Kachchh: The wild wild West

While driving through Kachchh’s villages, carry out a simple experiment. Allow yourself to be jaded by the unending desert-like landscape, and wonder at the nerve of the gaando baval (crazy tree in Gujarati), the wild weed of Kachchh that is destroying the grasslands at an alarming rate.

Then, try stopping any pathani-and-salwar-clad local for directions. In no time, at least four others will huddle around to make sure he guides you correctly.

Or, even if you simply take a random turn leading to a settlement, chances are that you’ll meet the tenth generation of artists specialising in embroidery or handicrafts so rich in hues, that they render Kachchh’s most colourful sunsets pale.

The people of Kachchh share a rather unusual relationship with their land, much like the way a loving family would put up with a cantankerous patriarch. They love it for all its harshness, but, in front of a guest, they make sure they balance the inhospitable dryness by warmth and colour you’d never expect, or forget.

Thoughtful tourism
Hodka, 50kms north of Bhuj is dotted with compounds that have 10-12 thatched roof huts, where almost 70 members of one family live together in relative harmony. It is like any other Kachchhi village, full of artisans, labourers and shepherds. A stark exception is the budding eco-tourism project here.

We entered Shaam-e-Sarhad, Hodka’s six-year-old rural resort, expecting basic amenities. What greeted us, instead, were three bhungas (mud huts) studded with mirrors, built just like my grandfather, who first landed in Kachchh from Pakistan after the Partition, had described to me in a bedtime story. Six large canopies of luxurious tents fluttered in the cold December wind near the bhungas. Behind each tent, another tent served as an indulgent bathroom.

Gagan, the handsome, self-conscious cook, led us to the dining area opposite the bhungas. He told us about how his Halepotra community owns and operates the resort. That explained why everything at Shaam-e-Sarhad is just like a Halepotra home would be — the thatched roof over the dining area is lined with square pieces of cloth their women use in their dresses. All surfaces, including the seating area nearby, are made of mud and adorned with cushions and quilts stitched and embroidered by the Halepotra women back home. At night, the community put up song-and-dance performances. The Muslim Halepotras, who were originally cattle herders in Sindh, Pakistan, along with the Hindu Meghwals — traditionally embroiderers and leather crafters — are chiefly responsible for the development of tourism in this area.

For lunch, Gagan served us aulu (roasted and spiced eggplant), bhindi and kadhi. I smeared the bajra rotla (millet roti) with ghee and took a bite of the food that reminded me, puzzlingly, of home. That’s when it struck me — Kachchh was the closest I would ever get to my home state of Sindh, the place my grandparents left decades ago clutching small cloth bundles of bare necessities.

When I reminisced about it to Gagan — in Sindhi, no less — he told me I could get even closer to ‘home’. I could visit the Great Rann, because it shares the border with Sindh, he smiled.

On the Rann
Unlike the Little Rann in the south of Kachchh, there is no famed khur (wild ass) population on the Great Rann. But then, you don’t go there looking for ‘something’. You go there for the nothingness, the infinite stretches of slushy white salt, beautiful mirages and a phenomenon that locals call Chir Batti. At dusk, lights seem to twinkle from an unfathomable source far into the distance where the horizon should be. Eerie, that.

If you’re spooked, you can always flee to the Rann Utsav. In its sixth year, the Great Rann is decked up arts and crafts stalls. Almost 500 pristine white tents have been pitched in the desert. We worked our way through cultural exhibitions, foot courts, folk performances, camel safaris and hot-air balloon rides.

Villages painted red
You’d be mistaken if you thought that it is Kachchh’s aridness that is its most persistent quality. In the monsoons, the landscape changes its mind and turns lush. What really is permanent about this region is its devotion to age-old arts and embroidery.

Here, after every 5-10km, lies a village that specialises in an art form. In Gandhi nu dham, near Hodka, we entered Achaarbhai’s wood workshop, after we had gotten over the peacocks painted outside his home. There lay intricately carved teapoys, sofa sets and swings made of the local bahuv wood. When I wouldn’t stop touching (even smelling) the freshly carved furniture, Achaarbhai chuckled and took me to meet his wife, Veeraben, hoping to restore some sanity in his workshop.

It didn’t work. Veeraben was dressed in an exquisite kanjiri (long blouse, reaching the knees), with mirrors and pink and red threads standing out in exquisite patterns. Her home was no less magnificent. The exterior and interiors of her modest-sized bhunga were done up in mud wall paintings. Kachchhi women, traditionally, are expected to depict their dreams on the walls. Clay is mixed with camel dung and designs of peacocks,  anghadi (fingers) and vinjno (fan) are traced on the walls.

Another hamlet, Khavda, is home to Abdulla Ibrahim, the only potter left in a village that once had generations of skilled potters. “I, too, would’ve packed up and become a labourer like other artists. But I was lucky that an NGO decided to support my art,” he said. NGOs like Shrujan and Khamir in Bhuj and Kala Raksha in the Sumraser Sheikh village ensure that artists aren’t forced to abandon their traditional crafts. Kala Raksha’s shop sells handicrafts with lesser-known types of embroideries. Suf embroidery, for instance, is done by the Meghwals and Sodha Rajputs. Women work with triangles as motifs and fill accent stitches. Paako, a chain and double buttonhole stitch, and Khareek, which uses geometric patterns, are indigenous to Kachchh.

After the quake
We spent the last two days of the trip in Bhuj. You have to give it to the city for resurrecting itself with resilience after the 2001 earthquake. This concrete city has its charm — but chances of finding it are rare. You may, for instance, completely miss Hotel Annapurna given its rundown appearance only made worse by its location on a cacophonic junction. Luckily, we didn’t, and were treated to the most delicious Gujarati thali – with taameta sev, mirch pakoda, raswalla batata and khichadi. A waiter stacked the dishes in a thali. We could pick what we wanted and pay only for what we ate. I joked with the waiter about a new hotel nearby that was built on an airplane theme. Guests in its Business Class-styled restaurant had to sit next to each other because, inspired by an aircraft, it didn’t build facing seats!

By my last day in the state, in Jamnagar, I thought I had left the richness of Kachchh behind. But a visit to the Narara Marine Sanctuary proved me wrong. During low tide, gigantic crabs, sea cucumbers and sea anemones swimming around your ankles prove to be slimy but vibrant reminders of just how fecund and colourful this ecosystem is. Hold a polka-dotted puffer fish till it puffs up and dives back in the water, chase a Blue Spotted Sting Ray, or have an octopus ink you in a brilliant shade of brown before it flees — all life here is technicolour.