Desert stretch

86.80% she scored in her PTC final exam( Primary Teachers' Training College), 6th rank in the district. A brave woman, must say. 6 animals pounced on her nonchalantly day in and day out. They were her professors. She is too strong to have crawled and found her way out.

Today she walks with pride. As she puts it, with voice, not choked: “my native had earned a blot, I wiped it off”. Her voice heard, my tears couldn’t be held back. Patan no longer remains the famous hub for weaving Patola.

Sorry state we live in. It hasn’t as yet rained here in Ahmedabad. Accursed land, by Joe!

This weekend I had taken my “aunties” who have mewed down considerably for an interesting trip around their own native land. Most of them hadn’t seen the places visited. Full on trip. The girls were never out alone. Independence and responsibility made them women. It was great to witness the baby step.

Our first stop was Step well of Adalaj, which compelled me to take an hour extra to complete my individual work. An artistic manifestation of ones creative thought. You could see the fingers laying out designs on every corner of the well. Sadly though, the well was brimming with filth all over, kurkure packets floating. Dead bats, remains of birds and then a drunkard following us. It all began from hereon.

Lothal again took all of them to a different height. They got to hear all that they had learnt in texts. They got to see all that the books showed. But now live. The sun above wasn’t leaving us alone. The dockyard ones blue had become earthy. We returned tanned!

Tired till the throat…we sought for a decent restaurant and had real great fun with my favored ones. Sarkhej Roza- the next stop. A sprawling mosque with visitors crawling all over. Sunday siesta!

Mr. Kadri guided the students with his inputs while I got hooked on to the display of another great artistic manifestation.

Alas! The reservoir, that had ones migratory birds as guests had become a grazing land! Desert stretch. This year no pouring Ma’am-, said a young fellow as I exclaimed aloud. We couldn’t save it! Disheartened we boarded our vehicle. Modi became a hot topic. There were more 'I’s' in support. Before the fight could bring in trouble for us, I intervened and suggested them to take over a project to save Sabarmati which has gone Kareena way, my poetry “Sabreena” would be able to narrate what I exactly wanted. Sidi Saeed Mosque revisited only to capture few pictures which were not very different from what the world has already seen.

                                                                      

                                                                    Sabreena

Hunched up between
the dividing brothers
silently rubbernecking,
my fate-engineered.
once a baggy Ghat
with newly-wedded brides
leaving their dreams afloat
the diyas had love tales
drafted.
Performing rites
on my reef
the priests have past their primes.

Many crowned heads
have strolled past, hand-in-hand
with their paramours
brought moon on their foreheads,

and lit candles on those eyes.
The serpentine alleys have taken me
and built teensy castles.
The tall building now
becloud me.
while I

with time

not sinking into the sands
but fermenting
in my today,
see- dry flowers, incense sticks, ashes
road-rolled by plastic sheen
giving me

a size zero.

___________________________________________________

(N.B:Rivers across the world are forced to go Kareena way, Sabarmati no exception!)

The second last stop. We were drained out. Rani nu haziro: a total disastrous visit. Amid a number of retail shops, the location had to be hunted for. The structure was no less attractive but it has become a shelter for the squatters. A huge lock at the entrance welcomed us. Cots, hanging clothes, utensils in the courtyard. A huge opening in one of the ventilated walls let my camera buzz in. There laid down a number of tombs locked up, covered with never turned shroud. Aghast! History here is a waste of space.

The other side of the glamorous expanse, Ahmedabad has far more to show than what meets the eye. The sleety lanes on the other side of the bridges, which the natives address as the old city has fables screaming aloud as you zoom past. Years needed to work on them. My eyes captured the rejection.

Wheels turn, pollution inhaled, bridges crossed. Patang Hotel guards. My girls could sniff the familiarity, the all pervasive difference between the past and the present. I want to go back, announced one of them. It was difficult for most of them to relate to what they were seeing now from their windows. A long day left behind.

Their teacher wiping away the sweat. Smile plastered, thoughts rambled on the temple.

My girls had become sensitive. Penetrating my stiffled lungs, an impossible prayer of her presence amongst my girls escaped in the gushing dust...

We were approaching Science City…