Memories Of A Lost World

Diu: The quaint Portuguese settlement at the tip of the gulf of Kambhat was the loveliest town we visited. Neat, quiet lanes with foreigners hanging out, completely at home with the town and its people. It was reminiscent of the quieter parts of Goa, though not as commercialised.

From the banks of the Yamuna in New Delhi we had now reached the shores of the Arabian Sea. The beach, a clean expanse of sand, pebbles and surf proved a welcome indulgence. It was here that two of us decided to break away from the group and explore the town independently.

We took a ride into the main the city in an Enfield converted into an auto rickshaw. A few minutes into the ride the driver stopped and refused to go any further if we were not willing to pay Rs 40 for the one-and-a-half kilometres. We wouldn't comply, to him or the burly guy who joined him. A trip to the traffic policeman revealed the actual fare to be as less as Rs 1. Encouraged with the victory of good over evil, we hopped into another rickshaw and reached the Fort with renewed gusto.

The 16th century Portuguese fort now houses some administrative offices of the Union territory of Daman and Diu. It also serves as a jail. Near the huge entrance someone had put two Hindu deities decorated with gulmohar flowers. With pigeons nestling in the crumbling walls, the ancient edifice was littered with biscuit, toffee and jafrani patta wrappings. Those historic, rusty cannons were desecrated further by scores of love notes, some in bright yellow paint. "Amma...amma," a beggar pleaded on our way out and abused us in the foulest of terms when we went past without giving him anything.

We quietly entered the Saint Paul's church during the evening worship service. The intricate woodwork altars mounted upon the walls distracting us from the Portuguese worship service. Adjacent was the Nirmala Mata school. A board inside had a list of staff names with qualifications, however only two names had no qualifications specified -- the peon and the principal.

A peak inside the church a little later revealed the priest lying in the pew with a doctor attending to him. He had fainted after the service. There are about 30 to 40 Portuguese-speaking families in Diu. Paul, who lived across the church, took us to his home. Prominent in his living room was a framed picture of Portuguese President Mario Soares on his visit to Diu. "That is me standing behind," he pointed proudly. "All of us have some member of the family living in Portugal," he said.

Chauhan's, our British Columbians, that's what we called them had their entire family in Vancouver. With five sons, 14 grandchildren and 65 years behind them, the past 12 years of retirement gave them plenty of opportunities to travel. "We set aside $ 20,000 for travelling every year and each time we visit India we come through different routes," Chauhan said. Halting in Bali on their way back they had already slated Australia, Fiji and New Zealand as next year's destinations.

Dolis and bagghis. Palitana had some regal transport waiting for us. Going through the city in a horse drawn carriage, hopping into a doli at the foot of the Shatrunjaya hills -- ready glimpses from that lost world the train promised.

A prominent pilgrimage centre for Jains, Palitana was dotted with dharamshalas and white clothed monks. 3,572 steps led to the Jain temples situated on top of the hills. While some of us alternated between walking and sitting on the chairslings carried by four men, most climbed the steps on foot. There were devotees singing hymns, women carrying babies in cloth slings with tiny toes sticking out and jazzily dressed boys wearing glares under an overcast sky.

It took us over an hour to reach the top. No half sleeves or shorts. No leather. Cassettes from video cameras censored and later dispatched to the forwarding address. There were several instructions to maintain the sanctity of 863 temples. Amongst an argument of sorts between Prasad and Ram about the year of Mahavira's birth we reached the first temple.

And just as Ram was giving into Prasad, the sky broke open into a steady downpour. The Royal Orient plastic laundry bags on our heads, crisscrossing between the scores of people in the complex we saw the beautifully carved Adhishwara temple under a cold January shower.

Bakshish...bakshish. The doliwallahs demanded Rs 200 as a tip. With just stray customers every three to four days they were coercive enough to ensure you shelled out that amount. Tired, with feet in wet sneakers we didn't have the energy to protest and climbed back onto the waiting bus.

Our bus driver was amazing. Through four days and seven cities he drove with the train, waiting for us at every station to take us further for sightseeing. We parted company in Ahmedabad. "You must sleep it off nicely at home," advised Dr Raj. A member of the World Psychiatric Association, he was in the prelimnary stages of migrating to Australia. "I have some good job offers there but my wife is not very interested in moving out of the country. She likes people and might have some difficulty in settling down there," he said.

His wife Chandra was the most vivacious amongst us. They were travelling with their niece Natasha because their daughter couldn't make the trip. "Her guruji didn't give her leave," Chandra explained. Ahmedabad was our last stop in Gujarat and our second overnight halt at a station. It was also the filthiest station we crossed.