A few days before I left for Kutch, my friend Rajee gifted me Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse. “Read it,” she urged me, “for it is a book about self-discovery and about finding yourself."

She must have recognised in me a need to shrug off the ghosts of the past and forge a new direction. I began to read the book on the flight to Bhuj, and in serendipitous moments, passages from Siddhartha seemed to mirror my own journey.

The Rukmavati river meanders across the flat plains of the Kutch, seemingly without purpose. It stops briefly to fill up the backwaters of the Vijay Sagar dam, and finally disgorges itself into the Gulf of Kutch in the southern town of Mandvi. In the last few kilometres, exhausted by her long journey, she moves so slow, the river mouth has silted up and created sand banks that stand exposed at low tide. At high tide, the sand banks disappear in the backwash of the incoming sea.

The river cleaves this town into two: Mota Salaya and Mukhdani on the eastern banks, and the main town of Mandvi to the west. It is here that I stood on a crisp December morning. Passages from Siddhartha came flooding back to me as I surveyed the scene.

Siddhartha reached the large river in the forest, the same river over which a long time ago, when he had still been a young man and came from the town of Gotama, a ferryman had conducted him. By this river he stopped, hesitantly he stood at the bank. No, there were no more goals, there was nothing left but the deep, painful yearning to shake off this whole desolate dream, to spit out this stale wine, to put an end to this miserable and shameful life. By this river I want to stay, thought Siddhartha, it is the same which I have crossed a long time ago on my way to the childlike people, a friendly ferryman had guided me then, he is the one I want to go to, starting out from his hut, my path had led me at that time into a new life, which had now grown old and is dead ‒ my present path, my present new life, shall also take its start there!

I was drawn to Mandvi, a port on the mouth of the Gulf of Kutch, by the stories I'd heard of summer palaces redolent with Old World charm, and idyllic sandy beaches. But most important, I was drawn by tales of a shipbuilding yard with a history that goes back 400 years. Here, ocean-bound ships are crafted entirely by hand, using techniques and tools that have changed little over time.

History, romance and adventure are intertwined into the subject. As our tourist taxi, piloted by the rakishly attired Sikander, crossed the bridge over the Rukmavati, the skeletons of the beached ships appeared to our left. Sitting on the exposed riverbed, they seem enormous, even as their bulk was softened in the haze of an early winter morning. Sikander manoeuvred the taxi off the bridge and ground to a halt in the coarse sand. The exposed ribs of unfinished boats reared up all around us. There was silence all around. It was too early for work to have started.

How did he love this water, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it! In his heart he heard the voice talking, which was newly awaking, and it told him: Love this water! Stay near it! Learn from it! Oh yes, he wanted to learn from it, he wanted to listen to it. He who would understand this water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand many other things, many secrets, all secrets.

Rehman, a ferryman, punted his fibreglass craft very close to the 150-year-old Rukmavati Bridge, where the distance between the two banks is at its narrowest. For a fee of Rs 3, he ferries the residents of Salaya across the gap, a distance of a few hundred feet. But to get to his craft, they must first step shin-deep into the waters before they haul themselves onto the sturdy wooden deck of his river craft.

Once aboard, their easy banter identifies them as old acquaintances of this crossing. In their hands are objects of everyday commerce, a handful of coriander, a plastic bag of red tomatoes, a schoolbag. But Rehman’s business is subject to the vagaries of the tide. At low tide, the river bed is exposed, which allows travellers to gingerly make their own way through the oozing river silt and save themselves the fare.

At such times, Rehman sits on the river bank and talks to the tempo drivers perched on the leftover wooden logs of the ship builders. He has the cheerful resignation that seems central to the mien of this land, a land where the trade complements the natural conditions.

Rehman brought his craft close to the bank. Closer, I gestured. There was still six feet of murky water between his boat and us. He shrugged and said that was the closest he could get. There seemed no other way, so I rolled my jeans upto the knee, and plunged into the turgid waters coated in a thin film of algae, with my shoes in my hands. The water was bracing in the early December chill and the sand squeezed between my toes. Recognising us as awkward city folks, Rehman used his pole to stabilise the rocking created by my clambering. He waited for the boat to gather some more passengers before he cast off.

It’s a beautiful life you have chosen for yourself,” the passenger spoke. “It must be beautiful to live by this water every day and to cruise on it.” With a smile, the man at the oar moved from side to side: “It is beautiful, sir, it is as you say. But isn’t every life, isn’t every work beautiful?” “This may be true. But I envy you for yours.” “Ah, you would soon stop enjoying it. This is nothing for people wearing fine clothes.” Siddhartha laughed. “Once before, I have been looked upon today because of my clothes, I have been looked upon with distrust. Wouldn’t you, ferryman, like to accept these clothes, which are a nuisance to me, from me? For you must know, I have no money to pay your fare.” “You’re joking, sir,” the ferryman laughed. “I’m not joking, friend. Behold, once before you have ferried me across this water in your boat for the immaterial reward of a good deed. Thus, do it today as well, and accept my clothes for it.”

Tale of a town

Mandvi has been an important port since medieval times. Its proximity to the African continent, to the Persian Gulf and being at the crossroads of the fabled spice route, made it a major port of call for merchant ships from these regions. The local merchants owned a fleet of ships that regularly called on the East Africa coast. The presence in this region of Siddis, descendants of the African mercenaries and slaves, are proof of this close contact.

Th ship-building trade embraces all of the town and integrates everyone in it. The traders and the merchants invest and purchase the ships, the master craftsmen fabricate the craft, and the fishermen use them and making a living out of them. “Aap kahan ke hain?” Wajid, a local commuter holding a plastic bag of succulent red tomatoes, asked us. My attire and camera made me stand out as a tourist. He was curious because most tourists head straight to the Vijay Vilas Palace or the Mandvi beach. “Bambai,” I answered. He grunted with a knowing nod. We fulfilled the image of city slickers with our awkward ways and loud appearances.

For a long time, the ferryman looked at the stranger, searching. “Now I recognise you,” he finally said. “At one time, you’ve slept in my hut, this was a long time ago, possibly more than twenty years ago, and you’ve been ferried across the river by me, and we parted like good friends. Haven’t you’ve been a Samana? I can’t think of your name any more.” “My name is Siddhartha, and I was a Samana, when you’ve last seen me.” “So be welcome, Siddhartha. My name is Vasudeva. You will, so I hope, be my guest today as well and sleep in my hut, and tell me, where you’re coming from and why these beautiful clothes are such a nuisance to you.”

On our request, Rehman took a break from his routine and punted us across the length of the river towards the open sea. On both banks, the boats stood a-tilt in the soft yielding silt, like the carcasses of beached whales. They appeared to be in various stages of construction. The ones at an early stage lay with the keel or the “Pathan” at the bottom on raised wooden chocks. They had ribs, or the Vakias, attached to them and little else to show.

Others were almost complete, the wooden hull or “patias” stretched taut over the spars. The craft were tough, hardy and weathered. They did not possess the glossiness of ships that we saw berthed at other piers. Rehman grunted as he bent low, and with a powerful thrust of his shoulders, sent the wooden pole deep into the river bed. The boat sprang forward. As he stepped into the rhythm, the boat and he melded into one, and the journey took on the fluidity and grace of a ballet performance.

As Rehman swung his boat close to a huge schooner moored in the centre of the channel, we could see the knots and iron spikes protruding out of the timber. He cautioned us to keep our arms close to ourselves. I am again reminded of Vasudeva.

"You will learn it,” spoke Vasudeva, “but not from me. The river has taught me to listen, from it you will learn it as well. It knows everything, the river, everything can be learned from it. See, you’ve already learned this from the water too, that it is good to strive downwards, to sink, to seek depth. The rich and elegant Siddhartha is becoming an oarsman’s servant, the learned Brahman Siddhartha becomes a ferryman: this has also been told to you by the river. You’ll learn that other thing from it as well.”

Changing times

There is something precious in the way this place operates. This ship building yard is frugal in using resources and complements the surroundings it inhabits. Each ship is a self-contained cocoon of activity that neither pollutes nor consumes more than it needs. Its effluents are biodegradable and its final products start life at the point of manufacture. Using traditional methods of construction, they exemplify manufacturing at its most basic. And this, is sounding out the final death knell.

As manufacturing becomes more complex and mechanised, traditional ways of manufacture are falling by the wayside. Mechanisation brings economy to pricing and speeds up the manufacturing process. Global trade demands internationally accepted levels of safety and conformity with universal fire and safety standards. In the absence of this, Mandvi's ships can only cater to local markets: that means the fishing boats that ply the Gulf of Kutch or the odd order from an Arab merchant in the Middle East. The gulf on which Mandvi lies is home to the important ports of Mundra, Jamnagar and Kandla and million-tonne container ships crowd the waterways here.

They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva pushed the oar with more strength, in order to overcome the current. He worked calmly, his eyes fixed in on the front of the boat, with brawny arms. Siddhartha sat and watched him, and remembered, how once before, on that last day of his time as a Samana, love for this man had stirred in his heart. Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva’s invitation. When they had reached the bank, he helped him to tie the boat to the stakes; after this, the ferryman asked him to enter the hut, offered him bread and water, and Siddhartha ate with eager pleasure, and also ate with eager pleasure of the mango fruits, Vasudeva offered him.

The sun was behind Rehman as he rounded the marooned schooner and headed back to the alighting point. He was panting now, his breath coming out in guttural bursts, his shirt a sodden mass of back-breaking labour. There was a clutch of passengers at both points of the crossing.. Some squatted, while others placidly waited for our return. There was an unhurried air of anticipation.

A swarm of little schoolboys waved out to us from the far river bank and tested their English across the empty waters. They wore smart denims and giggled at their own audacity: “Hello, sir, where from you are? What your name is?” They threw back their heads and guffawed when I replied, “Shah Rukh Khan”. This new generation have no inclination or desire to build boats. There is a whole new world out there that awaits them, a world of information, technology and one that embraces innovations. The mechanised, efficient container steel ships being constructed at other shipyards not far from Mandvi form the new standards.

Siddhartha succeeded in persuading him to speak. “Did you,” so he asked him at one time, “did you too learn that secret from the river: that there is no time?” Vasudeva’s face was filled with a bright smile. “Yes, Siddhartha,” he spoke. “It is this what you mean, isn’t it: that the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains, everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time for it, not the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future?” “This it is,” said Siddhartha. “And when I had learned it, I looked at my life, and it was also a river, and the boy Siddhartha was only separated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha by a shadow, not by something real. Also, Siddhartha’s previous births were no past, and his death and his return to Brahma was no future. Nothing was, nothing will be; everything is, everything has existence and is present.”

Letting it sink in

I pondered this as Rehman helped us off his boat. There was a sense of gentleness about him that intrigued and enchanted. He was a man, born of this place and whose life flowed and ebbed on the conditions that the river thrust at him. Like Vasudeva, the ferryman, he accepted this way of life with a simplicity that defied the commerce and trade that buzzed around us. I stepped off his boat, ankle deep in the cool water and back to reality.

Sikander lounged by his taxi awaiting our return. Film songs played from his car radio. He surreptitiously ground his cigarette butt into the crystal sands below his feet and gunned the engine. As we gaze at the boats from the Rukmavati Bridge in the light of the setting sun, they seemed especially vulnerable. They embodied the inevitable, relentless process of change that obliterates the inefficient and favours the new.

“Yes, Siddhartha,” he spoke. “It is this what you mean, isn’t it: that the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains, everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time for it, not the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future?” “This it is,” said Siddhartha. “And when I had learned it, I looked at my life, and it was also a river, and the boy Siddhartha was only separated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha by a shadow, not by something real. Also, Siddhartha’s previous births were no past, and his death and his return to Brahma was no future. Nothing was, nothing will be; everything is, everything has existence and is present.”

It is only now, back in my home in Mumbai, do I step back and read into the nuances of that day. Rehman, like Vasudeva, listens, accepts and learns. Can I too?

I am only a ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river. I have transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They travelled to seek money and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was obstructing their path, and the ferryman’s job was to get them quickly across that obstacle. But for some among thousands, a few, four or five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard its voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to them, as it has become sacred to me.