CHIRBATTI – THE GHOST LIGHTS OF KUTCHH- CHAPTER TWO

… continued from chapter one.

Our stay at Bhuj had been short and comfortable. We loaded our vehicle early in the morning and started out. Gautam had contacted the Sarpanch of Rannkot and had arranged for our accommodation. The Sarpanch had been more than happy to welcome two tourists as paying guests into his house. The reason was simple, our stay would bring income for him and our documentary would mean publicity for the village.

We left behind the narrow winding lanes of Bhuj and entered the open grasslands. Vegetation steadily decreased as we traversed the distance on the state highway. A few kilometers later, we turned onto a dust track to the right, away from the smooth comfort of the metalled road leading to Dhordo. The mud track snaked through thorny bushes and dry sand, kicking up dust, so that we could see only a few meters ahead of us. As the dust settled, and we slowed down the vehicle, little huts from Rannkot appeared into view. I must say, that the location of the village was quite ideal. It sat at the very edge, where the thorny marshes ended, and the vast expanse of the Rann of Kutchh began. Gautam brought the vehicle to a halt at the boundary of the village made out of rusted barbed wires and dried logs. As we stepped out of the car, the scale of the Rann suddenly became clear.

Land; absolute, perfectly flat, land, stretched onto as far as the eyes could see. There were no undulations, no contours of any degree disturbing the geometric flatness of this plane. I remembered how my father had once taken me to the beach, and shown me the vastness of the ocean. We had followed the curve of the earth’s surface at the horizon with our fingers, watching an odd ship appear, breaking the perfect curve joining the sky and the sea.

There were no obstructions at the horizon of this sea. This vast ocean of land, devoid of dancing waves, completely still, perfectly unmoving… and dead.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? “ A deep voice sounded behind us. We broke out of our trance and turned around. A turbaned man, with a kind, wrinkled face, and dressed in the traditional white kurta and dhoti, stood there with a pleasant demeanor. He appeared old, but strong. His long life in this arid land had given him strength; and his rich culture and colorful traditions had given him humility. He stood straight, smiling. He was clearly a man of respect and wisdom.

“My name is Bhairon Sinh” the man said in a proud voice, “The Sarpanch of Rannkot. Mr Gautam had spoken to me earlier. I understand that you are here to compile a study on Chidbatti. I hope you do find what you came to seek. Welcome! This way please.”

He shook hands with both of us and led us politely into the small, humble village.

* * *

Colour forms an important part of the culture of the people of Kutchh. As I roamed about the village in the evening after a hearty local cuisine and a much needed nap, I could see an infusion of colour in almost everything, the painted mud houses, the traditional attire of women and the turbans of men. I approached the last few houses of the village and gazed at the white, open land as it stretched beyond any limits. I suddenly saw the reason why these people had embraced colour so integrally into their lives. It was the contrast that made them, and the land, beautiful. The contrast between uninterrupted whiteness and the bright colours of culture. The contrast between the dead salt flats and the living, breathing village. Rann was the great white canvas and the people were the art that thrived on it.

“Anybody who has looked for that long at the Rann, has grasped the depth of its beauty”. A man with a dreamy voice had come and joined me.

He wore the similar white traditional dhoti-kurta and a colourful turban like other men of the village. The thick white beard, parted in the middle, hid most of his features and made him look older than he probably was. He carried a lathi in his right hand with little ghunghroos tied to its top. I wondered how he had crept up so silently, and glanced at his feet. He wore no footwear.

“Do you see the water over there, sahib, at the edge?” he asked, pointing at the horizon to the west.

I gazed, shielding my eyes from the setting sun. Yes, there it was, a shimmering patch, covering quite a large area, appearing to be the edge of a huge lake. This water body was so close to the horizon that may be I had mistaken it for a mirage. But there it was, it’s dancing reflection forming more than half of the horizon’s curve from the left to right.

“Is it a lake?” I asked the local.

“That sahib, is the sea, The Arabian Sea” He said, smiling, “You see, the Rann of Kutchh is basically a very large and a very flat beach. Every summer, the sea water comes right up till the village. The gradient of this beach is so low that one can walk into the water for several kilometers without it even reaching the knees. And every winter it recedes, up to thirty kilometers in some places, leaving these salt plains. It is exceptionally beautiful during the full moon. I think you have come at the wrong time, Sahib. Most of the tourists come to camp here at night with the Rann shining under the moonlight.”

“Actually” I replied, “I and my friend are here to compile a documentary on the Chidbatti. Is it not said that the chances of catching a glimpse is the best during a dark night? That is exactly why we have chosen tonight. Do you happen to know anything about these ghost lights?”

I mentally made it a point to include his interview in our documentary. He seemed to be quite knowledgeable. Perhaps he worked as a guide during the tourist season, I thought to myself.

“Oh! So you want to know about the mysterious ghost lights of Kutchh?” he looked happy, “tourists seldom ask about them!”

“You, Sahib” he turned to me, “have met the right person.”

to be continued…

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