath of the rains. Care Today, who I work for, had supported the building of a series of check dams in the village and I had gone there several times to check the project out. The celebration that we had on completion of the project back in 2000 was a wonderful experience – beautiful women decked out in coloured ghagras and backless cholis in the backdrop of green undulating land, and a great meal as well. Bhachibai, who led the community’s effort to build the check dams, went on to become the village sarpanch and it was a pleasure to meet her again last month and to see the change in her stature that the project initiated.

Hodka: Hodka falls about 70 km north of Bhuj, on an island in the rann and right on its banks. KMVS decided in 2005 to try out an indigenous tourism model here – this involved them designing and setting up a tourist resort, and enabling the village community to own, run, work in, and make profits from it. I was persuaded to spend a night here as a paying customer cum guinea pig in February 2006 (my antics over the years in KMVS catching up with me). I arrived at night and left early the next morning, but saw enough to come again ten months later, of my own accord, and spend a few days with my wife, children and dog. The resort itself is wonderful – remote, beautiful, spacious, luxurious, affordable (well, reasonably so), clean and hassle-free but, no booze. The service was worth a mention – the village boys did things in a way that was correct without being obsequious. The kids could be left to do their own thing, there was some entertainment every evening (local folk groups and whatnot – all male), and food was both good and plentiful. We also visited India Bridge, the last civilian point in India on a dry water body that has so much salt that it looks like it has snowed – this and the nearby quicksand made an impression on my two boys, with a recall of the latter and a small mention of the possibility of leaving them within ensuring immediate better behaviour.

Chhaari Dhaand: This is a huge water body north of Bhuj, and it is to my deep regret that I discovered it only in December 2006 – in the aftermath of a good monsoon, with large colonies of birds to see, including the famous pink flamingos out in all their majesty. This is in the middle of nowhere, there are no roads or anything and therefore a vehicle that can perform off the road and a guide who knows the way are necessities. The family spent a day to remember in my old Qualis, making our way slowly around the water body checking out the birds. But, if you visit, do remember to carry food and water – you will not see any settlements or people for long stretches and there are no shops of any sort anywhere in the vicinity. And the flamingos? To quote the kids – Awesome!

Dholavira: The words ‘remote’ and ‘middle of nowhere’ are often used to describe Kutch and many places within it. I feel that I have finally discovered where it applies most of all. Dholavira is a famous place – an ancient Indian settlement was discovered here in the late seventies and is still being excavated – but very few people know where it is, or that it falls in Kutch. I did know, and it has always been on my list of places to take time out to see, except that I never did until just recently (July 2007). The opportunity arose because of a cancelled Jet Airways flight from Bhuj to Mumbai and the airline’s official (a bimbo of the highest order) refusing to make arrangements for accommodation and acting as if she was doing me a favour by putting me on the next day’s flight – I decided to make my way to Ahmedabad by road and subsequently, upon the advice of my local colleagues, to do so via Dholavira (adding exactly 220 km to the journey). So, eastwards from Bhuj towards Rapar, north across a long stretch of rann and then west across more rann until I reached a little island and the site of what was a flourishing port city 4 millenniums ago when this was all sea. The site is fascinating – much larger than the other well known one in Gujarat (which is Lothal), and still being excavated so there are plenty of terracotta ornaments and whatnot lying around all over the place. The Archaeology Survey of India, who handle the excavation, have a decent museum at the site and are helpful and informative. Most refreshing was the attitude of the locals in the nearby village – happy to have visitors for the new faces and the possibility of newspapers and conversation. One old man said that they are so cut off that a haircut costs Rs. 150 – travel 90 kilometers to the nearest barber (who is in Rapar), have a haircut, eat some food, and return.

Kutch is going to change. Large tracts of land have been acquired for Special Economic Zones, making full use of the peoples’ low education levels and the considerable availability of commons. The towns, all flattened by the 2001 earthquake, are now fancy and laden with infrastructure that sits uneasily on old attitudes and norms. All roads will shortly have tollbooths every twenty or so kilometres. The traditional economy is quickly transforming, skilled people are moving in from all over India, and the scope for cattle rearing and pastoral nomadic lifestyles is rapidly diminishing. If you have yet to visit – you need to do so soon. Because, as the old song goes, ‘I will never be the same!’
[1] This is a Kutchi saying that refers to its position as a punishment posting for government servants within Gujarat, and the fact that people are transferred out with the same reluctance that they come in with.
[2] An old limerick goes – the Bustard is an incredible fowl, extremely satisfying to the bowel, saved from what would be, illegitimacy, by the grace of just one vowel.
[3] Indian Airlines (now Indian) used to operate, but closed down once Jet Airways settled on the route.

ISLANDS IN THE SUN

A 2-pager by Ajit Chaudhuri

Introduction: One of the (admittedly minor) effects of the tsunami was that I visited a part of our country that I had never seen before – an increasingly rare occurrence in a career spent roaming around at other people’s expense. The Andaman and Nicobar Islands is a chain of 562 islands in the Bay of Bengal, in which the population of about 362,000 inhabit 38. Port Blair, its headquarters, is about 2 hours by flight east from Chennai or alternatively about 60 hours by ship. The Nicobar islands are quite distinct from those in the Andamans and are separated from them by the ten-degree channel, they have a population of about 40,000 consisting mainly of Nicobarese tribes, government servants and Tamil settlers. The Andamans consist mainly of settlers from Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh and Bengal, descendants of prisoners who settled here and ‘primitive’ tribes such as the Jarawa, the Onge and the Sentinelese. What follows are my observations from the twenty or so days I spent in the state.

The Place: A region, in my opinion, should be judged on three indicators only – the visual appeal of the place, the beauty of its women, and the quality of its cuisine – all else is unimportant. A&N scores a 911! The islands are astoundingly beautiful from any angle, many of them just green forested circles with a continuous yellow ring of beach around them. The sea is also multicoloured, with light green and then aquamarine rings around the islands giving way to deep blue as one moves further out. About the women, suffice to say that your eyes won’t be under strain here! A young lady reporter (with looks like the hero’s sister in Hindi films, who has to say “Bhaiya” a few times and heat his food when he returns from his nocturnal adventures) from the Telegraph had come down from Kolkata and was given Aishwarya Rai like treatment. Not much scope for the likes of me, you would think, except that we happened to sleep together on a ship between Hut Bay and Port Blair (as my wife, mother and father also read these 2-pagers I will reluctantly mention that the Reuters correspondent and the Deputy Director of the Shipping Department were sleeping in between us) and shared a comfortable friendship and several evenings together thereafter, to the consternation of the blades of Port Blair.

The Distances: The distances in A&N hit you. All internal journeys have to be done on ship (except for the favoured few who have helicopters at their disposal) and travel times are massive. The journey from Kamorta Island in the middle Nicobars to Port Blair in the southern Andamans took me 48 hours – all of which was spent on the deck because no cabins were available (only for babus) and the bunks were full of puke. This wasn’t particularly unpleasant, nights under the stars and all, except for crossing the rough ten-degree channel that had the ship rocking and rolling (apparently Bernoulli’s Principle applies here) and the likes of me contemplating life at the wrong end of the food chain in these shark infested waters. The shorter journeys in smaller ships across open and rough sea were much worse, especially when one travelled against the waves, as were the journeys on boats to get from the ships on to land because the jetties were destroyed.

The 26th of December: What actually happened? First, the earthquake! I was on Kachal on the 24th of January when an earthquake of 6.2 centered in Sumatra hit the island (there have been more than 100 earthquakes over 5 in the past few weeks) and can only imagine what a 9 must have been like. People came out of their houses, and, a few minutes later, saw the sea recede. Those who ran for their lives away from the sea and on to the central higher ground are alive today – those who were curious, or stopped to pick up belongings, or to pray, or to help others, did not make it. The police inspector in Kapanga tried to do his duty by shepherding others to safety (dead), another settlement of 1050 people in West Bay held a community prayer after the earthquake (4 are alive today). In Little Andamans, much further to the north, there were a series of four waves with about ten minute gaps in between, of which the third and the fourth were particularly vicious, twenty meter walls of water arriving at you at the speed a plane takes off.

The Ban: The Nancowry division, consisting of the islands Chowra, Kachal, Kamorta, Nancowry, Teresa and Trinket, is off limits to outsiders unless the government issues you a tribal area permit. I got one by hanging around government officers in Port Blair, meeting the Lt. Governor and kissing a lot of backside, nobody else did. A ban on media and NGOs after the tsunami is being strictly enforced. The reasons are not being articulated and rumours are rife – that the government is mismanaging relief, that the bodies are much more than the official figures, that there is something to hide, etc. There has been controversy over the numbers here, mainly because a large number of Tamil labourers had been illegally brought in by contractors and settled in coastal hamlets, and there is no record of who these people are, how many, and how many have died. Certainly, the numbers don’t match! The relief, too, is being mismanaged in this region, with the relief camps getting enough food and water but little else, with the whole area still looking like the tsunami had hit yesterday, with bodies still coming in with the tide and with huge quantities of everything on earth lying around in Port Blair but very little making its way here. But this would be the result of a media ban and not the cause of it.

More likely is the fact that the Nicobars sit at the head of the Mallacca Straits, the busiest shipping lane in the world, and are thus of strategic importance in the great game being played between China, the US and India. About 90 percent of China’s external trade passes through here, and thus we have a hold that counters any aggression in the Himalayas. The mandarins simply don’t want people poking around in this region.

The Taipans: Life must have been nice here! The Nicobarese tribals on these tiny islands lived in little settlements along with their school, church and football field, with all financial requirements being met by coconut plantations that were plentiful. They are governed through a system of elected village captains who deal with the outside world and managed government schemes. My quest for institutions through which to implement relief and rehabilitation activities on the islands led me to the tribal federations and the cooperative marketing federations that buy and sell the copra – all these turned out to be fronts for trading empires a la some of James Clavell’s novels. There is a constant game of chess between the Gujarati Jadwets, the Kamorta-based Rasheeds and the Tamils, all trying to outmaneuver each other with their ships, their fronts, their alliances and their patronage systems. They are now competing for the rehabilitation cake.

Infrastructure and Accommodation: Interestingly, no buildings in the state were destroyed in the earthquake – it was the tsunami that caused all the destruction to infrastructure. A local wag said that this was because the state public works department did all construction and they made their money by over-invoicing and not by under-constructing. The destruction of infrastructure was complete in the Nicobars, where all the jetties and all buildings on the coast, schools, churches, hospitals, police stations, government quarters, don’t exist any more. The temple left standing on Kachal had settlers of a certain mentality feeling that ‘mine is bigger (oops, better!) than yours’.

A list of places to stay across Nancowry division would begin and end with the PWD Guest House in Kamorta, fabulously located on a hill that overlooks the harbour and having a running kitchen, well worth being on the right side of the local Assistant Commissioner who controls the right to stay here. Kachal was the pits, with severe food, water, electricity and accommodation shortages. The poor head of administration there, an IAS officer from Delhi who was sent there for relief duty and turned out to be a friend of my batchmate Amir, is staying along with five others in a two-room office where they also work, eat, and do everything else. An army Colonel and his men and a 19-member relief team from Sirsa in Haryana were putting up in the church in the high center of the island, to the consternation of my namesake Father Ajit Ekka and his staff. He tried to get them to leave by bringing in a batch of trainee nuns from Jharkhand, but I suspect it had the opposite effect.

Will the Place Recover? Difficult to say! Jetties take a long time to rebuild, and all supplies depend upon the jetties. Coconut trees take seven to ten years to grow back, what will the Nicobarese do until then? The banking system has been washed away, and no records exist either with the account holders or with the bank, what will people do for their immediate cash requirements? 79 children on Kachal are supposed to be sitting for their class X and XII, how that will happen with all schools on the coastlines, and all their teachers, washed away. Earthquakes are hitting the Nicobars every day, undermining the little remaining confidence. Most of the village captains are dead and there is a serious leadership vaccum. On the other hand, time is a great healer. And other disaster areas in India have, in the long run, become better places for those who survived with the huge investment in infrastructure. A&N may not be an exception.

Drying Out - Banaskantha

DRYING OUT: BANASKANTHA

Ajit Chaudhuri

Visited in October 1988
Written in November 1995

Anyone who has gone through the grind of management school would have come across the term ‘mid-term projects’ wherein you are sent out in the midst of your course to an organisation to do some real work for a period of ten weeks or so. Motivation to select a particular assignment varies – among the common ones are; it looks good on your future CV, it takes you home, it’s an assignment for two and thereby gives you the opportunity to spend time with your girlfriend at some organisation’s expense. Me and a (male, I might add sadly) friend chose an obscure and vague project with Banas Dairy at Palanpur simply because we could get to see a part of the world we hadn’t as yet and, possibly more importantly, it was unlikely we would have to do any serious work.

We were right on both counts! Banas Dairy had no clue what to do with two bright young soon-to-be management graduates and its Managing Director almost had a heart attack when he discovered that he would have to put up with us for slightly longer than the week he had thought while formulating the project. We had no idea what ‘enquiring into the efficacy of first-line supervision of village milk societies and suggesting methods to increase milk procurement’ entailed, but soon got into the business of procuring a map of the district, selecting thirty far-flung villages and insisting upon visiting them.

Our status as visiting management cats enabled us to bulldoze our way through – we would disappear into the countryside for ten days at a time along with a jeep, driver and interpreter, live off the land, take our night halts in the villages, meet a large number of interesting people and then return to Palanpur (which, after field trips like these, would seem like Bombay for a while) before setting off again. The result was a thoroughly enjoyable project, lots of travel and lolling around and just enough work (or pretence of it) to impress the daylights out of Banas Dairy on counts of diligence and rigour.

Banaskantha (pronounced Banaaskaantha), in which Banas Dairy operates and from which it gets its name, is the northernmost district of Gujarat and, to my mind, its most beautiful. It is geographically diverse – as you travel from east to west you come across heavily forested hills, then agricultural plains, desert, and finally swampy uninhabited marshlands known locally as rann which forms the district’s border with Pakistan. To the south and east lie Mehsana and Sabarkantha districts respectively, to the north lie three districts of Rajasthan, Sirohi, Jalor and Barmer. To the west, along with Pakistan, is Kutch. Banaskantha is divided into eleven tehsils, all of which we roamed around in.

Danta, the easternmost tehsil, is all hill and forest with tribal communities staying deep within. Tucked inside these hills is a booming town of some religious significance or the other called Ambaji. The best way to judge the size of a town is to find out how many film halls it has. Ambaji had two, so we stayed two days, which gives you an idea of what was on offer in the list of exciting things to do in town. The restaurants seemed to offer more variety than the entertainment industry – we were introduced to innovative delicacies such as ‘green piss masala’ and ‘switcarn veg soop’.

The central part of the district was a cow belt, with a popular Indian breed of cattle, the Kankrej, getting its name from a tehsil in these parts. The milk societies here were highly active, and spending time studying them was good fun. We soon got into a routine, getting into a village in the afternoon, resting, watching the milk collection, chatting with people until late at night, getting a tour of the village early the next morning, looking into the books of the milk society, and then pushing off into the next one.

The highlight of the day would be watching the evening milk collection. It is mainly the young ladies of the village who bring the day’s output to the milk society, so we would sit around the society building trying to look as official as possible while observing them with the sun setting into the background. Pure, unadulterated pleasure!

That Banaskantha is a border district is very obvious, especially when travelling within the tehsils adjoining Pakistan. The smugglers here are not the usual run-of-the-mill, small time fellows one normally finds in all of India’s borders, who are constantly running shy of the police and security forces. The area falls on the highly lucrative grand trunk route of drugs, Afghanistan via Karachi and Bombay to the US, and the men involved are appropriately nasty – well armed, willing to return fire, and distrustful of strangers in their villages, especially after dark.

This is where travelling through the local dairy cooperative has its advantages. Banas Dairy was enough of a people’s organisation for us to stay in these villages, meet people and chat to them even about things like the drug trade. At the same time, it was enough of a government organization for us to be allowed through check posts without the usual grilling, and to get accommodation at official guest houses (albeit the worst rooms, and only when no one, from peons upwards, needed it for any purpose whatsoever).

In talking with people, we got to understand what the modus operandi was. Banaskantha and Pakistan are separated by a thirty to fifty kilometre stretch of rann which is uninhabited and nearly impossible for humans to cross because of quicksand. Camels, however, can detect quicksand and are therefore able to cross relatively easily. Their insides are stuffed with drugs that side, they wander across on their own, they are picked up here, shot, and the drugs are taken out and transported to Bombay. Simple! This was borne out by the fact that, for some officially unexplained reason, the price of camels in western Banaskantha was very high.

In between the travel we slacked off at the dairy’s main office just outside the district headquarters, Palanpur. The guest house we were put up in was comfortable and Karsanbhai, the man Friday, a good cook though a trifle generous with his sugar in the dal. Time was spent eating, sleeping, seeing movies in town, and spending a maximum of one hour at the office mulling over papers and whatnot.

The height of excitement was a visit to a fair one evening, where we saw an assortment of acts guaranteed to zap the peasantry. There was a ‘Ride of Death’ in which a fellow on a Rajdoot motorcycle drives up and down around the insides of a large wooden circular drum with a female pillion waving her hands to the paying public. There was also the usual assortment of photo studios (with cut-outs of Amitabh Bachhan, Dharmendra and Rekha to pose with you) and fortune tellers. The most fascinating stall was ‘Hiralal Gadha, the talking donkey’ in which the paying public would form a circle around a man and his donkey and the man would ask the donkey who was the tallest, shortest, oldest, etc., etc., person in the room and the donkey would walk around and point to the person by touching her/him with its nose. Once the donkey’s credentials were established, the pair would have some fun at the audience’s expense – pointing out the biggest miser, the man nagged most by his wife, etc. Good fun all around!

The visit to Banaskantha ended with a presentation by us to the dairy’s management on our findings and a discussion about what could be done. To our shock and horror, those guys decided to implement much of what we suggested. To my further shock and horror, today, seven years later, the dairy is still functional and, I am told, profitable.