The Land of Wanderlust

The Land of Wanderlust

Cross the bridge over the Shetrunji River, and you’ll find yourself trudging along the rugged slopes of Kadambgiri, step by dusty step, until Jesar greets you almost instantly. Pass through Jesar, and soon you’ll stumble upon the eerie old bungalow of Chhaparyali—whispered to be haunted, its walls smeared with tales of ghostly wails and human filth. It’s not a place you reach in a hurry, mind you. No, it lingers just out of reach, teasing you until, after a bit of a delay, you arrive at Dungar.

That Chhaparyali bungalow? If there’s a ghost lurking in your soul, it’ll call out to you, beckoning you to whisper secrets to its walls, carved black as coal by lovers long gone. It might even wound you with its memories. But a wandering spirit like me? What’s there to fear? If you ask the villagers, “How old is this place? Who built it?” they’ll shrug and say, “Who knows? Maybe our ancestors did. We’ve got work to do. Right now, it’s useful to us for going to the toilet.’ I saw it with my own eyes, peering through the scratched lenses of my helmet and sunglasses—the man who said this must’ve been well past seventy. After that, you grab a five-rupee packet of Balaji Chavana(Packaged Namkeen) from his shop to munch on the road, and only then do you set off toward Dungar village. But it doesn’t come easy. You’ve got to cross the Mahuva-Savarkundla junction, navigating roads littered with gritty pebbles that taste like Rajasthani petha—dry, crumbly, and relentless—before you finally roll into Dungar.

Before you even catch sight of Dungar’s hills, you’ll spot flex banners flapping by the roadside, shouting, “Come savor Dungar’s famous candy!” At half-past one in the blistering afternoon sun, what else would you crave but candy? And so, at long last, Dungar arrives.

When I swung off my twin-cylinder firecracker of a bike—a trusty Jawa—my jeans were practically glued to the seat, baked by the heat. It took a delicate pinch with my right hand to peel them apart, and only then did I breathe, “Phew, I’ve made it to Dungar.” At Dungar’s crossroads, I parked the Jawa and looked up to see Altafbhai standing outside Central Candy. Altafbhai, with his soda-bottle-thick glasses, is the shop’s proud owner. I called out, “Come on, brother, hand me a candy—I’ve been reading your signs for miles!” He looked at me and asked, “What cast are yor from?” I thought, Is this guy checking my caste before serving me? The sun and dust of the road had worn me thin, so I shot back, “I’m no beast, brother. I’m a Darbar,Kshatriya—why the question?” Altafbhai grinned and said, “Oh, it’s not like that. My name’s Altaf. I’m Muslim. If I serve you candy without asking who you are, and later you find out it was made by a Muslim’s hands, it might taste bitter to you. Better to ask first.”

I liked this man instantly. When I asked his name, he said, “Altaf. My father’s name was Allarakhaa.” There’s no joy quite like chatting with someone you take a shine to. The Jawa was parked far off, and time was slipping away, but Altafbhai cooled my restless heart. I said, “Alright, Altafbhai, serve me up a cracking candy. This wanderer’s been rattling along the road since forever—a weary Garasiya(Kashtriya) soul.”

Maybe I grew on him too, because he handed me a Malai Zubeidar. Then he said, “Here, try this Pista Poshina.” I devoured that one too. And then, “Take this last one, Shehnaz Babi.” After polishing off three candies in a row, I asked him about their names. He smiled and said, “Zubeidar was my first wife. Poshina, my second. And Shehnaz, my third. They all loved me dearly, so I named my shop’s famous candies after them.” His romantic tale sparked a bit of mischief in me, and I teased, “Altafbhai, why let strangers taste candies named after your wives?” He laughed, “Brother, Allah is kind. I was blessed with such loving wives—I hope everyone finds that kind of love.”

Three candies down, I was recharged. Just then, a WhatsApp message pinged from my neighbor, Dineshbhai Shukla, who’d seen my travel photos on my status. “Where’s the road taken you now?” he asked. I replied, “I’m parked in Dungar for now, planning to head toward Jafrabad.” Dineshbhai, knowing me for the restless soul I am, shot back, “If you’re out wandering, there’s an ancient Varahrup temple near Victor. Go check it out. Ask around—they’ll point you to it. You won’t regret it.”

Bidding Altafbhai farewell, I roared off toward Port Albert Victor. The Bhavnagar-Somnath National Highway stretched across my path, but I crossed it and headed for the salty flats of Victor Port, the Jawa’s rumble calling out to the open road. The British engineer of Bhavnagar’s princely state, one Mr. Sims, dreamed of making this port rival Europe’s finest. It was christened Port Victor after Albert Victor, who laid its foundation stone. They say if Albert Victor hadn’t shown up at the last minute, the Bhavnagar Maharaja would’ve done the honors, and the place would’ve been called Takhtnagar. You’ll find the full story in ZaverchandMeghani’s(Well-known Gujarati Writer) essay, The Bay of Chanch. From Victor, you can hop on a boat to Chanch Bungalow. I was tempted, but I’d set myself a 24-hour limit for this adventure. I called my student Sumal Gujariya, a Chanch local, but he said, “Sir, I’m off to Ahmedabad.” So I let it go: Fine, Chanch Bungalow’s off the list. Later, at a roadside tea stall, I learned the forest department no longer allows visitors there. Leopards have claimed the place, lounging in the Maharaja’s old summer retreat—a bungalow unlike any other in Saurashtra. Lucky beasts. Now what?

Further along, I heard about an ancient Varahrup temple near Pipavav Port, one of a kind in Gujarat. It’s mentioned in the Samudrantike(famous Gujarati Novel) and the Puranas, and even Zaverchand Meghani wrote about it. A thrill surged through me—I’m going, even if Jafrabad has to wait. “How far?” I asked. “About 35-40 kilometers,” came the reply. I’d left that morning with no clue where I’d end up, so I just set off for the temple. On the way, I spotted two signs: one pointing to the main road for Pipavav Port, my route to Varahrup, and another, smaller one that read Pipavav Dham. I’d fixed my sights on Varahrup, but that Pipavav Dham sign stirred a memory—the bhajan of Saint Pipa:

“Pipa paap na kijiye,

To karma kiya so baar,

Kisi ka kuchh na lijiye,

To daan diyo apaar.”

(“Pipa, commit no sin,

And your virtues will shine twelvefold!

Take nothing from another,

And your charity will know no bounds!”)

What a leap—from the royal courts of Gadhgagaraun in North India to this salty patch of Victor’s coast! Fate’s a strange weaver, pulling souls across time and place. That sign tugged me toward Pipavav Dham, and Pipa Bhagat’s story flooded my mind. Even in the scorching heat, goosebumps prickled my skin. The tale of Sen Bhagat’s wife in Umej village, her unimaginable sacrifice—it shook me. Could it be true? To feed a guest at her doorstep, would a woman truly give up her honor like that?

It’s a story that pierces young hearts, raw and unforgettable. Here’s how it goes: Pipa, a contemporary of Kabir and a princely ruler, was a devout worshipper of a goddess in Kutch’s Kerakot. One fateful moment, he realized no deity could compare to the divine presence in the world itself. He bundled up all the idols from his shrine, tied them in a cloth, and set off for Dwarka with his eight queens. There, he declared, “I’m done with this life—I’ll take up the ascetic’s path in the wilds.” His wives said, “We’ll come too.” Pipa handed each a white cloth, a tulsi mala, and sandalwood paste, saying, “If you’re with me, shed your royal finery and follow. I’m no one’s master anymore.” Seven of the eight queens hesitated. Dwarka was one thing, but the jungle? They said, “We’d come, Pipa, but we can’t cast off our regal ways for a hermit’s life.” Pipa wouldn’t budge. Seven queens turned back, but the eighth, Sita Devi, deemed the least favored, stood by his side, resolute. Pipa saw the world anew—Sita, whom he’d overlooked, walked with him, unwavering, on the sharp edge of devotion, heedless of sun or storm. Singing bhajans, they reached the shores of Sorath, stopping to rest in what’s now Umej village in Una taluka.

There, they were guests at the home of a devout man named Sen Bhagat. At dinner, Pipa and Sita noticed Sen’s wife was nowhere to be seen. They insisted, “If we’re to eat, let’s all sit together. Call your wife.” Poor Sen paled. “Where is she? We saw her earlier—why’s she hiding now?” he stammered, his heart heavy. Sensing a mystery, Sita searched the house and found her—curled up in an empty grain bin, trembling, stark naked from head to toe, shamed to her core.

“What’s happened?” Sita asked. Wiping tears, Sen explained, “We had no grain left, not a scrap of anything. My wife, who guards our home’s honor, gave up her only sari to barter for flour and lentils at the market so I could feed you. She cooked in nothing but a tattered cloth, and when it was time to serve, she hid in this bin to preserve her dignity.”

What followed, my friends, was extraordinary. Covering the woman with her own shawl, Sita and Pipa took to dancing. Sita, a princess trained in song and dance, said, “In my father’s house, I learned to perform. People here won’t pay for bhajans, but they’ll shower coins on a dancer.” Pipa was stunned by her grace and resolve. Word spread: “A beautiful Hindustani dancer has come!” By evening, villagers from far and wide gathered, and Sita’s performance filled Sen’s humble home with abundance.

That’s Pipa and Sita for you. Even in 2020, some four-and-a-half centuries later, this story stirred a storm in my soul. From Umej, they journeyed to Chanch Bay, where they built a stepwell, now famed as Pipavav. (You can see its photo alongside this tale.) Today, the name Pipavav is tied to a sprawling port, and people flock to it, forgetting the sacred well. What a world! Pipa saw divinity in serving the poor, and later, Sahajanand Swami(A Religious leader) restored that very well. As I descended its two steps, I vowed, “Pipa, before I leave this body, I’ll stand in Umej and seek out Sen Bhagat and his wife. If nothing else, I’ll thank her in whatever words I can muster for feeding her guests at such a cost. What were these people made of?” I can’t fathom it, but even after all these years, this land’s aura calls to me. If Sorath is to thrive, we must nurture the spirit of Pipa and Sita’s service alongside Pipavav Port’s progress. The Pipavav Dham ashram is lovely—I’ve promised to return for a two-night stay. I still have to meet the peacock that swims across the sea each night to visit the priest of Chanchuda Mahadev in Chanch Bay. As I sprinkled Pipavav’s water on my head, it was nearly half-past three. If I didn’t hurry, I’d never reach Bhavnagar before midnight. So, I hit the road.

Turning left toward Pipavav Port, I spotted a sign: Bherai. My heart leapt—Bherai, where Meghani gathered so many folk songs! Before I could think, my beloved Jawa veered toward it. Bherai has ancient memorial stones from the 16th century, and they say it once hosted a bustling market. Now it’s just a quiet village—who’d come to trade here? But listen to this song Meghani found:

“Daglaa di ne raat,

Maare bhara pade bhirai na,

Melyu vanger, melyu maadhiyu,

Meli mahuvaa ni bazaar,

Maare bharava pade bherai na.”

(“Step by step, through the night,

I must wander to Bherai’s market!

I left Vangar, left Madiyu,

Left my Mahva town’s bazaar behind;

I must wander to Bherai’s market.”)

This tale of Rana and Kunvar is a cherished piece of our folklore. Rana, a Rabari youth, was mad for Kunvar, but her parents married her off to another. Abandoning his homeland of Vangar and Madiyu, Rana settled on a hill called Dhunvas in Gir forest, yet he’d trek to Bherai’s market, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of Kunvar. Brother, I too wandered through that fabled Bherai bazaar today. As I roamed, I thought I heard Rana’s cry. I turned, but it was just my imagination.

From Bherai, I pressed on to Atwano.(I got confused). The Varahrup temple was close now, but the path wound through orchards, and a river lay ahead. A villager warned, “You’re a stranger—the river’s current is strong. We locals can get a bike across. Want me to help?” I brushed him off, my pride stinging. I’ll manage. I crossed the orchards and faced the Dhantarvadi River, brimming from Gir’s hills. Its waters, once drunk by outlaws, sent a thrill through me. I parked the bike and surveyed the scene. A large check dam offered a path, but water flowed over it, a foot or two deep, across a stretch nearly a hundred meters long. I was alone—no one on either bank. What now? Backtracking to Pipavav would leave me nowhere. I couldn’t return without seeing Varahrup. So, I plunged the Jawa into the water. Halfway across, the current surged. One slip, and my darling bike—my Jawa, worth more than a feast—would be lost. I’d swim to safety, but losing her? The world would mock me. Every ounce of bravado drained away. The water was murky green, hiding the path. Villagers had warned of deep pits in the dam—“Fall in, and you’re done.” My 150-kilo love was on the brink of disaster. I won’t lie—I was close to tears. For twenty minutes, I stood frozen, hoping someone would pass by. Patience gone, I started shouting, “Anyone there? Anyone in the orchards? Help! I’m stuck!” After countless cries, a girl, maybe sixteen, herding cattle at the orchard’s edge, poked her head out. What could she do? But she waded straight across, climbed onto the bike behind me, and said, “Don’t be scared. I’ll show you where to steer.” I protested, “But I can’t see a thing in this water!” She pointed a stick ahead like an arrow, saying, “See this stick? Keep the wheel where I point.” I thought, Is she leading me to my doom? But with no choice, I inched forward, half-submerging the bike, teetering on the dam’s edge, until we made it across. Her name was Aju. I didn’t linger—muttering thanks to Dhantarvadi and Aju in my heart, I rode on. Two kilometers later, I hit the asphalt road near Kovaya’s mines.

Varahrup is a gem of a place. I rode down to the sea from there, too. The ashram’s well-kept, and a dark-skinned man was tending it. I asked, “Any rooms for the night?” He said, “Sure, but women can’t share a room—separate ones only.” I wondered, Did he see a woman on my bike? From Varahrup, I headed to Jafrabad to visit my poet friend Vimal Agravat. He took me to Vadhera’s beach, a quiet shore with little foot traffic. There’s an ashram there too, and the coast is pristine. I listened to Vimal’s poems—his Kharvan Khari-Khari is a classic. It’s a prideful thing to have a renowned Gujarati lyricist share his work, making my day complete. After two cups of tea from his wife’s hands, I set off for Bhavnagar via Rajula, Savarkundla, and Amreli. The road I’d come by was so rough I swore not to return that way, but this new route felt like riding across Ram Setu itself. Amreli held another lure—my childhood friend Tara. If I met her, I hoped to hear Gir’s tales from her father. Coated in dust, I reached Amreli at eleven at night. Tara was waiting for me on the highway. “Dad’s asleep—you’re too late. Eat and go,” she said. I savored her homemade kheer, and with that, I left the land of my wanderlust behind, rolling back into Bhavnagar at half-past one in the morning.