The Indian
travel bug manifests in ways paradoxical; we yearn for a getaway and yet perk
up when we hear of a “happening” place. It is as if we wish to have
our choice of destination confirmed for us by others. That said, it also takes a certain kind of destination to capture the spirit of
the prevalent zeitgeist. One that we hear trumpeted often these days is the Rann of Kutch. It is a landscape like no other in India and has few comparisons in
the world at large. In fact, the word landscape must be used cautiously with
the Rann for it wasn’t land not so long ago. It still continues to be seasonal
marsh and wetland during the monsoons and dries up later. This gives it a
shifty character. Tourists, geographers and geologists can’t seem to make up
their minds as to its nature. The last group is a divided house when it comes
to the Rann. Some say it used be a marine gulf 2500 years ago. There are others
who maintain it was a drainage basin for the revered duo of Indus and Saraswati.
Tectonics and faults form the undercurrents of this geological hotbed; it is a
seismic zone nonpareil in India. If there was ever such a thing as a
geologically “happening” place, the Rann of Kutch is it.
One thing we
do know is that the retreating waters in the aftermath of the monsoon leave
behind an enormous salt flat. Here we encounter the geography conundrum. The
largest single stretch of salt flat in the world is the Salar de Uyuni of
Bolivia, beyond doubt. As to the question of the largest salt flat in the
world, the Rann of Kutch trumps its Bolivian counterpart and the Makgadikgadi
(pronounced by Westerners as Mac-Cady-Cady) of Botswana comfortably at nearly
9000 Sq. Miles. This is not contiguous however, and is often resolved neatly,
for geologists and tourists alike, into the Greater Rann and the Little Rann.
The spectacular white salt flats that a global traveller would be familiar with
through the Uyuni are primarily a feature of the Greater Rann while the Little
Rann has a smattering of the same.
As for
tourists, I think an account of a trip undertaken to the Greater Rann of Kutch
with friends a month back will help lend some character and substance to the
schizophrenic personage that the Rann has been made out to be. Mind you though,
we met Jekyll, the placid, respectable gentleman in a shimmering white coat to
boot. Despite assurances that Hyde was a monsoonal monster, we may have had the
mildest suggestion of what lurked beneath when we lingered long enough to
scratch the surface !
We were
three at Bandra - Sonal, Vikram and I. Dressed for the long haul, we were
joined by Vikram’s girlfriend Binu who, as is her wont, thoughtfully gave him
the only snack items anyone bought on the trip. A junk-free trip is a rarity
given the ubiquity of packaged foods today and the tendency to munch on them
till kingdom come. On a fast train to Bhuj, the nerve centre of Kutch, we were
joined by Yash at Ahmedabad six hours later. Having napped and tossed around
alternately, we eventually awoke well into the train’s perpendicular into
Kutch. The few remaining hours until Bhuj were part fulfilment of a long-held
wish amongst us: the lot of us on a train; part fulfilment because we were only
four. The wondrous marriage of the comfort of a living room to the mobility of
the wheel is, I suppose, the continued appeal of trains. Here we were in lazy
repose, chatting away like we would in our rooms, and yet we were being borne
ahead.
Around 1 PM,
we alighted at Bhooooj - an exaggeration I supplied inadvertently; one that the
others duly exploited for humour. It’s Bhuj with the shorter sound. In a cab
within minutes, we were heading north to White Rann Camp, among the many
clutches of tents laid out amidst the large nowhere between Bhuj and the Rann,
and our place of stay. On the way, we encountered the sort of signboard that is
symptomatic of India - “Tropic of Cancer is passing here”. Perhaps the choice
of tense was deliberate; the authorities probably wanted passers-by to stop and
pay respects to the imaginary line of yore and legend. As a response, I
couldn’t help but think of Richard Hammond’s tongue-in-cheek remark in the
Bolivia special of Top Gear – “We can’t be passing through the Equator; you’d
see a big dotted line somewhere!”
As is
customary at frontier areas that are the primary concern of the Border Security
Force, we had to complete a security process at an army check post before we
could move ahead. The BSF has practically made Ladakh what it is and here too,
they remain as the rest of us come and go. It must be an odd thing to be so
intimately privy to regions everyone else considers exotic and outlandish.
While it is inevitable that they will regard the manning of these far-flung
corners as “part of the job”, it is disturbing to think that some may
eventually come to detest them and associate with them, everything that is
wrong with their worlds. It is a feeling I can scarcely empathize with despite
efforts to do so. How those who stood guard at Yellowstone and other
wildernesses in the American west over decades in the late 1800’s, reconciled
the treasures at their beckoning with the daily monotony and duty of their jobs
is a similarly intriguing idea for me! Perhaps it is a consideration worthy of
someone like Ken Burns (maker of the landmark 2009 documentary – The National
Parks: America’s Best Idea).
At the White
Rann Camp, we settled into our tent. It is India’s latest addition to its
tourist cupboard. Suddenly it seems tents are everywhere, made available with
relative ease and at fairly reasonable charges. The clincher perhaps is the
dissemination of the knowhow on putting together a makeshift washroom as part
of a tent. There are truly natty arrangements that surprise first-timers (my
reaction on a trip to Rajasthan) who have been conditioned to expect the worst
from India’s outdoors. With the result, these trips cease to be what the mind
has envisioned for the body as insurance and end up being a different kind of
comfort, as opposed to the lack of it. Everyone seemed to be voicing something
to this effect.
Nearly four
hours after disembarking at Bhuj, we were finally on our way to the salt flats,
White Rann. To begin with, we were concerned about how the landscape (soil,
vegetation etc) didn’t seem to be gradually seguing into our hazy idea of what
we thought we’d see. Instead the prickly shrubs continued until it appeared as
if they must abruptly stop at some point. Also, there was no sign of losing the
fairly ship-shape tarmac. It got worse, in spectacular fashion. Just when we
felt we ought to be losing the last vestiges of civilization, a vastly bigger
congregation of tents, flags, stalls and shamianas loomed ahead. We were
looking at the massive tent city put up by the Gujarat Government to
accommodate the increasing numbers that descend upon Kutch in December and
January. The numbers owed to something they had started, the Rann Utsav, a
festival celebrating all that was Kutchi.
Soon the
horizon flattened out and there was no sign of vegetation. Tarmac remained
though and convoys of cars, jeeps and buses dotted the panorama, many off the
road. Eventually they all piled up in a row, as if standing against a massive
rally. We stopped and got out to our first glimpse of what seemed like various
shades of coffee with a swirl of cream. The number of people thronging the edge
of the White Rann gave the whole place the air of a vast beach for it is sand
that eventually gives way to salt crystals. Just as one can wade into deeper
waters and lose the masses at a beach, one can lose people at a fairly rapid
rate here too. It also helped that we were here for the long haul when compared with the decidedly
crepuscular intentions of most people. It had been an hour since we had come
and eventually the sun set. Following suit, the crowds all but vanished.
It is at
this juncture that I begin to make the acquaintance of White Rann and I suspect
it isn’t any different for the others. To that effect, when I try and write
about it, it feels more immediate and present than the events leading up to it,
which are more distinctly in the past. Reliving it, I might be walking through
the Rann now. It is getting darker by the minute. The white surface is no
longer a nuanced mosaic of brown, clay and white. It is more a single thing and
lends an eerie calm to the approaching night. There is something else here though, or rather something elemental that isn't here. I am unable to tell what at first. Right on cue comes a faint abrasive sound when the foot chafes the ground, a hint that the surface is less a sheet now and more an agglomeration of salt crystal clusters. It is the wind or the lack of it ! There is curiously little by way of a gust or a breeze. Perhaps it is that kind of night. It is a vast canvas dreamed up by nature, devoid of sound.
In this here and now, my friends feel
more immediate. Perhaps it is the abstraction of white and silence that cajole me into
taking them in with far more detail than I would in a city that is a melange of
distractions. The contours of a smile seem more complex, unresolvable into
simple adjectives like cute or beaming. Irises reveal a depth robbed of them by
the muted attention spans of city rhythms. Movements register in delicate ways,
as if I were looking at new-borns. It is amazing how the lack of life around can make one notice it in ways previously unimagined.
Yash's way of moving, with a gingerly grace wavering between concern and disregard, seems vague and specific at once. Some people move more for themselves while there are those whose motions suggest that they wish to be noted. He is of the former ilk. Here, his constant fiddling with his phone make his inwardly directed movements seem more thus. Any little concession he makes to be noticed is so slight that I eventually learn to discern it rather well.
Vikram is all purpose and poise. The latter inevitably mirrors the former to the extent that even his laziness has a purpose; as if he were announcing his intent to be idle by slumping more comprehensively than would be necessary. Economy is not usually his chief consideration. Oddly enough, here I am more mindful of the quick glimpses of transition from one purposeful act to the next. True to form though, his body language is up to the challenge of conveying a firm sense of indecision too in these windows.
Sonal's countenance reveals a dilemma; she seems torn between the impulse to burst out with an observation and the self-imposed discipline to sustain the quiet. Walking ahead, she turns back every now and then in quick jerks. The silence seems threatened. Acknowledging this, she makes a series of rapid hand gestures to shush us into a quietness quieter than the present quiet. Through her posture alone, she appears to be saying that this new quiet is a consciously shared one, and that we better maintain it ! We do. Moments later, unable to contain herself, she cries out, I want to remember you guys here, just like this; willing herself to a mental snapshot. With this, the reverie is broken and an exercise in impressionism is over.
Presently, as I glance up and about, the biggest casualty of urban life dawns on
me: the night sky. Stargazing is perhaps the most human of activities in that
it encompasses two distinctly human traits – hope and imagination. It is a
forgotten romance for metropolitans, however. We are delighted at spotting Mars, Jupiter and Neptune. Ursa Major is discernible in its full glory. Sitting down on the surface in huddled postures, we might have been in a time more removed from ours except for the immutable fact that Google Sky had aided significantly in the stargazing.
This is the
White Rann I get to know in the hour immediately past sunset. Perhaps it is the other way around. It has provided the time and space for me to get reacquainted with aspects of my own self and those of the others.
By now it is pitch dark. The Rann is now a veritable moonscape with the white having acquired a decidedly other-worldly bluish tinge. The onset of dark is one thing; the dark itself quite another. The primal sensations they evoke are different. Barely minutes ago, sure of the secure embrace of the white blanket of the Rann, I was drunk with impressionistic and introspective excess. Now a dark and unfamiliar landscape looms ahead, with a foreboding air about it. It also arouses the curiosity; it might be more thrilling to pace ahead now. Leaving the others behind, I walk onward. Unsure though, I keep turning back to check if the coordinates we have established for ourselves hold true. After a hundred yards or so, I can barely hear my friends. The only hint of other people on the Rann are the various silhouettes afoot at various points on my visual. They register in the deliberately hazy manner of photographs and videos substantiated as proof of the existence of cryptids. They might have been groups of Bigfoot.
As I venture deeper, for the first time, there are signs that I seem to be treading on less tenable ground. Each footstep is met with a crunchy sound followed by a quiet grab of the foot by the ground. Soon, the grabs grow rather disquietingly. Eventually my foot goes
right into the ground and I stumble to pull out of what is clearly a different
surface now. Salt crystals line the bottom of my jeans up to two inches above
the ankle. The Rann seems to be exacting an unspoken part of the bargain
between us from me ! Within moments, I am no longer sure about my bearings. It
seems as if the seduction, should it be allowed to go on, might prove dangerous
further ahead. Rather grudgingly, I return with the others. Everything now
feels different. When you encounter a potential point of no return and decide
not to press on, the appeal of the place changes. I feel grateful for the encounter and would rather not have it marred by anything more. Places can be just like people.
