Surat in 1971 was as complex a district as it was important, both economically and politically. It was Gujarat’s richest district with diamond polishing and zari and textile production as the mainstays. It was also a university town with South Gujarat University located there. It had the largest population of Bohra Muslims. Because it was an industrial town, workers migrated there from all over India, and it had the highest number of Adivasis amongst all Gujarat districts. Notwithstanding this very diverse demography, the city remained peaceful and tolerant. There were no communal tensions and violence.
I found the people of Surat generous, friendly and peace-loving. They lived in style and enjoyed themselves. According to popular lore, while the Kathiawari is noted for robustness, and the Ahmedabadi is ridiculed as a miser, the Surti is labelled a rangila, a dilettante noted for the love of good food, good living, sophistication and culture.
A number of sayings about Surat and its people have passed into everyday parlance. “Surat, sonani murat” (Surat, image of gold; or Surat, city of gold) speaks of Surat’s prosperity through the ages, while “Suratnu jaman ane Kashinu maran” (Eat in Surat and die in Kashi), is an apt comment on the delights that Surat holds for the gourmet.
Each season and festival is celebrated in Surat with its appropriate delicacy. Its most famous sweet is gharry, loaded with ghee and sugar, definitely not for weight watchers. Other delights are the savoury khamman and bhoosa; the tasty undhiyo, a sort of curry with potatoes, brinjals, beans, etc. Above all, the city is renowned for its paunk (roasted tender jowar), a winter speciality which brings carloads and trainloads of paunk lovers to Surat from all over Gujarat and Bombay.
Every winter, in the paunk season, we were invited to Rander, Surat’s suburb across the river, where the raw jowar ears were freshly roasted in fires. When done, the grains are separated to eat with chutney and buttermilk.
The Surti, it is said, gives a patient hearing to all but seldom acts on what is preached to him. Self-reliant and self-absorbed Surtis, if their prosperous hereditary business folds, don’t take long to turn to something new and make a success of it. Only a Surti could have faced the yearly floods in the Tapti and the attendant losses of life and property, not only with equanimity but good cheer. Far from being cowed by the fury of the flood, whose swirling waters entered the houses and streets year on year, the Surtis went out in boats to see the floods, taking their favourite snacks along.
Fortunately, there was no flooding in the years we were there or thereafter, thanks to the construction of the Ukai Dam and an embankment.
On the debit side, the easy-going Surti’s laissez-faire attitude makes him put up with conditions no one else would or should tolerate. We discovered a disorderly city with the worst municipal waste collection and disposal, traffic congestion and management, and no road discipline. No wonder the plague came to Surat in 1994, forcing the residents and authorities to sit up, take note, and clean up.
The traffic situation was so bad when we were there that when he was ten kilometres away, Sundar, driving to take charge as Collector, told his driver they should return to Nadiad. The driver laughed and said that, in fact, every officer wanted a posting in Surat.
He also told Sundar an interesting anecdote about why the Collectorate was not established in the fort area, unlike Collectors’ offices elsewhere, which were in colonial buildings. The fort or castle of Surat was built in the 1540s by Khudawand Khan, a nobleman in the court of Sultan Mahmud III of Gujarat. It later became the Collectorate. However, when two old farmers who came there for a hearing could not get a drop of water to drink while they waited, they wrote to the Collector, pointing out this major flaw. The Collector, an Englishman, ordered the chief engineer to draw up a proposal for a pipeline to provide drinking water. The engineer, after exhaustive investigation, found that the fort was at such a height that taking water there by pipeline would be costly. No well was possible either, because the fort was near the sea, leading to brackish water.
So, he suggested the office be shifted instead. And, apparently, that is what happened.
The present Collectorate and other related offices are at the ground level and supplied with clean drinking piped water.
Our house was in Athwa Lines, the civil lines of Surat, which housed most of the district functionaries like the Superintendent of Police, the Municipal Commissioner, the DDO and the District Judge. It was a large, old British bungalow perched high along the bank of the River Tapti. The opposite bank stretched to infinity on either side, the flatness interrupted only by tall, spiky palms and occasional red roofs glimpsed through the trees.
Since we were very close to the sea, the river, governed by tidal dictates, left muddy pools for urchins to dig for fish, or search for cast-off treasures. The arch of the Hope Bridge rose sharp and grey in the middle distance, and nearby, the ancient red castle, stooping with age, jutted in massive bulk into the river.
There were three huge tamarind trees at the edge of our garden, standing high above the water, making a shady bower. I loved sitting on the stone seat below the trees and looking up at the green webs spun by spidery leaves. The river changed colour throughout the day. Sometimes it was blue and gold, shimmering radiantly like a rich brocade caught in a shaft of sunlight, or it sparkled like a thousand crystals ignited by the mid-day sun. It changed from a glorious pink and orange in the flaming sunset to a luminous pearl-like glow in the gloaming, to merge gently into a lavender grey in the fading light. And on a brilliantly moonlit night, the silver beauty of the river was indescribable.
Excerpted with permission from Beyond The Heaven-Born Service: My Journey From The IAS to Philanthropy, Pushpa Sundar, Speaking Tiger Books.
