Delad - Surat - 17.7 km / 11 miles

I’m up at 5:30 happy and energized for today’s Walk. Tahir will drive us back to Delad where we left off but the car is blocked in the hotel drive and we’re stalled waiting for the problem to clear. These inconveniences seem magnified when the cooler walking hours are so fleeting. The drive feels long as I picture our day’s walk in reverse but in fact it’s only 17km. I just can’t wait to be back outside! Tahir deposits us at the Gandhi statue and I feel disappointed yet again. After having read much on the ancient Indian techniques involved in creating and casting bronze sculptures, including the precise symbolic interior and exterior proportions, I wonder at the degradation but such is traditional craft everywhere. It’s the start of a new day in Delad, our fourth and final week. A man is milking his long-horned cow, her calf patiently waits its turn to nurse. Families of sugarcane labourers are preparing for their workday, sitting in their carts with a child or two, a pair of bulls with brightly painted horns at the rein, sometimes one more tied at the rear. One couple waits while their two little sons play happily on a broken seesaw in the park. I take their photo and show the image to mother and she beams. Because we have an early start the traffic is still light but I am sensitive to the noise today. My ears are throbbing from the clamour of Surat outside my hotel room.  It’s not an interesting walk for the longest time until we approach the bridge on Amroli Road to cross the Tapti River back into Surat. Two donkeys on the flats below on the river bank. They are fighting over who will romance the white jenny standing quietly nearby but then both run off chasing each other, evoking a wild sense of freedom in contrast to the commuting people above. The air has remained cooler today but is overcast with pollution, which also explains the headache I have developed. As we enter Surat the noise of the textile factories is deafening. Some have their windows open and we peer inside taking photos of the machines and rolls of fabric. I notice a man watching us closely from a window several floors up and wonder if he thinks we are activists spying on the working conditions in the textile industry. In this case there don’t seem to be many workers, just automated machines. I think of Gandhi’s efforts to preserve the local spinning industry to sustain an economy in the villages across India. I am already pining for some village peacefulness. We pass all kinds of families living at the side of the road where babies play in the thick dust, grandmother rocks an infant in a cloth hammock and mother cooks over a smoking kerosene stove. No one is complaining, just getting on with living and offering a welcoming smile to two foreigners passing through. We climb up the bank to look at the view from the train tracks and examine the expansive slum. A mixed gathering of dwellers quickly assembles, excited for their celebrity as Erico starts taking photos,. It seems everyone is cheerful despite the stress of their living conditions; smiling and calling out their hellos and welcome to Gujarat! Again I wonder how this attitude endures seemingly harmoniously and marvel at their physical beauty. Erico wants to show me a mural he found in the Surat railway station yesterday across from our hotel. It’s located on a pedestrian ramp and is a colourful interpretation of Gandhi leading the March to Dandi, or perhaps Swaraj. As  I video record it on my phone he stands at a busy intersection in the station taking photos of the commuters rushing by. Upstairs on the platform I see crowds of patient peoples awaiting the various arrivals and departures of trains, sitting on their baggage dressed in an array of costumes. It’s very busy yet strangely orderly. We arrive back at the hotel around 4:30 and Erico calls Tahir to come join us in a tuk-tuk ride to the Tapti Bridge. I am excited because I’m usually in my hotel room once the night halt has been reached and Tahir is excited to be joining us without the responsibility of driving. It’s a real adventure for the three amigos. The driver takes us to the Tapti bridge and waits while we cross it on the footpath. At this hour it is particularly busy with the regular pedestrian commuters heading home after their workday. They seem oblivious to the gaping holes in the riveted metal planks at their feet whereas I peer through to the river streaming far below. Something about the rivers continues to elate me and I feel giddy with happiness and throw away any fear of heights and holes.  Besides, Tahir is shielding me from an intoxicated man staggering behind us., vying for attention. It’s a long crossing but we reach the other side stopping to take photos of each other and watch the trains pass before turning back to do it all in reverse.

Our driver is waiting patiently and Erico is now searching for a cremation ghat that he thinks might be nearby. We hop in the vehicle again and zoom off in search of it. Our driver drops us near a temple where we are given permission to enter once we remove our shoes. Passing through a room around a large brass bell we descend a steep staircase to the water and follow the shoreline. Families live here as on the streets. They are busy washing themselves, doing their laundry, lighting fires for cooking., the usual domestic routine. Climbing another steep set of stairs we encounter two priests dressed in white. Silently and solemnly they descend the stairs single file, the first transporting a raised copper bowl filled with marigolds and rose petals. They enter the filthy water to mid-thigh and offer the flowers to the river. Immediately two children wade in and begin sifting through the petals in search of anything to salvage. The sun is setting. We must hurry as we retrace our steps to the tuk-tuk and race home in the fading light.

Amid clamour and chanting

Of mills and monks

I tiptoe the Tapti bridge