Echoes of the heart

Since the time I became aware of the world, I have been rooted in Bhavnagar. Even in moments when consciousness might fade, I dream of being nowhere else but here. Just as a family passes down its values, so too does a town instill its own essence into its people. We lovingly call this city the Sanskaari Nagari—the City of Culture—but in truth, it is the town that quietly nurtures and imbues its culture within us. 

My father, Takhtsinhji Parmar (Guruji), was merely ten years old when my grandfather brought him to Bhavnagar for his education in 1929. They rented a single room in Bapubha Saheb's delo in Navapara. My grandfather worked as a saees in the royal stables of the state, right next to Hathithan (the origins of which remain a curious subject of exploration!). That very delo—now sold and replaced by bustling offices and shops—stands as the crumbling backdrop of my “Polytechnic” story. 

It was here that my father and his three brothers lived. It was here that my aunt and her family spent half a century. My father, Takhu, attended Alfred High School and journeyed from illiteracy to enlightenment, drinking deeply from the waters of knowledge at Barton Library. This city—Bhavnagar—bears witness to his transformation. 

In those days, there was no electricity in the delo. My father spent his days and nights at the Rajput Boarding House, often studying beneath the streetlights provided by the municipal Sudharai. With the support of friends like Lalsinhji Raol, he persevered through his education. Later, he served as an assistant warden at the boarding house. Though he embarked on a brilliant teaching career at Junagadh's Bahauddin College in 1868-69, he relinquished it at the request of Maharaja Saheb to assume responsibility as the warden of the boarding house—a role he fulfilled with dedication until 1879. 

My own childhood was spent within the premises of this Navapara boarding house. For many, it may remain an obscure landmark, but for me, it is nothing less than sacred ground. The campus, its temple, the vast dormitories, dining hall, and the names of the illustrious Krishnakumarsinhji, Sejakji, Bhavsinhji, and Bhojrajji remain etched in its history. The campus also housed the Majirajba Pye Fund Society, accommodations for esteemed guests of the community, and a long verandah overlooking Navapara. 

Though I won’t delve into the detailed tales of this place here, for me, it is nothing short of a maternal embrace—a place that shaped not just my father, but generations to come. 

Childhood in Navapara lent a distinct flavour to my experience of Bhavnagar. The grounds of A.V. School, with its pavilion, carried tales of the Young Club. The Gandhi Smriti and Sardar Smriti museums were just a short dash away, offering treasures of memory and history. I still recall the grand display of the warrior statue clad in armour within a glass case, the tableaux of village life featuring a caregiver rocking a cradle, and the pictorial narratives capturing Gandhi’s life journey—though their depth eluded my understanding then. 

Gandhi Smriti’s children’s library was another marvel: its tiny tables and chairs, cabinets brimming with books that seemed monumental in size, and the quiet allure of its space. Meanwhile, Haluria Chowk’s Dilbahar ice cream cups were an unmatched delight. During Navratri, the crowds at Bhidbhanjan Temple, Ramji Mandir, and Ambaji Mandir brought the city alive. 

I fondly remember Anupam’s soda—sometimes accompanied by a smoking Vimto bottle! Opposite the Lal Dawakhana was the then-novel (Mahendrakumar’s) pav bhaji, which had just started making its way into Bhavnagar’s culinary repertoire. The firecracker stalls near the village ponds, Rupam’s movies, the crisp morning newspapers stacked at Ghogha Gate Chowk, and the delectable ice creams from New Fine and Central were moments of joy. Ashoka’s dosas, though Shetty Mysore Café was also popular, remained our family favourite. And how can I forget the quintessential indulgence—Jawahar’s paan!

Walking alongside my father to school was a daily ritual, with his path extending further to the college. Passing through Navapara, Sindhi Camp, and Waghawadi Road, the very steps seemed to carry a distinct flavour of those days. (Occasionally, riding a horse carriage to Bal Mandir was a treat.) From Gharshala, a Saturday excursion to Takhteshwar Temple was a rare delight. Back then, Takhteshwar seemed towering and majestic, a pinnacle of grandeur. Reaching its summit revealed a mesmerizing panorama of Bhavnagar and the distant sea, evoking the wonder of a fairy tale in the eyes of a young child. 

As years passed, the temple and its hillock seemed to shrink in stature, dwarfed by the multi-storied buildings competing with its former glory, erasing the enchantment of those early days. Behind Bal Mandir, in the narrow lane by Malatiben Mehta’s eye hospital, I recall Pratap Dada teaching skating—a vivid memory of simpler times. 

Saturdays meant cricket matches at Gadhediya Field, and some Sundays were reserved for exploring the Khar. The journey from Ruwa Pari to the Khar felt as adventurous and vast as a voyage abroad. Near the boarding house, the Parsi Agiary stood as a captivating mystery, drawing the curious gaze of children like us. 

Diwali brought the bustling fireworks market to Gangajalia Talav, while circuses and fairs often set up their tents nearby, transforming the space into a realm of joy and wonder. Each event and location carried a story of its own, too many to recount in a single breath, but each woven into the fabric of a cherished childhood.

From the ninth grade, when I joined Dakshinamurti, nature became an inseparable part of me. During the monsoons, the entire school would head to Bor Talav—bathing and frolicking in the rains became a cherished habit from those days. It was here that I was introduced to birds, and back then, Victoria Park seemed like an Amazonian jungle in its lush grandeur. Today, when I see the endless line of vehicles and houses stretching to Iskcon and Bor Talav, I am left astounded. In 1982-83, these roads did not exist—only narrow trails led the way, their solitude often tinged with fear. 

I would cycle to Victoria Park for my tenth-grade studies, leaving my bike at the Bhojanshala and venturing within, tossing aside my books to seek adventure. Tracking nilgais and other creatures through hidden trails brought a thrill like no other. At Krishna Sagar Lake, Shivabapa had once crafted a boat, which he had cleverly hidden—finding it and daring a boat ride was a small yet exhilarating conquest. Victoria Park, with its diverse birdlife, eventually found a place in my essays—black koels, parakeets, kingfishers, and pelicans gliding over Bor Talav’s waters. I fondly recall accompanying Bapasaheb on his boat to Bor Talav’s islands, counting river tern nests, and experiencing the magic of staying hidden in the wild.  

While my childhood memories of Bhavnagar remain verdant and vivid, those of youth are not as deeply preserved. Twenty years of association with Shamaldas College and its cricket ground remain unforgettable. The pavilion, the field, and the moments of intense training and cricket matches are etched in my heart. Evenings brought gatherings of young friends at Ghogha Circle, and those tea sessions still linger in memory as timeless companions to those youthful days.

In 1991, when I embarked on my professional journey and was posted to Ankleshwar, the intensity of nostalgia for Bhavnagar hit me profoundly. The solitude at Ankleshwar railway station, as I sat observing the trains come and go, brought a sharp pang of longing—Oh, my Bhavnagar! Without fail, I would rush back to Bhavnagar on weekends, eagerly embracing every opportunity to reunite with my hometown. Those weekend up-and-down trips became a ritual.

On the S.T. bus, as soon as the vehicle turned onto Vataman crossroads, I would instinctively take my place near the doorsteps behind the conductor. "There’s still a long way to go," the conductor would often remark, unable to grasp my impatience. How could I explain to him the thrill of drawing closer to home? Passing through Dholera and Bhal, I would inhale deeply, savouring the familiar scent of the saline waters and the salt pans—it was as if the very essence of my homeland reached out to embrace me.

Since 1996, I've been back in Bhavnagar, residing just across from Victoria Park. Every morning, countless people head there for their walk, but I rarely venture inside because the 'inside' I remember is no longer the Victoria Park 'of my time.' Everything has changed.

The paths I once cherished, like the road from Bor Talav, Gaam Talav, Jashonath, Pil Garden, the one from Sir T. Hospital to Nawab Bandar, the route leading to Takhteshwar, Ghediya Field, and Akvada to Ghogha, all carry their own stories. These places have a story to tell, but the bond we share with them also forms a narrative of its own. Today, if I reflect, I can trace the thread that links the living memory of these places, now dormant inside me.

A few images of this town have etched themselves into my mind: the Ganga Jaliya Talav and Town Hall area, the mesmerizing dance of thousands of birds around Ganga Deri at dusk, the towering trees in Pil Garden, the clanging of bells and the calls of crows and kites atop high branches, the late-night ambiance at Havmor Chowk, the women at the railway station working as coolies, the Kumbharwada cemetery, and the old men working there—these all weave a familiar tapestry of memories.

And then there's the eccentric old man on Diwanpara Road, muttering "A... Barakhdi..." as he angrily throws a betel leaf and curses, a quirky moment etched forever. These places and people are a part of me—quiet, often overlooked, yet unforgettable.

The town, neglected at times and somewhat less developed due to its leadership and the complacency of its people, patiently awaits its turn to see an overbridge rise. Without haste, it watches the planes soar overhead and keeps an eye on the train to Mumbai, the weekly trains to Haridwar and Kakinada—our humble terminus. It's just as it is, and that's how I know it—my emotional junction.

This town, with its temperament, has shaped my own inner self. Half a century of my life has throbbed in its embrace, and it will continue to pulse with me until my last breath.

In your narrative, there is also the contribution of your city. Bhavnagar pulses within me, and I am in Bhavnagar!

— Mahendrasingh Parmar