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.