The Gandhi Path Diary

In 2017 I suddenly felt called to India to walk the Dandi Path, the route of Gandhi’s historic Salt March.

I decided to publish a diary of the twenty-five day pilgrimage because Gandhi is such an influence in my life and therefore my art.

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and join me as I follow Gandhi’s path to the sea!

Dedicated to my dear friends Erico Hiller and Tahir Malek who shared the journey with me.

“I love my life! I love my job!” – Erico Hiller

“Fully enjoy!” – Tahir Malek

Diorama of Gandhi leading 1930 Salt Satyagraha, Gandhi Smriti, New Delhi, India photo credit: Virginia Dixon

Walking the Dandi Path: The Back Story October 21, 2019

First consoled by his Family of Saltimbanques then later turned on by his nudes, Picasso was my muse since childhood. I placed a photo of him in a gold leaf frame along with a frayed paintbrush and a squeezed out tube of Scarlet Lake and it hung on a sequence of studio walls over the years. His chin casually resting in his large square palm, I would look into his eyes searching for his thoughts on my painting in progress. Then suddenly I was done with Picasso, replacing him with The Baptism of Christ by Piero della Francesca. I realized my paintings were devotional whether to flesh or spirit. A silence entered my space as I looked to the angels attending the scene.

The Baptism of Christ by Piero della Francesca

While doing an online search for the occult significance of salt I was captivated by a black and white photo of Gandhi. I felt affection for Gandhi without knowing much about him. Years ago I was a month in Puducherry and each evening had strolled the promenade enjoying the sunset and saris rippling in the onshore breeze. Children loved to play at the feet of the striding larger-than-life Gandhi statue, his expression twinkling and steadfast. In the photo online he is bent over grasping the salt at his feet haloed by devotees who watch him with the rapt attention of the angels in Piero’s painting. I printed the photo and taped it on the wall next to The Baptism where I could observe this spiritual and artistic pairing.

 A voice within me spoke, “You’re going to India in the fall.”

How that would transpire had not been revealed and I kept the pronouncement to myself. A divine seed had been planted in my heart. I would wait and see what would grow.

When I travel I can lose myself in a book a world away from my destination. In Mexico it was Jackson Pollock: An American Saga and in India I had wandered in Spain with Goya. I lay on the bed in my room by the shore of the Arabian Sea taking a break from the sunlight while reading of the Spanish resistance to Napoleon’s occupation in 1808. Goya commemorated these events in his paintings The Second and The Third of May. Outside on the beach I heard some excitement. I saw a pink freckled elephant gracefully swaying in the rhythm of India, massive and illusive, his ankle chains tinkling.

In early June I visit my native Montreal bringing with me The Essential Gandhi. “What I want to achieve – what I have been striving and pining to achieve these thirty years – is self-realization, to see God face to face…” My own route is circular, an ouroboros of religion and art. I begin at Christ Church Cathedral, my grandfather’s parish as bishop of the diocese of Montreal during my childhood. Its foundation now a shopping mall several floors below, its backdrop a glass skyscraper housing a large audit, tax and advisory firm, it is nonetheless the beautiful stone neo-Gothic church wherein I was baptised and confirmed. As I enter, my dim childhood is articulated through light and form. I pause at the family pew where I had stroked the beaver collar on my mother’s winter coat while absorbing the beauty of art and music and poetry enclosed within the architecture. Next stop is the Montreal Museum of Fine Art where I had seen my future holding possibilities beyond the endless ennui. I read the body embodied in the paint and unconsciously began my quest for artistic transubstantiation. Lastly I make the ascent to The Cross on Mont-Royal. I look east and view Mont Saint-Hilaire, home for my first three years and my ancestral home on the artists’ tree: Ozias Leduc and Paul-Emile Borduas, painters of the sacred and secular.  

550 steps

up the staircase to Mont-Royal

the sound of a heart*

There was a longing inside of me to be closer to Gandhi. Suddenly the door opens and I am touched with the answer. I will go to India in the fall. I will walk the Dandi Path, retracing Gandhi’s Salt March from the Sabarmati ashram to Dandi Beach.  It must have been true as the plan fell into place in a day.

* “Art is the sound of a soul, the sound of a heart also.”

“L’art c’est le son d’une ame, le son d’un coeur aussi”  - Ozias Leduc

Walking the Dandi Path: Sunday October 22 2017 - Dehli

I waken to songbirds and muezzins, happy with feeling this vastness of sky expanding my heart. As the light rises the sound of a sticks broom sweeping dried leaves in the courtyard of my bed-and-breakfast brings me back to ground. I hurry to dress because today I will at last meet Erico, my walking companion arriving from Sao Paulo, and Himanshu, who introduced us and is arranging some details of our journey. Together we visit the Gandhi sites then converse happily over dinner as the waxing crescent moon drifts across a lilac sky above the rooftop restaurant in Delhi.

Walking the Dandi Path: Monday October 23 2017 - Ahmedabad

The following afternoon Erico and I fly to Ahmedabad, arriving at the hotel where reservations are booked for two rooms for two nights, paid in advance. We’re informed the hotel is fully occupied. It’s late and still jet lagged from our overseas flights we are not prepared to look for another hotel. We persevere until we are provided a spare room in the front hall and an extra cot. Tossed together before even setting out is a humorous situation and I can only suppose Gandhi his Self is testing our compatibility and resilience for the miles ahead.

Walking the Dandi Path: Tuesday October 24 2017 Sabarmati Ashram

The Sabarmati ashram is directly across the road from the hotel but the road is a frenzy of morning rush and my India reflexes aren’t operating yet. Some sort of magnetic attraction pulls me safely through traffic and we enter the gate into the ashram’s calming grounds. Suddenly I am in awe, wondering how I got here, and why. I feel myself at the beginning of redefinition, my old ways of thinking noisy as the traffic beyond. I shed this old skin and laying her in the shade I ask Erico to take my photo.   

 There is much to see and learn at Sabarmati ashram but Hriday Kunz, the cottage shared by Gandhi and his wife Kasturba, is the heart. Here is witness to Gandhi’s legacy, “My life is my message”.

A loud humming noise disturbs the atmosphere when I return to the ashram for evening prayers. I see a crowd gathered before Hriday Kunj looking skyward. A drone hovers overhead belonging to a film crew documenting the centennial of the ashram. I go join the locals who have come to enjoy the gardens, the view of the Sabarmati River and the fresh air at the end of their long working days. I sit on the steep staircase facing the water and watch. Two young fathers sit next to me and hold up their babies for me to admire. As I smile into their fresh new faces their shining black eyes dilate with shock and I realize it is me being shown to them. A family of four approaches. The parents are traditional and offer their welcomes as they nudge their children toward me for photos together. Little brother is excited as we stand close for the click but big sister decides she doesn’t define herself at the side a foreign white woman. She declines a photo and I admire her independence.

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 1 Wednesday October 25 2017

AHMEDABAD - LAKE CHANDOLA - ASLALI - 20km / 13miles

Himanshu has flown down to see us off at daybreak. I had thought carefully about what I would wear on the Walk, for reasons both symbolic and for comfort. A shop in Toronto carried a dress made of 100% Indian cotton, buttons down the front, sash at the waist, modest in length in a variety of solid colours. I bought four of them, completing the outfit with cotton leggings, the closest I could come to wearing khadi. Today I am all in white to honour the Satyagrahis and hoping I don’t appear presumptuous. I’m relieved when Himanshu tells me I look nice. Erico is wearing new boots and carries a new leather satchel for his camera. We meet Tahir, a Gujarati Muslim of 23 years, who is our driver. We have a van and driver because Erico is a professional documentary photographer and needs to be hands free to work unhindered. Our luggage will be transported in the van and Tahir has the task of locating the accommodation for our night halts. Things begin in a formal way as we get acquainted and organize our belongings but the road is beckoning. Tahir drives off and Himanshu joins Erico and me as we take our first steps on the closed Dandi Bridge, trying not to disturb the locals who sleep there overnight. A few more photos of each other then it is time to officially set off. Photos can’t reveal what I am glimpsing at this moment, the 400km (248miles) to Dandi Beach. I vow to take them one step at a time.

Dusty dog asleep on the path

Standing in the corner

Bapu’s* walking stick

 *Bapu means father in Gujarati and is the honoured name for Gandhi as the Father of India)

“Come come!” a young man beckons. “I will show you my village!” Erico makes a flash assessment, deciding yes. I’m happy for it, excited to see we won’t be limiting ourselves to the direct route. We follow the young man down a narrow alley, the footpath into his world. He is tall and lean, dressed in jeans and a white and violet shirt patterned with a trellis of blossoming flowers; lilies, roses, forget-me-nots, a string of stars at the inside collar. A parade of village children forms and goats spring to clear the path. He strides with intent as I follow like a novice funambulist over the loose rubble rocking underfoot. Smiles shine up at me from squatting faces framed in the deep shadow of doorways. Something glitters. A small boy shows me his trove of iridescent sequins. Little sister feeds them to her big sisters who stitch them onto the bodice and hem of an elegant brocade gown spread across their laps. I look up for a breath of sky and see the silhouette of a barefoot boy on a corrugated rooftop, his fist raised and pumping, his shredded plastic kite flapping a plaid of yellow and red against the blue beyond. “Lake Chandola!” our guide states proudly, pointing to a stagnant pond covered in a suffocating film of green weed surrounded by rotting trash.

But we must continue on our way. The day has grown very hot and we have another 10k to go before reaching the night halt. He leads us back to the main road where we give him our thanks and say our farewells. “We would be killed entering a slum in Brazil.” I’m jarred by the word “slum” . I associate it with guns and gangs and murders and here were gentle people who welcomed us. But he is correct, Lake Chandola is a slum. As we sit in some shade sipping water on a rest stop, I ponder what it is that enables one group to cope with poverty peaceably and causes another to react with violence.

  Come away

To the waters and the wild!

No frothy bubbles *

 * re The Stolen Child by WB Yeats

We follow the edge of the highway. We’re silent in our thoughts and the intense heat. I’m still focused on my footing, no stumbling on this first day as I build my stamina. The last 10km goes faster than either of us dared hope and when we reach a bust of Gandhi outside the Gayatri Temple we declare the day’s walk complete and phone Tahir. We have a long wait while we share the shade on a bench with some local men, recovering with a bottle of cold water and a protein bar packed from home. When Tahir does arrive he announces there is no affordable hotel in Aslali.  He drives us to Navagam where he has reserved us rooms in the TGB Hotel for 2 nights@ 2,700inr each per night! This far exceeds our budget but assuming we’ll make up for it down the road I feel mildly stiff but very content.

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 2 Thursday October 26 2017

ASLALI - BAREJA - NAVAGAM -14.5km / 9miles

We’re up too early to eat at the hotel. We skip breakfast and Tahir drops us back at the Gandhi bust where we head into the dawn, the walking easier today with a strip of paved sidewalk adjacent to the main road. We pass fields of rice then taking a right at a fork are fed onto the much quieter old Dandi Path towards the village of Bareja. It looks like a simple roadside rest stop until another young man appears and guides us further into the true village where people of all ages and sizes gather in excitement at the arrival of foreigners. We look each other over with smiles and gestures but can’t communicate much beyond the word “Gandhi”. Ah! We’re led down a lane where we encounter a frightening Gandhi sculpture padlocked behind a glass door in a wall. Erico photographs it for good manners and once done suddenly out come all the cell phones and the selfies begin! As we’re escorted through the village the news of foreigners has spread and an English-speaking local is brought to assist, Sonia, a Punjabi Sikh just back from schooling in Singapore. Erico wants to know if there are any living village elders who might remember meeting or seeing Gandhi. She takes us to meet a woman of 100 years of age, blind and still living independently. She tells us she was 15 when Gandhi passed through, near accurate as the Salt March took place in 1930. Sonia invites us to her home for lunch. We’re very grateful as there are no restaurants in the village and we have yet to eat. We meet her family of sisters and mother and assorted neighbours and are brought indoors into the cool dark room and seated on charpoys, the Indian style beds of metal or wood frames strung with woven rope. We’re served plates of dal and yoghurt and slices of watermelon and pineapple and once fed are told we must stay and rest until the heat passes. Initially this feels too generous until we realize it is exactly what we must do as it is far too hot to be out on the road walking. Giving in to their hospitality, we lie down on our charpoys and fall asleep.

While the Photographer Sleeps - Virginia Dixon, oil on canvas, 32”x28”

I wake first when I sense the flock of sisters tiptoeing about the room clicking photos of the sleeping Erico! They had changed their clothes and done their hair while we were resting and are very lovely. Once Erico wakens everyone gathers round for more conversation and I’m presented with a parrot. I’m bewildered by how sentimental I feel parting from a family I’ve only just met but I’d never experienced such open arms.

Back on the Dandi Path, abundant with turtles and parrots, mango trees and long tailed monkeys, we make our way to Navagam. We call Tahir from the Kalambandi School yard and tell him he’ll find us next to the gazebo with the statue of Gandhi.

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 3 Friday, October 27 2017

Navagam – crossing the Watrak River – Matar - 16km / 10miles

Morning is dawning in Navagam as I stand on the step of the gazebo looking at Gandhi. He is seated in the lotus position upon a golden cube inscribed with the Cross, the Om and the Star and Crescent. His eyes are closed and he is meditating, the golden patina shimmering a soft light. Schoolboys gather and pile on top of each other for photographs. When the principal arrives we all follow him into the school’s courtyard passing beneath a bronze bell hanging in the clerestory above the entrance. It is a 2- storey building and the long pink open air corridors are lined with framed maps and charts and a blue diagram depicting a peacock tail, words in Hindi script in each feather that I am unable to decipher. A simple line drawing on a blackboard shows a face and a raised open palm with the words HAPPY NEW….. Some heavily pruned trees sprouting fresh growth line the periphery of the playground and despite an element of decay to the whole scene, the sense is one of beginnings. This is the ground where Gandhi held his evening prayers with his Marchers before walking the last mile into Navagam centre for their night halt. With the arrival of the schoolgirls Erico receives permission to photograph the children. Gandhi loved children and he feels very present in this scene. As we exit the yard I read these words on a green chalkboard, “I can calculate the motion of the heavenly bodies but not the madness of the people – Isaac Newton.”

Morning Glory in Navagam - Virginia Dixon, oil on canvas, 32”x28”

I stop for a chat with two donkeys at the roadside, each dyed with a bright pink line streaking down their backs, a pink polka dot on each buttock and one more on the centre forehead. I’m wearing the same pink myself today. I think back a few years to country walks when I lived on a farm in eastern Ontario, stopping at my neighbour’s cedar rail fence for her donkeys to approach for a pet. I had made a painting back then of myself in my winter parka heading off on a pilgrimage down the road in a blinding snowstorm astride a donkey, paintbrush in mittened hand, a snowman in the background waving farewell. It’s 40 degrees in Gujarat and as we continue walking we see lush green rice fields being harvested. Families of workers cut and bundle the long stalks, laying them out to dry, others thrashing them over a wood fence, shedding the grain onto a large tarp. They are singing and wave us to come over and say hello. We stop and watch until suddenly a herd of cattle parades by drawing us back on our way. We’re among peacocks and parrots, water birds and lotus, camels pulling hay carts escorted by bounding long tail monkeys. I cannot think of anything missing from my life on this day except perhaps another drink of water.

Finding My Way - Virginia Dixon, oil on linen, 20”x16”

At first Vasna does not look promising for our day halt, even for water, then the villagers appear and a pair of brothers invites us into their home for lunch. I’ve only been on the road a few days but this house already seems extravagant and I feel stifled by the sudden luxuries of air conditioning and a TV broadcasting the National Geographic channel. The men talk and we learn one brother has worked in America and the other will be leaving shortly. I try to piece together the criteria of who leaves, who stays, who returns, all to what end. Is it to better the quality of life of the village or to emigrate for a better personal life.The world I have just stepped out of feels complete to me today but what do I know of their situation and where am I at this moment? We are presented with a beautiful thali platter, prepared by invisible women in the kitchen, and after eating are once again invited to stay put and rest on the living room sofas. I am grateful to lie down but disturbed from the technology and business talk, the cold air blowing and a ticking clock! We are roused at 4pm and our hosts send us along with the villagers to the grand mango tree where Gandhi had spoken to a crowd of one thousand. In 1930 the villagers had constructed a cottage from bundles of hay for Gandhi to sleep in and a canopy of khadi was provided for the Marchers. Gandhi was suspicious of this elaborate hospitality. He hoped it wasn’t a ploy to keep the Muslims and Dalits among his Marchers out of the village proper. Today the old mango still stands strong but sprawls in an ungainly way, many of the lower limbs long broken. It is encircled with another kind of canopy formed from a vast crop of kheera (cucumber) supported on a trellis about 4 feet above ground. Its season has passed, the leaves are dried and brown but a second village could sleep quite comfortably beneath it. We must resume walking because we aim to reach Matar before dark and the Watrak River lies between. We are cautioned it might be too deep and swift to cross on foot in this season. I had read about the several river crossings Gandhi and his Satyagrahas had made during the Salt March and had a strong desire to experience the same. It was the symbolism of it more than the challenge but I had packed a collapsible walking stick for this very purpose and it was in my bag today. We arrive at the shore and the river is wide but fishermen are standing in water no deeper than their waists. I take off my shoes and roll up my leggings and wade in. The mud is warm, soothing on my tired feet, a little reward for all the work they are doing in bringing me here! The water deepens and I hike up my tunic and laugh with happiness at being exactly where I want to be. Erico looks concerned but then he must protect his camera and he likely knows of things I know not of lurking in the river…. We reach the other side stepping through more thick mud and are directed by the fishermen where to locate the path leading up the bank to the road. Still barefoot we climb through prickly shrub and when we reach the top and emerge from the foliage onto the road we are greeted by a crew of men and women waiting with a pail of fresh water and towels so that we can clean our feet before putting on our shoes! When we’re clean and shod they wave us on our way to Matar. At first all is pleasing along a lazy paved road narrowed to a path by the encroaching sand blown over from the shoulders. The sun is low on the horizon and there is the silence of two people walking and wondering. Then it grows hectic as we reach the highway into town. Tahir suddenly appears with the news there is no hotel available for us in Matar. Too tired to look further we pull into a truck stop hotel. There is a delay at the front desk before being checked in. My room is garish topped up with a sharp smell of fumigation. Careful to keep my luggage zipped and elevated from the red ants running wild circles in the corner, I climb into bed under a sticky purple fleece with its tropical pink and orange sunset décor. Tomorrow will be one of the longer walks on the route, 23km, most along a major highway. I fall asleep hungry but I am happy as the effects of the experiences of the day work their way into my mind and soul.

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 4 Saturday October 28 2017

Matar - Dhaban - Nadiad - 24 km / 15 miles

Tahir is very tired this morning and Erico has a headache. He made a vow to only drink water during the Walk and his body is going through caffeine withdrawal. I have a blister on my left heel but nothing painful. Tahir drives us back to Matar to begin walking where we left off and since we are on the shoulder of a busy highway we do little more than put one foot in front of the other until we arrive in Dhaban at noon, FOOD on our mind. As we approach the village gateway a friendly pool of motor rickshaw drivers greets us. Learning we are from Canada and Brazil, one responds in Portuguese, “A smile comes from the lips but love comes from the heart!” He offers to drive us across the highway to the restaurant where we settle into a booth and I order a plate of mixed vegetables, buttered roti, raw onion slices with salt and a fresh lime soda. The other patrons are likely highway commuters from larger centres. In subtle ways I read the infiltration of the West in their children’s clothing and behaviour. We linger, try to nod off, but are asked to move outside if done with our meal. It’s far too hot to walk so we locate some chairs in the shade where we can at least sit. It’s a practice in patience. And there’s a public toilet.

Several hours later we resume walking, walking, walking. The road into downtown Nadiad is lined with romantic abandoned estates and I make a mental note to return here one day, to move into one property in particular and live out my life the reclusive painter. We come to a busy outdoor farmer and flea market, bowls and platters of fresh fruit and vegetables in vibrant colours spread at our feet looking very tempting but too risky for our diet. The vendors are alert and strong and healthy and when I live here I will buy their produce and take it home to my abandoned estate to cook before a long night of painting. But today’s sun is down. We watch the traffic circle the roundabout where Gandhi strides atop the median then call Tahir. Tonight he has found us a comfortable hotel but there is no dinner.

One cup of rice

Three cups salted water

Dinner for two

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 5 Sunday, October 29 2017

NADIAD - BORIAVI - ANAND - 24 km / 15 miles

We return to Dhaban by car before resuming our walk from Nadiad. We had missed visiting the Dalit quarters and its well where Gandhi had drawn water and washed and later spoke of the necessity of abolishing caste segregation. It is early and the families are performing their morning ablutions. A little girl stands at the legs of her smiling father, her face covered in white lather looking like a little Pierrot.  We are warmly invited into the house now standing over the old well. It is dark inside the small quarters but solid and tidy with shining cooking pots lined on a high shelf. Once my eyes adjust I see a mural of Ganesh. With all the splendours I am witnessing daily a painted picture still makes my heart race. Who is the painter with the flying brush of such fluid strokes?

It is a narrow highway leaving Nadiad and passing trucks can throw you off balance. We are accompanied by a limping dog and his presence seems a cautionary warning. I look to the tall tangled range of banyan trees and hear Lord Krishna’s words, “Shake off your weaknesses. Arise, Virginia!” Arriving at the Boriyavi gateway with its two giant green banana leaves sculpted on side columns is welcoming but we must eat and again are directed to a restaurant across the highway. We seat ourselves in the cool, dark space wondering if it is even open for business when suddenly the kitchen door swings open and out steps an impressive turbaned man who offers us menus. He is a Sikh from the Punjab and he assures us theirs is the finest food of India. We feast on this unexpected fare then once fuelled return to enter the Boriyavi gateway. The village has a theatrical feel; a movie set for a Western or perhaps a stage set for long-strung marionettes performing below the elaborate overhanging verandas. Erico suddenly decides to get a haircut and seats himself in the chair of the open air barbershop, much to the entertainment of the young men hanging about. I photograph one of the spectators, a boy around twelve, simply because his eyeglasses are similar to mine and I haven’t seen anybody wearing glasses. In the high heat of day I seat myself on a mosaic wall facing the village square while Erico explores further for photos. Two locals come to keep their guest company or perhaps to keep watch over her. I had noticed a man in the village shadowing us, darting into doorways while keeping a close eye on our movements; a handsome man, like Omar Sharif, and tidy. “He’s off in the head,” I’m told. On my left is a tiny woman beautifully attired in a white and grey cotton sari. She is old but agile and she sits silently with her thin legs dangling at ease beside me. On my right is a gentle man who politely attempts conversation within the limits of our language barrier. He tells me he is a singer and travels with a band to perform at weddings. I say I am a painter and imagine him picturing a mural of Ganesha. I’m aware that I am not a very interesting foreigner for my companions at this moment. There is nowhere to escape the heat and my Punjabi lunch has made me drowsy. At three-thirty the singer excuses himself to take his four o’clock tea. I yearn for a hot cuppa myself, our shared British ritual. When Erico returns he takes a photo of me in my pick tunic in front of the pink door of the dharamsala next to the plaque commemorating Gandhi’s visit. I marvel at his tireless eye for detail. We depart through the banana leaf gates on our 13 km way to Anand. A km or so in Erico suddenly notices we have been walking the wrong direction so perhaps his sense of detail does not involve direction! We dart across the highway, hail down an auto rickshaw, the husband and wife passengers cozying up to make room for us. Hopping out at Boriyavi we begin again, passing crop fields sprouting real banana leaves.

The outskirts of Anand are chaotic. The air is polluted thick with exhaust and heavy plumes of black smoke trail from several directions. Midst all this, the moon is rising and the sun is setting, both serene as if the world between them was their immaculate babe. We step off the road out of harm’s way and call Tahir to come fetch us. He has found us another pleasant hotel despite the surly man at the front desk. I order a light dinner to my room, shower and wash my clothing. Gandhi began his weekly rest day and silence at 9pm Sunday through Monday. As we are following his schedule as well as his route, tomorrow is our first rest day. I vow to remain in my room in silence.

The Pilgrim’s Pace - Virginia Dixon, oil on canvas, 32”x28”

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 6 Monday October 30 2017

Day of Silence in Anand

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 7 Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Anand - Napa - Borsad - 17.5 km / 11 miles

Tuesday begins with a visit to the Dada Naoroji High School. Tahir is proving himself to be a wonderful interpreter and gains us permission to enter through the gates with the car. As we cross the school yard I see brightly painted pictures on the tree trunks: a woman in a red and green sari balancing a pot on her head, a dancing turbaned horn-player, a peacock. A live dog lies prostrate on the sand nursing her litter of pups. We meet with the administrator who tells us the school is on holiday however with a few classes in session. I’m surprised at the ease Erico is granted access to photograph. We interrupt a class of high school students seated at their desks, again the boys to one side, girls on the other. As they attend to the lesson on asexual reproduction Erico quietly makes his way around the room with his camera. In his excitement, Tahir seats me at a desk in the front row and as I’m feeling the old dread of school rising inside me, starts taking photos on our phones. The students are remarkably mature and don’t react to the disruption. More quotes on the wall catch my eye, “I am a good citizen when I volunteer” and “I am successful when I do my best” which strike me as far more motivating than the deadening cliché of my schooling era, “Could do better.” 

Sometimes it is difficult to differentiate reality from imagination because of the meditative quality to walking. I sight a white ibis perched atop a dead tree, his curved fish hook bill and spindly legs blending with the wiry branches. Napa is situated next to an emerald green lake reflecting the delicate gold-domed mosque and towering palm trees on its shore. I’m still in my reverie when suddenly a young man on a motorcycle pulls up and invites us to hop on. Feeling the wind in my face with this injection of speed is exhilarating. His name is Jasimkhan and he takes us home where we are introduced to a large mixed family of Muslims and Christians who offer us tea and snacks. We relax and chat together inside rooms painted in blocks of bright contrasting colours – pinks and blues and greens and oranges- while the portly father gently sways on a swing hanging from the ceiling. It seems Tahir is enamoured with the brilliant sister Sanjana but she is already engaged for marriage. Addresses are exchanged and mother asks me to send her a Christmas present. “What would you like?” I ask. “A cell phone.”

After the heat of day Jasimkhan and Sanjana escort us through their village of Napa. The shuttered windows open one by one as word gets out foreigners are on the street below. Erico asks if we might enter a home to access a better viewpoint to photograph the faded murals from a second storey. A Muslim couple, she all in pink and he in white, invite us in where we meet their four young children. They offer us ice cream cups and as I don’t care for ice cream I leave mine by the door to give to Erico when we leave. He takes his photos and as we are saying our thank yous and good byes I’m amused to see their baby girl spooning ice cream in her mouth, I Love You printed across the front of her cotton shirt.

Back at the emerald lake an ancient lengthy footbridge constructed with beautiful arched brickwork leads us out to an island. Looking back at the mosque as daylight fades the view is serene. Coloured string lights following the curve of the dome create a fairy tale fantasy tinged with the soft grey haze rising from an open fire burning garbage at the water’s edge. But the sun is now low and we must leave for our night halt in Borsad, a distance of 8 km (5 miles).

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 8 Wednesday, November 1, 2017

Borsad - Ras - Kankapura - 19km / 12 miles

The sun is a big hazy ball sitting on the horizon. I’m excited to get going because this day’s destination is the Mahi River and I’m curious to know if we’ll be crossing it on foot or by ferry. First we’re to rendezvous with a young man we’d met yesterday who wanted to show us some important sights in Borsad. We wait on a busy corner watching cows eat plastic bags until it is evident he is either late or not coming. These morning moments are precious because the heat rises quickly so we buy two bananas and a package of biscuits and head off towards Ras. I still seem to be in a fairy tale world as we pass a white wooden wedding chariot ornately carved with flowers painted in pinks and blues and yellows. This stretch of the walk is a quieter paved road lined with graceful acacia trees next to fields of tobacco. As we get further out of Borsad we pass by a clothesline strung with saris. A little girl is busy washing up the family breakfast dishes, rinsing the metal plates in a pot filled with water from a hose, her house built of brick formed from the sienna brown soil she is sitting on. We cross over a narrow gauge railway track (2’6”, that still operates a train once daily between Nadiad Junction and Bhadran.) Just across this track are suddenly reams of saris strung on lines and the long limbs of acacias reaching across the road. Sunlight filters through the diaphanous fabric in a luminous red. We marvel at the mystery and I later read that devotees of the goddess Chudail Maa make offerings of saris and a coconuts here with the prayer for prosperity – and a male child.

A grand white and orange archway announces the town of Ras with its immaculate streets, painted brick buildings, more picturesque overhanging balconies, historic wall murals and, what is ubiquitous in this region, a carved milking sign. Bright green parrots cling to the eaves. It is quiet at this hour but one man is out in the heat assembling a large nest of sticks to fire the newly made clay plates stacked nearby. The road becomes a paved path lively with goats and as we cross a little bridge over a canal we pause and watch the women below washing laundry on the steps while their children splash in the water. A family at work in a rice field gestures to us to wait. They approach, bend and touch our feet, a Hindu sign of respect. I didn’t know enough at that time to respond with a blessing wishing them a long life. A herd of goats trots by, tails wagging, a little boy keeping them in line with his long bamboo pole. The vegetation is getting drier and shrubbier and I sense we are closer to the water as I feel the moving air. A bus shelter next to an enormous banyan tree, its roots hanging straight in a dense curtain but trimmed several feet above ground level, marks our arrival at Kankapura. I’m so distracted by the unattractive bust of Gandhi atop an oversize plinth to notice Tahir waiting for us in the van. He is so smooth at making connections now and has found a lovely young local man named Hardik to escort us to our day halt. We arrive at a quiet, remote property where a mother is on her knees in front of her house smoothing mud, or perhaps dung, in a circular motion with her bare hands over the dry soil to keep the dust down.  Her two young daughters lead us to a pair of charpoy placed in the shade of a tree. They bring us food and drink then we lie our hot and weary bones down for a rest. I can’t really settle because I’m only thinking about crossing the Mahi River. In 1930 it was such an epic night for Gandhi and the most arduous of the entire Salt March. I had read the account in Thomas Weber’s book On the Salt March and my imagination, like Weber’s also, is picturing “the horse”, the name of the tidal surge that races upstream filling the riverbed at full moon. Gandhi was to make the crossing around midnight to coincide with high tide. Crossing by boat would spare him a gruelling walk across several kilometers through the knee-high mud bed. Even with a boat he and his Marchers did have a distance to cover on foot before reaching the far shore. I still did not know if there was a ferry to get us across but we were only 2 days away from a full moon when I read the high tide can surge twenty to thirty feet above low tide. I have hopes to see the horse gallop upriver. An hour or two later Hardik escorts the three of us to the river accompanied with his canine Mad Dog, who we are warned is not friendly but certainly seems happy for the adventure. Now the breeze off the Gulf of Cambray is strong, the smell of the salty water teasing our destination. We work our way along a footpath over gouged out sandy hillocks and shrubby bush and at last arrive at the top of a cliff above the riverbed. It is empty! No water but for a thin stream near the shoreline. We climb down the steep bank to the beach and notice what looks like frost - our first glimpse of salt deposits in the sand! The riverbed is very wide and it is clear to me now there is no boat to ferry us across and neither will we be crossing this vast expanse of mud on foot. We will have to go with Tahir by car in the morning and cross at the bridge downriver. We are giddy with excitement from the fresh salty air and conviviality. As the day starts to fade we return to the yard and are led to a building that reveals itself to be the family’s place of worship and meditation. It is a spacious white room with a large yellow mural of the OM symbol framed in a yellow and pink border. I had hoped to return to the river to view it under the full moon light but we are locked in for the night at sunset, Tahir in the next room. Sleep soundly!

The Horse is in the Barn - Virginia Dixon, oil on canvas, 32”x28”

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 9 Thursday, November 2 2017

Kankapura - Kareli - 19 km / 12 miles

I wake in the glow of the yellow OM and emerge from our sleeping quarters. I hadn’t noticed an exterior staircase leading up to the flat roof and out back an elaborate altar to the warrior goddess, Durga. I keep a corner in my own home for meditation but this entire walk is truly one long meditation. We take many photos of each other before departing for the bridge to cross the Mahi River by car. As I look at Tahir posing with the two daughters, his arms affectionately wrapped around their shoulders like an older brother, I wonder if they are twins. They appear the same age, only one wears a red bindi and I wonder whether it signifies she is already married. I don’t know whether Hardik is a brother, a father or a neighbour! My impression is forming of Gujarat being one big family.

The river crossing is a non-event by car but I enjoy it in my imagination.

Our first stop is the dharamsala in Kareli where we will be staying for our night halt. The shelter where Gandhi had slept still remains right beside it. The door has a rusty padlock but the caretaker locates the key and with some effort Erico gets it open. Pinpoint spots of light pierce through holes in the tin roof scattering the interior walls and floor with stars. Our gasps of awe break the silence. Faded photos of Gandhi, the Satyagrahis and a map of the Salt March unite us and I feel assured of our protection on this journey. We have been invited to a household where we get acquainted with the husband and wife and their adult son before heading off to the south shore of the Mahi River, the landing spot of Gandhi’s long night’s crossing. We arrive and I pull off my shoes and wade into the mud as a token gesture to the strenuous effort their crossing had required.

 We return to our hosts where another delicious thali has been prepared for us. We sit on the floor eating while the husband, wife, sister-in-law and son observe and converse. After the meal we’re offered use of the shower located up the stairs outside. That and a fresh change of clothes has me feeling completely revived. This family is very curious to learn about us and the women are more open with their questions. They admire my painted toenails and ask if I would do theirs but alas, I did not bring polish with me! They also remark on my lack of jewellery and ask whether I wear gold at home. I don’t and I had purposefully packed and outfitted myself modestly as a walking pilgrim. At this moment I feel I must be a huge disappointment for not being glamorous. They enquire whether Erico and I are a couple and when we tell them, “No, we are friends!” it raises more questions about a woman travelling on her own. I would be interested in hearing more of their personal desires on that subject. 

Nearing sunset we have Tahir drive us back to the river so that Erico can photograph the Mahi shore in better light. Some men are standing on the bank watching the sun while a woman seated on the ground nearby cuts twigs from a neem shrub. I’m told they’re called datum and used for cleaning teeth. We settle in for the night at the dharamsala. It’s one of the more austere accommodations we have had but amazingly there is electricity to charge the phones and Erico’s camera and laptop. Just as we’re to turn in there is a knock at the door. Tahir introduces a father and his six beautiful children who have brought us a pot of hot chai. The hospitality is becoming close to embarrassing as we have little to offer in return. They watch and wait while Tahir and I drink tea then we all head back outdoors for group photos under the magical moonlight.

 That Little Painter Fellow *

Painting the light

The Starry Night   

  *Vincent Van Gogh

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 10 Friday November 3 2017

Kareli - Gajera - Ankhi - 17 km / 11 miles

I wake up early to the sound of drums and cymbals and head into the wash closet to use the neglected western-style toilet. As I pee I watch a spider in the corner spinning her web, her long limbs conducting to the rhythm of the music. It seems more evident in India that everything is connected, that life is one eternal dance. Outside a frail man is seated on the ground next to the garden bed dipping his fingers in a bowl of water, flicking the droplets at the marigolds. Large monkeys thunder across the metal rooftops full of morning exuberance. The heavyset man who hosted lunch yesterday arrives bringing us chai and a plate of puffy round pastries for breakfast. We learn the frail man is his brother who has cancer. After eating we sign the dharamsala guest book and make one last visit inside Gandhi’s shelter before walking into the sunrise towards Gajera. The route is beautiful - much of it on the paved Dandi Path so pleasant for walking and we see a cactus, peacocks and roosters and farmers tending to the morning milking of their water buffalo. Puffs of blown cotton caught on twigs identify the crops in the fields as we follow along behind men carrying dabbas or lunch pails on their way to work.

Gajera seems quiet upon first entering. The streets are empty of women and children but some men are setting up their stalls of flowers and produce. There are the old style pukka buildings with wall paintings less faded than most I have seen, another sculpted milking maiden sign and a cotton depot with cotton piled high as the snowbanks of my Montreal childhood! We ask for directions to the banyan tree where Gandhi had spoken. We walk through town searching for it but can’t locate it and circle back. Still looking for the tree, a kind man escorts us there. It is a massive banyan and significant as Gandhi kept the crowd here waiting for hours, refusing to speak to them until the Harijans (Dalits) were invited to sit in the audience comprised of the higher castes. (Eventually they were included while some of the higher caste members left.) It’s a lovely spot but littered with signs of alcohol consumption, illegal in the dry state of Gujarat and discouraging next to a Gandhi memorial site. 

We have an early start to our night halt in the Classic Hotel on the outskirts of Ankhi. I relax, shower and laundry, laying it out on the flat roof outside my window to dry within the hour. After dark Erico returns to the banyan tree with Tahir to photograph its illicit night life.

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 11 Saturday November 4 2017

Ankhi – Jambusar - Amod - 19 km / 12 miles Full Moon 6AM

We have Tahir drive us back to Ankhi from the Classic Hotel. It is still dark and very fresh but the light comes up quickly as we make our way towards the highway. Walking along the highway is obviously the worst and we have to be sharp but there is always a beautiful sight and this morning it is a ‘perfect’ solitary crowned tree standing in a field of cotton. Jambusar is still drowsy when we arrive with people at their morning toiletry, some cows urinating, some others being milked and we walk the streets among the closed shops looking for Gandhi memorial sites. We pause at another cotton depot, this one filled with cotton like popcorn gone wild. A bearded Muslim is seated at the desk, attired in pure white cotton with a delicately crocheted kufi covering his skull. He directs us to the original ginning factory where Gandhi and the Marchers slept. We locate it and it was a charming old building but now a mess of decay and filth. Looking behind out the broken windows I see a garbage dump where a mother with her two barefoot daughters, dogs and cattle are all scavenging through the smouldering debris. It quickly turns depressing and we are hungry. Across the way we spot a “Gandhi Restaurant” but since it is still closed we decide to do another tour. As we continue to circulate the city livens up to be very welcoming and I’m presented a rose from a Muslim vendor setting up his stall of flowers. Jambusar is now feeling very exotic, the narrow winding streets a little claustrophobic but full of fresh sights and smells of produce and wares. Some women are dressed in traditional tribal wear with intricately embroidered vests over printed cotton robes, heavy silver bangles and colourful bead bracelets, wide bands on their fingers and large crescent nose rings hanging over their mouths. Green parrots flit and swing inside cages hanging at the stalls. We return to the Gandhi Restaurant at 11 for lunch, grateful for a rest from the heat before walking to Amod. Sitting quietly digesting our meal the owner asks if he could record a video of us recommending his restaurant. Why yes! We’re introduced to a couple of his friends, journalists who also want our views on the condition of Jambusar’s Gandhi site; the original ginning factory. They tell us years ago when it received funds it had been beautifully maintained as a museum with photos and memorabilia inside. One journalist recalled going there as a child and seeing photos of a family member who was a freedom fighter. Following the death of the volunteer security guard conditions quickly deteriorated, items were stolen, the buildings ransacked. Now each level of government disclaims responsibility for funding. The men are upset about the situation and wondering what can be done to restore the site. We are escorted back to the property where we are photographed and filmed expressing our impressions as foreigners. The journalists’ intent is to shame the government into action. We wish them well then depart for Amod – a distance of about 12 km (7.5 miles) - unfortunately along a very dusty highway full of every kind of traffic from heavy trucks to camel-drawn carts full of lambs and nomads. Nearing sunset we cross a bridge over the silvery Dhadhar River and admire the banana trees. Tahir picks us up in Amod and we return to the Hotel Classic in Ankhi for a second night.

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 12 Sunday November 5 2017

Amod - Buva -Samni - 19 km / 12 miles

Tahir returns us to Amod in the car at 6am, a full moon glowing, no breakfast to be had. A short walk out of Amod, we see a Roma camp rising for the day. We cross over and make our presence known as the women prepare rotis over an open fire and the men bathe. They have a Massey-Ferguson tractor with a water supply tank hitched on back. The smaller children are occupying themselves with a broken kite while an older boy throws rocks at a monkey taunting him from a rooftop. I take photos of the children and when they see themselves on my phone they become engaged and we have some fun taking group selfies while Erico wanders deeper into the camp to meet with the adults and take his photographs. The next several miles are along the main highway and we have the company of those large and powerful long-tail monkeys. I’m somewhat nervous with them bounding from tree to tree while I’m watching out for trucks but they certainly wake up the day. When we turn onto the Dandi Path once again the monkeys are suddenly gone, there is little traffic and the scenery is fresh and fertile. Workers are out with their sickels in the green fields of cotton, music is playing. Goats and buffalo run ahead of their young herders. We arrive in Buva hungry and thirsty and I’m excited to see an elaborate dovecot in the square as I had read about them in Weber’s book. A young vendor is just opening his booth for the day while his wife casually towel dries her long black hair. Erico stops to buy biscuits and water and they ask us if we would like tea or coffee. Naturally I say YES! Little did we expect to be escorted through a dark storage room leading into a lovely garden and 3-storey modern mansion with a giant flat-screen TV. They inform us they are Patels as we are seated on the sofa and left to talk with the husband while his wife prepares tea and serves us deep-fried wafers, bits and bites and water. Shortly, the father comes in to greet us. It is all more formal than we have yet experienced but very hospitable. When done the young husband, refusing payment for Erico’s purchases, escorts us to the local peepul tree where Gandhi had spoken. The tree is encircled with a seating area so we sit in its shade to reflect a while. I am watching a man across the way straddled on a parked motorcycle, a second man standing up close to him. I’m curious about what is taking place between them. Suddenly I realize the biker is having his ears cleaned! When the job is done the ear cleaner heads over our way. Erico admires his embossed leather satchel then- what the heck- decides he will get his ears cleaned too. The barefoot ear cleaner pulls out his assortment of stainless steel curettes and gets to work in a very professional manner, picking a pea size ball of wax from Erico’s ear, smearing it onto the back of his thumb. We’re both alarmed at this production and when he’s done with Erico I decide I better try it also. Although not at all uncomfortable my ears didn’t produce much wax. After our rest, relishing in our clear ear canals, we wander down the road where we’re invited by a woman to come in for a drink of water. We enter her humble but spacious home where we are seated and drink a cool glass of water and enjoy just looking at one another- her husband, mother and several older children- in the dim light.  Once again we know we are loved when we exit Buva.

The route continues along the quiet Dandi Path past fields sprinkled with trees and an occasional lovely breeze. We cross a little bridge over a creek pausing to stare into the dark waters below. Erico mentions that snakes like the cool of these sorts of damp areas. He tells me about the Amazon, how if this were the Amazon we would see four snakes. We continue walking and I notice the reeds by the ditch at the side of the road quiver. We move into high alert when we hear a strange mawing sound and a rustling in the shrubbery. Suddenly Erico shouts, “There’s a snake!” I see its head turn and glimpse the rat in its mouth as it slithers into the field. It was big and dark but we have no idea what species it was. We carry on in shocked silence while passing some beautiful mosques. Erico has sent a photo of his ear-cleaning episode to his mother in Brazil who replies that earwax is important for natural cleaning of the ears and shouldn’t be removed! Our day is lurking with danger! We walk the full 17km (10.5 miles) without a true Day Halt and meet Tahir in Samni. He is excited because he has found us two nights’ accommodation in a private home- perhaps misunderstanding that tomorrow is our rest day and we had asked him to book a hotel in Bharuch because we are in need of a little more comfort and some Western food. There is a large banyan tree at the entrance to Samni, its hanging roots and tangled trunk painted in multi-colours, home of a sadhu. Erico disappears behind the tree into his shelter for photographs. When they return the sadhu sits cross-legged on a bench and blesses us in turn. Tahir then drives us to Bharuch where we book rooms in the Hilton Hotel for four nights in stark contrast to the sadhu’s banyan tree.

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 13 Monday November 6 2017

Day of Silence in Bharuch

Tahir is taking the train home to visit family but we are not to mention this within our phone or email messages because we don’t want his boss to find out. Erico is out exploring Bharuch for photographs but I stay in my room and read Basho and the Bhagavad Gita. Laundry!

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 14 Tuesday November 7 2017

The quiet paved footpath we are walking on from Samni is cracked and just as we enter the village of  Kelod we are met with a sight I have not seen any hint of before. A little boy is running at top speed crying as his father chases him with a stick. They disappear in the laneways behind the homes and I can only guess the distressing outcome and it stays with me over the next few hours. Fortunately for us the Path is otherwise very beautiful and peaceful, in fact so peaceful that it comes to an abrupt end and we don’t know whether we are to continue by crossing the fields of cotton or whether we have to retrace our steps back to a main road. A young couple working the cotton comes over and points the way across the field. We are relieved to keep going though on alert for snakes. The pink cotton blossoms have a delicate romance to them but in the intense heat I’m thinking more of the millions and millions of people who have spent their lives picking cotton down through the ages.

Where is The Path? - Virginia Dixon, oil on canvas, 32”x28”

Derol is a different welcome. At first we wander about in an effort to locate the local Gandhi plaque but have no luck. We meet a very spry grandfather dressed in white cotton from head to toe who is more than happy to escort us there before inviting us back to his home for tea. We enter and are seated in the cool back room while this lovely grandfather sets out a plate of fruit and cookies before disappearing to fetch water to boil for tea. Meanwhile a little boy enters through the back door, his grandson home from school, not seeming at all surprised at two foreigners sitting in his living room.  When our tea arrives Erico is a little uncomfortable because he cannot drink it yet doesn’t want to insult our host. Fortunately the busy grandfather makes frequent exits that allow me the opportunity to sip Erico’s tea until finally I have enjoyed both and he has not broken his vow. After tea grandfather seats himself cross legged on the floor and brings out a book for us to enter our addresses. He then escorts us back to the Path towards Derol.

Erico and I are very hot and desperately seeking some shade. We come across a general store and step inside where it appears things have remained unchanged for a hundred years. Quietly sitting in the corner at the cash is a Muslim grandfather with his little grandson on his lap. Erico asks permission to take photos and I ask if I may sit for a while. Grandfather nods politely. He doesn’t speak and I’m not sure what he thinks of us but I marvel at his gentle demeanor and affection for the child. The shop has a restorative atmosphere of peace and love and I feel myself recovering from the heat. On the shelf above my head I notice attractive bottles of rosewater and am seized with a desire to splash some over my face and neck and feel freshly scented. I point to them ask if I might purchase a small size. Grandfather stands up and quietly hands me the bottle as a gift. 

The Love of Bapu - Virginia Dixon, oil on canvas, 32”x28”

Next we find ourselves seated in the shade by Jambusar Hwy, about 18km (11 miles) from Bharuch, and it is hot out there at 1:30pm! After drinking bottles of water we are directed 500 m down the highway where we are told we will find the ginning factory where Gandhi had stayed. We discover it is another neglected site, or more accurately abandoned as it was never restored as a memorial site. We explore the perimeter through overgrown grass and shrubs looking for access to a window or door to get a clue to its interior condition. Locating a door, Erico decides we must get inside, laughingly admitting there must be something crazy about us to be here enjoying ourselves so much. He manages to pry it open and once we’re confident snakes and dragons aren’t going to devour us upon entry we squeeze through. We are met with a lovely light from the sun filtering though skylights in the corrugated tin roof and clerestory. I can’t really picture what goes on in a ginning factory but it appears there was a long brick table down the centre topped with wood beams or logs. Everything is covered in what looks like white mold but is most likely cotton residue.  Naturally I imagine it cleaned up as a fabulous painting studio. There isn’t anything to do but take photos so once done we’re back outside in the heat. A mother is there with her little boy who is playing in the field surrounding the old factory. Erico asks to hold and cuddle him because he’s missing his own little son, Theodoro. He gives him a tickle and makes him smile and I give him the orange from my bag. Farther into the garden a group of older children crouch protectively around an understandably irritable dog laying with eight puppies latched onto her side. We’re finished exploring the area, including my own call of nature in the thorny shrubs, so head to the highway back to Bharuch, not sure if we are on the Dandi Path or not but too late to turn back if we aren’t.

At the side of the highway a woman is manually turning a sugar cane press. The wood wagon is painted a bright blue and she circles around like a horse on a gristmill. squeezing the sweet extract into a sieve as her son feeds the cane between the rollers. It takes her full strength but she is smiling and is beautifully attired in a complementary teal green sari with red and silver sequins and bracelets.

And at the end of another long walk I am back bedraggled in a luxury hotel room in Bharuch.

Walking the Dandi Path: Day 15 Wednesday November 8 2017

Bharuch - Borbhatha - Narmada River -

We begin the day at the Seva Ashram Clinic in Bharuch. Gandhi had received people on the second floor of this building where a dental clinic was located at that time. The grounds and building have received a recent restoration and look pristine. Tahir finds the caretaker who unlocks the premises and leaves us on our own to explore at will. The dental clinic is now a museum housing archival photos and enlarged samples of Gandhi’s speeches and letters. Already many of the large photos have been stripped out of their frames due to mold so I understand better the challenges behind maintenance of these sites in India’s climate. Most of the photos and relics are copies of those we have already seen in the museum in Delhi but we are as excited as if we had just discovered something new. We linger, reading and taking photos and simply enjoying the face of Gandhi restoring our energy and commitments. We’re asked to sign the guestbook and are then invited to the office of the principal of the hospital. He greets us personally before quietly carrying on with his paperwork while his secretary brings us tea. On leaving the clinic we search for our shoes among the dozens of pairs of sandals left strewn at the entrance by the incoming patients and visitors.

Our next goal is on the far side of the Narmada River. Gandhi refused to walk the British built Golden Bridge and had crossed by boat, landing at Borbhatha. Erico’s plan was to have Tahir drive us across the Golden Bridge and then walk to Ankleshwar. I was disappointed we would bypass the walk from the river landing but Erico suddenly has a change of heart and after crossing the bridge tells Tahir to drive us towards the river’s south shore to find Borbhatha, the landing spot. The road grows progressively narrow, becoming a dirt track with many forks through banana plantations, guessing right or left turns even with the help of google maps. Tahir is a young man thoroughly enjoying this off-road adventure and it’s too bad he isn’t driving an all-terrain vehicle. Just as it begins to feel like the end of the world we suddenly pull up to a gate with a sign announcing the Om Tapovan Ashram.  Someone arrives on foot and we enquire whether we are in Borbhatha. Yes.!Welcome.!We are ushered through the gate then invited to sit and meet with the guru Shree Navagan Swamiji. We are in a very peaceful place with tidy grounds of shade trees and out buildings. We walk over to a canopy where the guru is seated on a swing with bolsters at either side of him for elbow rests. He is drinking tea and reading the newspaper. He is perfectly groomed with a grey beard, open clear eyes, dressed all in pink. He has a quiet energy and we are each invited to kneel before him to receive his blessing and ask him any question on our minds. Erico wants to know how to grow deeper in his photography but as the question might have been lost in translation he then asks about a more personal matter and receives a curious response. My question is also a personal matter and he hands me an envelope containing dried herb grass from the Himalayas. Erico then remarks that he always photographs with his left eye (or was it the right, I forget…) The guru tells him that he has an imbalance in his breathing with the opposite nostril being more blocked. Erico holds the back of his fist up to his nostrils and exhales, saying he feels no difference –then adds he did have surgery on his sinuses a few years back which seems somewhat coincidental to me. We are taken to the meditation hall where the ashram’s children are assembled for some relaxation time. We are there to witness a demonstration of two of their students’ reading with their third eye. I hand my OHIP card to the the younger, blindfolded girl and she proceeds to read aloud my name and other details from it. It is quite evident she has developed the gift. The older student, unusual for developing her skill at a later age, is also blindfolded and able to identify the page of a text being read. We are invited back outside to have tea with the guru. He blesses once more before our journey and off we go. The visit was a curiosity but a detour as we came to learn there is both a Borbhatha and a Borbhatha Bet, the latter being the destination we sought. It is getting late so we speed over the bumpy dirt roads and back across the Golden Bridge to the Plaza Hilton Kohinoor Hotel in Bharuch. We ditch the car and the three of us take off in a tuk tuk to explore the north river bank in search of a boatman willing to ferry us across in the morning. Racing the sunset and fading light, we traverse the terrain beneath the bridge on foot, a mix of mud and grasses and water, peaceful with moored fishing boats, grazing donkeys tended by young boys and water buffalo swimming in the pink hued reflections of the sunset. We agree the mud flats are too wide to consider wading even if we had located a boatman. The decision is made: no crossing the Narmada River by boat.