Old Ahmedabad

The Ahmedabad founded by Sultan Ahmed Shah in 1411 was a walled city made up of communities called “pols.” These are self-contained communities with only one or two entrances, gates that could be closed at the first sign of communal trouble. They also feature secret passageways among themselves that are difficult to discover unless someone points them out to you. The pols still follow communal lines: ones for Hindus, Jains, Muslims.

The homes have intricately carved window coverings, doors and balconies, features that don’t exist in modern architecture. “The old city had a concealed drainage system which in parts is still in use,” according to the website of Vaarso, a cultural heritage website. “Key points had wrought iron poles serving as escapes as vents for the subterranean tunnels. Each pole was crowned with a directional arrow indicating a nether bifurcation of the tunnels, this forming a dotted map of the entire system.”

Each home or “haveli” was built on a “tanka,” or water reservoir. “Rainwater harvested from the multi-leveled, jig sawed rooftops, brought down in a series of copper pipes, filtered through a layer of charcoal, lime and pebbles found its way to the storage tank” according to Vaarso. To compensate for felling trees, residents built chabutras, where residents leave grains and water for birds. “The ‘pol’ gradually transmogrified into virtual fortresses of calm and safety as the hold of the Imperial court in Delhi weakened and skirmishes and fiefdoms arose waving banners of defiant revolt and independence in various parts of a fractured kingdom, assailed internally by ambitious and disgruntled warlords and externally by flexing colonial European powers in an elusively notorious search for spices and a controlled amalgamated assimilation of territories,” Vaarso says.


The mad warriors of Holi 2013. Ellisbridge, Ahmedabad, Gujarat. They pounced on me like vultures swooping on fresh carrion.

On the night before Holi, my aunt and her two daughters-in-law gathered silver matlas filled with water, and a thali with popped dhana and a few coins. The sun had already set and we walked in the darkness to what was – surprisingly, in the urban density of Ahmedabad – an empty field next door where an adolescent-sized bonfire about eight feet high licked towards the sky. People were already gathered around the fire and my relatives exchanged subdued greetings with them. What was just neglected urban pasture a few hours earlier was now holy ground, a place where good was beating back evil.

The story goes that Hiranyakashipu, the great king of demons, was granted a boon by Brahma that he could not be killed “during day or night; inside the home or outside, not on earth or in the sky; neither by a man nor an animal; neither by astra nor by shastra.” (I’m not sure exactly why a God would grant such a power to a demon king but perhaps it was all part of the let’s-all-get-along movement among the divine and the damned at the time.) Anyhow, Hiranyakashipu began to think a little highly of himself, as one  might since even death did not now have power over him, and demanded that he be worshipped as a God. But his son Prahlad refused. He was a devotee of Vishnu. So Hiranyakashipu  ordered that his son to be put to death by fire. Prahlad would be held on a pyre in the lap of his sister, Holika, who herself had a boon that fire could not harm her.

Instead, because of his devotion Prahlad was saved while his sister burned. Thus, the beginning of the “Holika dahan” that takes place each Holi eve. Small effigies are placed in the bonfire to represent the siblings, one made of highly flammable material while the other is fire-resistant. This was a darker side to a holiday I knew only as a light-hearted frolic when we would throw colored powder and water at each other.

The colors come the day after, on Dhuleti, and mimic the frolics Krishna had with milkmaids, known as gopis. Today, people go from house to house, color-bombing and throwing buckets of water on friends and family. We had set out for another cousin’s house yesterday only to find when we got there that he had run away! So, sporting our shades of hot pink, purple, green and yellow, we zipped along Ahmedabad’s unusually quiet streets for a food stall and enjoyed vada pav.

Patan, carved

Patan was built in 745 as the Solankis solidified their Indian empire, and it was a major center in the kingdom that stretched much beyond Gujarat’s current borders. It remained a capital through Moghul rule until Sultan Ahmed Shah moved the capital to Ahmedabad in 1411. Even as Patan exchanged hands from the Solankis to the Sultanate to the British, Patan has become a major center for Jains and home to nearly 200 temples, both major derasars and neighborhood shrines tucked amid homes in the smallest of pols. P.S. is a Jain and showed me several temples, pointing out the iconography in elaborate mirrorwork and wood and stone carvings.

Patan is also home to the Rani ki Vav, or “Queen’s stepwell,” an elaborately carved stepwell that was built in 1063. It was commissioned by Queen Udayamati, the wife of Solanki King Bhimdev I and has more than 800 carved sandstone images with the 10 incarnations of Vishnu as the central team. P.S. and I spent more than an hour gazing at the various reliefs. She has been coming to the vav since childhood and knew many of the panels by heart. Among her favorites – and now mine – are of the apsaras, the buxom courtiers who are shown bathing, wearing earrings or just from the bath, unknowing that a scorpion has nestled itself onto the robe she is about to wear.

Being Muslim in Gujarat

I wrote earlier this month about the play “Tales of Tears” staged by the Ahmedabad group Apna Adda. As I mentioned, I was introduced to the group by Zahir Janmohammed, a fellow Indian-American writer who’s here in Gujarat working on research related to the 2002 riots. I was reading through his work last week and found this essay illustrating the difficulty, if not danger, of admitting he was Muslim during that time. Indians, as perhaps other ethnic groups do, identify each other through their names. Shah, for example, is a flashing red star indicating that I am Gujarati and of certain castes. South Indian names are unique as are Bengali ones.

Zahir found he was unable to even disclose his real name. I found his essay on the inability to express even this most basic form of identity sad and powerful. It originally appeared last month online at Cafe Dissensus. I thought it worth reading and wanted to share it with you.


We Are More Than Our Name

By Zahir Janmohamed

I kept waiting for the phone to ring during the Gujarat riots in 2002. The week before I left for India, my father invited his Gujarati Hindu colleague Rupa Aunty for dinner at our house in California. When I was a kid, I tied the rakhibrotherhood bracelet on her son. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, Rupa Aunty was the first to spend the night with us at the hospital.

“If you need anything at all,” she told me just before I left for India, “my family is from Ahmedabad and we will be there for you.”

I grew up in California mispronouncing names of Gujarati dishes like thepla and my trip to Ahmedabad in 2002 was the first time anyone in my family had returned since my grandparents left Gujarat for Tanzania in the 1920s. This – my father kept reminding me – was my trip “home.”

Twelve days after I arrived as a service corps fellow with the America India Foundation, a train carrying Hindus was attacked in the Gujarat city of Godhra on February 27, 2002. The Gujarat Chief Minister, Narendra Modi, who may well become India’s next prime minister, was quick to blame the attack on Muslims.

The next morning, a Hindu mob carrying swords, torches, and kerosene filled bottles walked on my all-Hindu street in Ahmedabad looking for Muslims – Muslims like me – to kill. They made us shout names of Hindu deities that my parents taught me to say with reverence. In the distance I could see a lone business, owned by a Muslim, up in flames. When the mob passed, I ducked into an internet café and passed the front desk, hoping I would not have to sign in with my unmistakably Muslim name. But a young man stopped me.

“Sir, your good name, please?” he said, handing me a clipboard.

“My name,” I told him, “is Sanjay.”

I closed the curtain in the internet booth and held back tears as I emailed my parents the lie I needed to tell them: yes mom and dad, I am safe.

My father, a devout Muslim whose fondness for Mahatma Gandhi and Hinduism prompted him to give up meat as a young man, kept calling me during the riots.

“Have my friends contacted you? Have they offered to help?”

I did not need to tell him the answer. He knew.

“Just come home,” my father pleaded. India was suddenly alien and would never again be called “home” by anyone in my family.

During the riots I worked in the relief camps of Ahmedabad where tens of thousands of displaced Muslims fought for space and food in spaces half the size of a soccer field. I will never forget 12 year old Sadiq who watched both of his parents burned alive. In my six months working in the relief camps, I never heard him say a word. No one did.

When I returned to the US, the Gandhi picture my dad gave me when I graduated from high school was no longer hanging in my childhood bedroom.

“Gandhi is dead,” my father said.


All I wanted do after the riots was to talk about the riots. I traveled across the US for a year giving lectures. Everywhere I went I carried a small yellow plastic bag filled with newspaper clippings and photos of the homes, mosques, and lives I saw destroyed. When people doubted me, I would open up my bag.

“Here, this is what I saw. It really happened.” But many chose not to listen.

I grew distant from my friends. I stopped watching basketball. I started taking anti-depressants. My smile, friends kept reminding me, disappeared.

I switched my career to human rights and spent nine years working in Washington DC, mostly at Amnesty International. But I kept wondering: what happened to all those children I met like Sadiq who saw so much? How do they – and how do I – move on?

In March 2011, I quit my job as a foreign policy aide in the US Congress and returned to Gujarat for the first time in nine years, against the advice of my psychiatrist.

When I arrived, Hindus would not rent an apartment to me because I am Muslim and Muslims – now more insecure after the riots – told me they did not trust me. I ended up staying with a Hindu friend of mine. But there was one condition: I could not use my real name in the apartment building. Sanjay was back.

I begun conducting interviews and when I explained to Muslims in Ahmedabad that I returned using my own funds to write about the riots – and that the riots filled me with a loneliness that has not yet disappeared – some laughed.

“You are writing about 2002? Write about 2011.”

They have a point. Muslims I interviewed say they want more than justice. They want an end to employment discrimination. They want paved roads. They point out that in the Muslim ghetto of Juhapura where over 350,000 live, there are only six high schools – none of them government run.

But above all, Muslims in Gujarat told me they desire to be treated and viewed by their fellow Indians as Indians.

Last year, I interviewed a man named Nadeem Saiyed who organized survivors of the Narodya Patiya massacre to bear testimony to what they saw. A few months after I interviewed him, he was fatally stabbed 28 times. When I learned of his death, I replayed the audio from our interview. One line continues to haunt me.

“I was born,” he kept saying, “in the Gujarat riots of 2002.”


I hear this all the time. I think this all the time. But sometimes the pressure to “move on” becomes too intense and I fail to say these words.

Yes, the riots are over but the wound continues. Narendra Modi, after all, is popular in Gujarat because of the riots – not – despite the riots.

Today I am back in Gujarat and I live just two blocks away from where Nadeem was stabbed. When I decided to return to Gujarat this year to conduct more research, I was determined to retire “Sanjay” because I am exhausted from inventing a Hindu family that I do not have so that I may live in Gujarat.

After I failed to find an apartment in a Hindu area using my real name, I was forced to live in Juhapura, an area, some say, is the largest ghetto of Muslims in all of India. Police line is the street that functions as the “border” that surrounds this area and many Hindu rickshaw drivers refuse to enter Juhapura because they are “afraid.” On my street, a rickshaw driver, a real estate tycoon, a judge, and a nationally known journalist live side by side. I hear all of them repeat the same thing: “We live here because we have no other choice.”

Today in Juhapura I do not have regular running water in my apartment and my electricity cuts out often – something unusual in most parts, in particular in Hindu-dominated sections of Ahmedabad. When I finally registered my apartment lease with the police, a very kind Hindu officer told me I should be careful.

“The area you are staying is called mini-Pakistan and there are a lot of Pakistan intelligence (ISI) agents in the interiors.”

But it is here, only in this Muslim ghetto, where I feel safe.

I received the keys to my apartment the day before the Muslim celebration of Eid-al-Adha. The next morning I wore a crisp white Muslim style kurta over a pair of pleatless khakis and carried a white prayer skullcap in my hand.

All the men in my building had gathered at the front entrance. One man in his late 70s held his hand out as I came downstairs.

“Young man, I have not heard your complete name.”

I smiled and said the words I had to conceal so many times in Gujarat to survive.

“My full name,” I told him as we walked towards the mosque, “is Zahir Sajad Janmohamed.”

Divine Dwarka

Dwarka sits on the far western tip of Gujarat, of India itself. In the evenings, the sunset bathes the shore and Arabian Sea along Gomti Ghat in deep orange light. As the home to the ancient kingdom of Krishna, Dwarka is one of the four holiest pilgrimage sites for Hindus. Dwarka, along with the island of Beyt Dwarka just offshore, is dotted with temples including the Jagat Mandhir, or Temple of the World, which was supposedly built by Krishna’s grandson more than 2,500 years ago.


‘Tales of Tears’

Saturday night I went to see a play called “Tales of Tears,” staged by a local group called “Apna Adda.” The story is about a man who is on trial for raping Muslim women during the 2002 riots in Ahmedabad. His daughter, a lawyer, is convinced it’s a case of mistaken identity and much of the play is set in the courtroom as she cross-examines state witnesses, Muslim victims, who attest crimes they say her father has committed.


I won’t tell you how it ends. If you are in Ahmedabad and they have another performance, you should definitely see it. The cast performed Saturday to a packed house. Tickets were oversold. When the lights came up at the end, several people were sniffling and/or had tears in their eyes.

After the show, we had a Q-and-A with the cast, a remarkably candid discussion on the riots and why we should or should not still be discussing them. It very much felt like a reconciliation panel; the comments were sometimes raw and emotional but honest. One man got up to ask what good does essentially picking open a healed wound do? His opinion was the minority and I appreciated his willingness to, one, show up to the performance and, two, to step up and start a conversation that might be perceived as hostile by a majority of those assembled.

His comments prompted several responses along the lines of “Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it” – an opinion I largely agree with. Also, it seems to me that the city and its residents must come to terms with what happened in some way. Indian justice will move slowly. Perhaps very few of the victims will see their tormenters pay for their actions. But how can a city merely brush aside – whether it be in the name of progress or “moving on” or what – the idea that their neighbors, friends, even family members are capable of such terrible violence? Many of the perpetrators were not say, hardened criminals or conventional psychopaths. Yet there was something psychopathic about what these people were able to do to fellow human beings.

In the decade since, Ahmedabad has moved on by increasingly compartmentalizing itself along religious lines. Muslims live in Muslim areas and Hindus in their own for the most part. I tagged along with my cousins to see some new apartment buildings constructed to meet the high demand for middle-class housing in the city. The new neighborhoods were being constructed along communal lines; Urdu and Arabic names on the buildings meant for Muslims; Hindi or Gujarati names for those meant for Hindus. It’s not the fault of the developer. They are only providing their customers the product that they want to buy. But I found it disheartening to see.

So it was interesting to hear from the actors in this play. Most of them are in their early 20s and prior to joining the cast their memories of the riots in 2002 consisted of “5 days holiday from school and no ice cream” being available with shops closed. One of the student actresses said that just before taking on the role in which she plays a Muslim riot victim, she  decided against taking one rickshaw home one night “just because the driver was Muslim.” That was her perspective of Muslims: other is not to be trusted.

Her participation in the play, she said, helped her realize the prejudices she didn’t even know she harbored.

Among the audience, a British-Indian woman, who said she had moved back to Ahmedabad with her family a year ago, said she was shocked at the fixation of people on caste and the general derision of “other.” She said her neighbors had strongly discouraged her from hiring a maid who happened to be Muslim and that her children were constantly being asked – even by schoolmates – what their caste was. In Britain, she said, questions on castes are not raised. “They don’t even know,” she said.

(I was introduced to Apna Adda by Zahir Janmohamed, an Indian-American by way of Africa, who happened to be in Ahmedabad during the riots. He’s now living and writing part of the year in Ahmedabad, working on his book on his experiences then and the conversations he’s having with Hindus and Muslims about that event today. I read one of his columns in The Times of India and he was kind enough to respond to my Twitter message. Follow his work!)

Gulbarg Society, Ahmedabad

Eleven years ago, here in Ahmedabad, a frenzied mob of Hindus attacked a Muslim neighborhood called Gulbarg Society, killing 69 people, many of whom were burnt alive. It is widely believed that the violence was, if not state-sponsored, then state-sanctioned by the government of Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi. Police at the scene did little to prevent the violence.

That day’s events, along with the rioting, looting and killing of subsequent days, are a black mark in the history of modern India. “Not simply tortured, raped, and burned, their body openings were also penetrated with sharp weapons and their genitals mutilated,” writes Parvis Ghassem-Fachandi, an anthropologist at Rutgers University, in his recently published book “Pogrom in Gujarat.”

photo-13I picked up Ghassem-Fachandi’s book as part of my reading assignments in coming here. I’m finishing up today, the massacre’s anniversary and the passages detailing victims’ reports are harrowing. He happened to be in Ahmedabad during the 2002 riots and subsequently followed up on what he saw and the conversations he had, detailing how and why Ahmedabad’s become increasingly polarized. It’s a fascinating personal account and I found his interpretations interesting. It certainly has given me a different perspective of Ahmedabad which is largely based on a small world view composed of my family’s experiences. (He happens to be a Muslim of Iranian descent but could avoid being caught up in the “you’re-with-us-or-against-us mentality because he grew up in Germany and now resides in America. He was considered a foreigner, though he writes that he did move away from the Hindu part of Ahmedabad where he lived to a Muslim area.)

Gulbarg Society is now abandoned. Survivors have understandably moved away to rebuild their lives in other places. In the last week stories have appeared on a public rift between those families and a particular NGO that had apparently been working with them. They asked Ahmedabad police to prevent NGOs and media from visiting Gulbarg so that they can mourn quietly. “Every year after such functions, various schemes for rehabilitation of victims, financial support and support for reconstruction of houses are announced by these NGOs which are never implemented,” said a letter signed by 15 people, according to an article in DNA.

One of those promises, they say, is that the Citizens for Justice and Peace had promised to purchase all the houses damaged in the riots at market prices in order to convert them into a museum. “But nothing has happned in the last 10 years and we are living without any financial support or any other support as announced by these NGOs,” according to a letter the families wrote to authorities, as quoted in the story. “These NGOs are also involved in making documentary films on our society and showing it to international bodies and have obtained huge grants in the name of providing financial and legal support to us.”

“We are living peacefully and do not want any support from these NGOs who have done nothing for us,” DNA reported the letter as saying.

I had thought about going over there to try to speak to those who still lived in the area, to get their perspectives. My intentions were good but I realized I would be little more than a rubber-necker, gawking at their tragedy. It’s not like I’ve covered this tragedy over the years; my only connection is that my family is from Ahmedabad and that I would happen to be in the city during the anniversary.

On a related note, Snigda Poonam wrote on The New York Times “India Ink” blog about the just-released movie, “Kai Po Che.” Based on the Chetan Bhagat novel “The 3 Mistakes of My Life,” the story is about three friends in Ahmedabad and events that lead up to communal riots that evoke 2002. In her post entitled ” ‎’Kai Po Che’ and the Strange Case of the Vanishing Villain,” Poonam writes that while the book holds government officials accountable for their part in the riots, the screenplay, which Bhagat helped write, whitewashes such involvement.

“In turning his decidedly political book into a feel-good Bollywood spectacle, Mr. Bhagat has, on the face of it, done nothing less than rewrite history in favor of Gujarat’s chief minister, Narendra Modi of the B.J.P., who has been dogged by questions over his role in the 2002 riots,” she writes. Bhagat defends the screenplay saying the project is “a Bollywood film” and a collaboration of several people.

The post offers conjecture that perhaps Bhagat toned it down because he wanted to stay in Narendra Modi’s good graces. That could well be true but I struggle to understand why. Maybe covering news for all these years has left me jaded but is Modi really that compelling? And I think Bhagat misses an opportunity here. So what if it’s Bollywood. Yes, there is a lot of fluff out there but some films have tackled difficult subjects smartly and with humor. (The movie O.M.G. comes to mind.) Shame that Bhagat couldn’t work a little harder to produce a film that might have helped to move the conversation forward on such a black incident in Gujarat’s history.

Porbandar Scenes

Porbandar, a port town located on Gujarat’s western coast, is known for being the home of Mahatma Gandhi and his family home is now a shrine/museum to his life. The home’s rooms are quite small. Climbing between flights along claustrophobic staircases reminded me of my visit to Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam. A swastik marks the floor in the room where Gandhi’s mother gave birth to him. We also visited Sudama Temple, named after a childhood friend of Krishna, and I walked through a swastika-shaped maze on the temple grounds. Traversing the maze is supposed to wash you of your sins. The day we were there, a Friday, was also the Birthday of the Prophet Mohammed, and a celebratory parade wound through the city streets. Considering Gandhi’s message of religious tolerance, I thought the timing brought a nice addition to our visit.


Junagadh is mostly known as a base station for visitors to Gir National Park or for pilgrims who make the trek up Mount Girnar – 9,999 steps to complex of 866 Jain and Hindu temples scattered across five peaks. We arrived at the pilgrimage’s base in late afternoon. Climbing Palitana’s 3,800 steps took Dad and I the better part of a day so we decided this time to pay homage from below and explore the Taleti instead. The scene was the opposite of Palitana’s crush. A few pilgrims loitered about, some getting foot rubs from the masseurs who plied their trade en route. But the dholi-wallahs were gone, their dholis stacked alongside a billboard in Gujarati that advertised dholi fees by kilogram. The more you weighed, the more you paid. This seemed totally fair considering the rather hefty  people we saw being carried in Palitana.

Junagadh itself is divided into an old and new town, the older part located mountainside and called “Uparkot.” We visited the old fort/mosque, just down from the temples at Girnar. The fort, which is thought to be 2,300 years old is today little more than walls and ceiling; the sculptures of animals and people carved into pillars are largely worn down by time.

We also visited Adi-kadi Vav, a well built in the 15th century that is carved out of rock down 120 stairs. Legend has it that after the well was found to be dry, the royal priest said that water would only be found if two unmarried girls were sacrificed. Adi and Kadi were chosen and so the well is named after them. Visitors hang colored cloths and bangles on a tree nearby in their memory.

I most enjoyed the part we almost skipped. On paper, the Mahabat Maqbara seemed like another old building left to disintegrate. Built by Bahadur Kanji as a tomb for his predecessor, Mahabat Khan, it is a surprisingly well-kept example of Indo-Islamic architecture. I walked up the spire of this onion-domed tomb taking pictures for longer than I would have expected.

A day in Diu

Out of the rural marshes of southern Gujarat sits a national police checkpoint. This marks the entry to the island city of Diu, a former Portugese colony that like, Daman and Goa, were acquired by the Indian government in 1961. The three are union territories and are not governed by the states’ governments in which they lie.

The Portugese established Diu in 1535 as part of its far-flung colonial empire. They did not want to cede their colonies even at Indian independence in 1948 and by 1961, Nehru ordered the Indian military to invade. The Portugese garrison surrendered after a 48-hour bombardment. Today, Diu is a popular beach resort and, along with Daman, the only place to buy alcohol in Gujarat, which is a dry state. The Portugese mark can still be seen in the city. During an afternoon, Dad and I prowled around Diu Fort, visited St. Paul’s Church and Makata Lane, where many Portugese merchants had built their mansions.

Just outside of town, we visited Gangeshwar Mahadev, a cliffside Shiva temple. The legend is that five brothers came to the area but had nowhere to worship before eating. So they created five lingas or stones, generally used as representations of Shiva, set along the waters edge. Sheshnag, the serpent God, is carved in the rock above and watches over the lingas. Each night at high tide the risen waters cleanse the temple, leaving it fresh for each new day’s offerings by devotees.

Another interesting fact about Portugal’s former Indian colonies: When they left, they decreed that residents born there before December 19, 1961, when it ceased to be a part of Portugal and became an Indian territory, would be deemed Portuguese citizens, a right that could be extended to two generations of their descendants.