[Reader-list] third posting

[Farhana Ibrahim]

Apologies for this delay – I hope to become more 
regular at these postings once I stop traveling 
around in Kachchh and return to some archival research in Delhi and Mumbai.

I still am on my search for some clues about the 
lives of the Kachchhi merchants who were once 
based in Kachchh and have now moved out in all 
kinds of directions. After Jakhau (I discussed it 
in my last posting), I moved to Bhadresar, 
another old port of Kachchh, close to the 
contemporary port of Mundra. Mundra is becoming 
highly mechanized – it has been taken over by the 
Adanis – and is increasingly the new face of 
industrialized Gujarat. On the other hand, 
Bhadresar is now little more than an old fishing 
village. Once a shallow-water port known as 
Bhadravati Nagari and then Bhadresar, it was home 
to large shipping magnates of the region. In the 
old part of town, and old temple and dargah sit 
side by side, frequented by the fishermen and 
what is left of the once-thriving port town. It 
is almost as though the post-earthquake 
reconstruction drive in Kachchh has passed by 
this area. Old houses stand disheveled and 
dilapidated, but not as a result of the 2001 
earthquake. These structures fell apart over time 
and have not been rescued from decay by the state 
government. Recently a Japanese heritage 
conservation project has identified a cluster of 
old buildings to restore and maintain. There has 
been much controversy among local level leaders 
over the proposed plan to restore an old Ismaili 
Muslim Jama’at Khana. The Jain temple should be 
restored first said the panchayat, then the 
Jama’at khana. These divisions are relatively 
recent in Kachchh. As far as the villagers are 
concerned, they seem to be relatively unconcerned 
about these fractious debates. As I walked into 
the village with my research assistant, the call 
to prayer was sounding from a nearby mosque. He 
went in to pray, while I sat outside for him, 
admiring the frescoes and sculptures on the 
imposing house just across the mosque on the 
narrow street. Soon I was engaged in conversation 
with an elderly man smoking a bidi next to me. 
The Khimji family house that we were admiring so 
ardently was once a towering structure of three 
storeys. The family lived here while they traded 
in Muscat and Zanzibar, dealing in spices and 
silks. As they prospered, they decided to add 
storeys onto their single floor. Painters were 
invited from all over Kachchh to decorate the 
facades and sculptors who were employed by the 
royal families of the area were secretly spirited 
away to embellish the house. They were warned not 
to go higher than the dome of the mosque, and 
once they did, they began to lose their business. 
Then the old man fell and broke his leg. The 
upper storeys have never been inhabited again, I 
was told. All the villagers know this tale, and 
believe it carries a powerful portent for the 
future; they bow their heads in respect as they 
pass the mosque, regardless of their religious or sectarian allegiances.