On the hurly-burly street we wait to cross, 

Nitin parts the tide of tuk-tuks with his hand, 

leads us to the far shore of the Siddi Sayed Mosque, 

where ragged men are sleeping, and we stand, 

Light filtering through the fretwork of the sandstone Jali screen, 

decorated with the tree of life, and chiselled palm frond in between.

At Huthseeing, 

temple of the Jain we stand beneath the patterned roof in awe, 

marvel at the “intricated” toran, 

tread the marble patterned floor.

At Gandhi’s ashram on the riverbank 

we read the story of his life,

A night walk takes us thro the old town streets,

where friendly locals stop to offer sweets.

Soft rounds like palest apricots and silvered diamonds offered in a box,

by people paying homage to their balance books.

Next day we drive from town

as gipsy children lift their hands for food,

and tribal murals, ochre, blue and brown

give way to star-shaped leaf of castor oil,

where cotton plant and marigold

flourish in the sun-dried soil.

Fire crack and fruit bat punctuate our sleep,

our wake-up call for trip by jeep

to village homestead.

Patterned cow with decorated horn

and Green-veiled mother kneading dough

for bread she makes from corn.

Bolls of cotton growing fat upon the bush, 

a shrine beneath a tree, where people come to make a wish

and terracotta horses closely ranked

are offered up with coconut in thanks.

Custard apple piled with vegetables at Ambaji

where Garacia women sell their wares

and local people stop to ask for selfies

and to follow us with smiles and friendly stares.

Rabari goatherds, turbaned red,

herd their flocks along the road we take,

and graceful women walk with silver pots

beside the highway where we must “drive carefully to live joyfully”.

Past the Jesselmary camel and it’s loaded cart,

dreaming of running through the desert

as the kingfisher flashes swiftly past. 

At the one-time capital, Patan,

the weaver of palota bends his head,

learns the patterning of elephant and of parakeet. 

Practised hands knot stranded silk,

knotted with uncoloured cotton thread,

which later will be dyed with indigo

and cochineal for darkest blue and deepest red.

On past hennaed camels walking roads

flanked with tree trunks spotted red and white,

where men and women in procession

dance in honour of their local gods

alongside donkeys, polka-dotted pink,

until we come to yet another wondrous sight

Worship of sun god and of selfie

where cameras point at lotus flower

and foreigner and a thousand phones

capture the coupling on the carved pillar.

Past the family travelling with their stove

and the goat riding in a tuk-tuk,

past the field fenced with coloured saris

and on to Little Rann of Kutch. 

Riaz drives our jeep next day and soon we learn 

about the lapwing and the whiskered tern.

The silhouette of drongo, fork-tailed on the wire,

the graceful heron flying higher.

The pale flamingo and the pelican 

On the salt flats of the Rann

with cormorant and mockingbird.

And Booted eagle high above the herd

of wild ass grazing on the plain,

dry now after earlier monsoon rain.

Beaded work of local women

later laid out on the ground

where hopeful hands reach out

and souvenirs are found.

Glance into doorways

where the baby’s cradle stands,

the shine of metal kitchen pots

washed and dried with hennaed hands,

the patterned arms of women,

silvered toes barefoot in the sand.

On Saturday we drive to Samrasar

where the weaver takes the carded wool,

turns the wooden wheel

and spins a spool of creamy thread,

woven seated at his loom, the shuttles’

rhythmic dance across the warp and weft.

And deft the dancing hands

of women quietly embroidering a throw

with unmarked stitches at Kala Kalesh

and made to look so effortless to sew.

The patterns memorised and handed on,

and stored in antique pieces so the skill will not be gone.

The fabric of a lifetime told in applique,

the moments lived and loved along the way.

And three Rabari women tell us

how much embroidery gives them pleasure,

fish bone stitch creating garments

their families will treasure.

And Nitin just can’t hurry us at all,

as we buy doll and quilt and shawl,

tells us there’s no more time for stopping,

we’ve just spent far too much time shopping

Then on the salt flats at White Rann

we join the throng of families some hundred strong

where royal blue bride is posing with her man

and cameras click as we all wait to watch the setting sun.

At Nirona, steady hand of painter

shapes the Rogan art,

from remembered patterns

he has learned by heart.

A cowbell made by coppersmith,

anvil like a tent peg in the sand

as he beats the metal

using both his feet and hands.

The lacquer worker turns the handle of a wooden spoon

and patterns it in yellow, red and green

to join the rolling pin and spatula

with added peanut oil to give an extra sheen. 

Then on to the Arabian Sea

and evening walk upon the strand,

fragments, tinselled sari scraps

red and gold, abandoned on the sand.

On the Rukmavarti river

stop to see the Salwood dhow,

wooden ladders taking workers

upwards to the giant prow.

In Gondal, Naulakha

is the palace of the king,

where teapot, doll and turban]

are just some of many things

Collected by his wife

alongside his carriages and cars.

and afterwards we head toward

the colourful bazaar 

and on into the market

where the veg is on display, 

the cabbage, and the bitter gourd

brought fresh to town that day.

At the Ayurvedic centre

bottled cow pee being made,

while women weave the Khadi

of the very finest grade.

And later in the evening

we all go to the Aarti

which, though daily time of prayer,

feels rather like a party.

And it’s truly a great privilege

that the group of us is there,

as we watch the evening ritual

and the Son et Lumière.

At the foot of painted steps

we start our early morning climb,

in the half-light as the village wakes

walk up slowly, take our time.

Some choose to take it easy,

carried up on Dohli chair, 

fixed to sturdy wooden poles

and quite a lot of weight to bear.

The effort’s more than worth it

for the sights the climb affords,

the temple complex fabulous

the morning filled with rich rewards.

The evening too, as small girls dance,

mirrored caps on tiny heads,

stick and baton, twirl and prance,

saris swirling green and red.

At Laxmi Vilas Palace

stained glass lights the Durbar Hall, 

the lovely floral-patterned floor, 

mosaic, gold leafed, on the wall.

At Champaner, carved pillar

and the curve of minaret,

lattice screen and window,

chiselled flower and stone rosette.

As we’ve shared the

roads with camels,

with tractors, trucks and cars,

Kalesh driving carefully

on bumpy roads for hours

While Ramesh has made sure

that we all stayed well-hydrated

(The benefits of sip-sip

Just can’t be overstated).

They’ve kept us safe and comfortable

over very many miles

and always at the journeys end

they end the day with smiles.

And although we’ve gone without

a beer or glass of wine,

lime soda and sweet lassi

have suited us just fine.

So, we’ll not forget the time we’ve had,

which Nitin’s made so great,

with knowledge and with humour

as we’ve travelled through this special state,

which has offered us its landscape,

it’s customs and it’s ways,

and given such a wealth of things,

in only fifteen days