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”