His face averted from the rest of the workers,an old man was digging earth at the drought relief work.The general deportment indicated he must have been a man from a well-placed rural family that had fallen on bad days because of the failure of the monsoon,but that did not prevent him from working like a fury.

As his pick hit the land with gusto,he sang in Gujarati: "Khandaniya Ma Mathan Ram, Zinko Ram Zinko Ram, Dukale Pidhan Lohida Ram" ( We are like the grains being pounded in the mortar.O God, go on pounding us with as much force as you like in this famine which is sucking our blood.)

A visitor who was at the site to distribute buttermilk among the workers was overhearing it,as if petrified by the sorrow and pain the old man,as alsothousands and thousands like him,were suffering,uncomplaining and yet with dignity facing miseries inflicted by the vagaries of the rain God.

"It sort of sent a flashlight through my head",said Upendra Trivedi,noted Gujarati thespian,whose depiction on the celluloid of the terrible famine in Gujarat nearly a hundred years ago,done on paper with great mastery by the late author Pannalal Patel,Manvini Bhavai,had bagged a silver lotus award for a regional film at the 41st national film festival.

The fingers of both his hands are dancing, as if making - or backing - the point that he is putting across; the eyes, with discernible dark pouches underneath, are sparkling. The voice is loud enough not to need a microphone even in an auditorium, although full of warmth and friendship. The forehead displays the furrows time has made on a face that is otherwise noteworthy because of a largish nose.

But, the owner of these features,Prof.Niranjan Bhagat,poet and teacher,and a human being par excellence, seems to be hardly aware of all the visual impression he is making on his listeners. In fact, it would appear that rest of his body is merely a functional attachment to the extremely lively --and invisible feature -- that ticks under the greying hair combed straight, his mind

Prof.Bhagat has not written more than two or three poems in the past 35 years, and even in the preceding 15 years, his work could perhaps fill 200 pages.Yet, it is the profoundness of his poetry, and not his prolificity, that has made Bhagatsaheb, as he is known to countless students of literature in Gujarat, a pillar of post-Independence Gujarati poetry.

Numerous scrolls of honour, mementos and photographs adorn the walls of a rather Spartan-looking room at Dev Ami. Near the window opening into a modest foreground of the house is a bed on which till some years ago a visitor would have found Ghayal, grand-daddy of Gujarati ghazal, whose only ambition was to be remembered as a martyr to the ghazal-- shaheed-e-ghazal.

He not only brought the ghazal form as authentic poetry into Gujarati, insisting on using the words of his mother tongue, but also elevated its status to a spiritual level, to a level reflecting the trials and tribulations of the masses, rather than remaining a vehicle of the love-lorn.

Ghayal - a wounded soul - was his pen-name, but even the poet himself had given up using his surname, Bhatt, and signed as Amrut Ghayal. Why did he take this particular pen-name? With a toothless, hearty laughter, he said: “It is not a pen-name taken in the aftermath of a broken love-affair. In a way, all human beings are wounded souls. I sing their songs."<!--BREAK-->

He had been a rebel, but did not look to be one even an inch. In his younger days, he had heaped ridicule on anybody and everybody connected with the literary establishment. But his mellifluent talking, carried on in a low key voice, did not betray an iota of the fire that remained buried, and yet smouldering in the depths of his heart.

Poet and playwright Adil Mansuri, even in his 60s, remained as enigmatic as ever. It did not matter if he had been living for many years as an NRI (Non-resident Indian).

On a brief visit to Ahmedabad, which he adored for all its dust, its dirt and discomforts, Adil never came across as a man who went away to the El Dorado of all Gujaratis, the United States of America.

He had, in spirit, always been here, and Gujarat and Gujarati literature had always dwelled his mind. It is as if, he was on a leave of absence; he had never gone away, cannot go away, and will not go away even on the day of salvation.

Time, meanwhile, had been whitewashing his beard, his hair, making him even more look like a Gujarati Ghalib. He himself was not unaware of the comparison; years ago he wrote some lines about it:

Apna Ghar bhi Milata Jhulta hai Ghalib ke ghar se,
Do ghanta barasat jo barse, chhe ghanta chhat barse.<!--BREAK-->

As he walked in, there was nothing NRI-ish about Adil. Clad in sherwani, zabbha and a jacket, he appeared exactly the way he dressed when he was working in an advertising firm in Ahmedabad. He smiled easily, chatted amiably and spoke effortlessly about life abroad.

Man who unravelled the literary path, gets street named after him

In his lifetime of 80 plus, the renowned Gujarati literary critic and man of letters, Late Dr. Ramanlal Jethalal Joshi was known among friends as ‘Ramanlal Rickshawadi’. The ubiquitous three-wheeler was his pet mode of transport, although he could himself buy a car (which he did in the latter years of his life) or simply ask his eldest son, Prabodh, to send him one.

Thousands of times auto rickshaws, cars and two-wheelers would scurry on the road past Vijay Char Rasta towards Xavier’s Loyola school, turning near the side opening next to Sharad party plot. Some ardent students of Gujarati literature, a few authors and many more auto drivers would be aware of No. 2, Achalayatan Society where Dr Joshi lived and worked even after retiring as a university Don. From here he ran a small circulation, high calibre monthly, Uddesh, whose literary merit has made a name.

In this period of nothing but politics, politics and more politics in the aftermath of the Lok Sabha election, a modest but highly significant ceremony is taking place today. Noted Ramayani preacher Morari Bapu will name the hitherto nameless road as “Sahityakar Dr. Ramanlal Jethalal  Joshi Marg”. The city Mayor Kanaji Thakore and chairman of the Standing Committee of AMC, Mr Asit Vora  will also remain present.

Her eyes twinkle, there is animation in her voice and a quickness in her steps as Kumudini Lakhia, renowned Kathak exponent, teacher par excellence of dance and an explorer forever in search of more effective ways of artistic expression through dance, bustles around the premises of Kadamb, her dance institution near Parimal Garden in Ahmedabad.

A mild January sun lay in strips and the winter breeze tried to make impression of being nippy, like a night watchman hitting fours towards the close of the play in cricket. The warmth all around was well-matched by that in Kadamb, which has been the training centre for hundreds of students over the past 25 years. She has also earned enormous credit as a thinking, socially aware dancer who has a statement to make in whatever she is creating.

The guru at Kadamb, Kumudini, started on her search of finding artistic expression of the inner yearnings of her soul much earlier.

It was more than half-a-century ago in December 1944, that still in her teens, she burst upon the professional arts stage with a scintillating performance in Allahabad.<!--BREAK-->

Everything about Balwant Naik is correct; he is correctly dressed for a British public appearance and behaves politely and with great deference like a born British gentleman.

The 75-year-old Balwant is a gentleman but not a born British. The rise to power of Idi Amin in Uganda made him flee to Britain from Kampala where he was heading a multi-racial school of repute, with children of politicians and bureaucrats attending.

All this would not set Balwant apart from thousands of people of Gujarati origin who have migrated in search of an El Dorado. Balwant is a man of letters, who is prolific in Gujarati and proficient in English too.

He writes in both languages and one of his books, a novel set in Uganda and the United Kingdom, has just been released in India in the two languages. Sir Edward Heath, a former British Prime Minister, is slated to release in Britain the English version, Passage From Uganda, sometime in February.

Balwant was in town--"This is is my first-ever visit to Ahmedabad"--to attend the function to release the Gujarati version of the novel, Ne Dharatine Khole Narak Verayun, as also its Enlgih version.A third volume, comemorating Balwant's 75 years of life, too was published.

Advance copies of the novel have already brought in critical acclaim for Balwant. Dereck Humprey of The Sunday Times, London, felt that the story said much for the spirit of the Asian community and Uganda and its self-resilience. Of the 27,000 who fled to Britain, the British government had to pay air fare for only two.<!--BREAK-->

Are we, Gujarati, a forgetful people or ungrateful people? The question is more than a million dollars worth because you have no answer many a time. One such occasion was the birth centenary of an extra-ordinary ordinary Gujarati, Jagan Mehta. It fell on January 29, 2009, a day before the Martyrs’ Day, which coincided with the day of assassination of Mahatma Gandhi.

Only one low-key function washeld under the auspices of Gujarat Lalit Kala Akadami.An exhibition of Jagan Mehta’s photographs of Gandhiji and others was opened in Ahmedabad as the sole tribute to the camera wizard. Gandhian leader Narayan Desai and some others were to speak but skipped speaking as a mark of respect for the late President R Venkataraman, whose passing away was being mourned by the nation and no official celebration could be held.Everybody grumbled privately, but being good, obedient Gujaratis, refrained from unburdening their souls.

Gujaratis as a people are largely unaware of the tall feats by the photographic excellence of Jaganbhai. The apathy also brought back a flood of memories of a meeting with him in 1986. The hour-long encounter with the camera wizard remains firmly etched in the mind. The memory trailer has been ever green because thereafter Jaganbhai became a phone friend.<!--BREAK-->

Rohit Mehta, who died at the age of 86 at Varanasi on March 20, 1995, is remembered differently by different people. Some recall his cogently thought and delivered lectures on philosophy. Some talk of him as a man with legendary memory who could quote flawlessly from Sri Aurobindo,Upanishad,Gita as also Marx, a teacher with a vast repertoire and a subtle sense of humour and a prolific writer,and a man of unfailing kindliness.

Still some  others think of him as a charismatic personality, donned most of the time in spotlessly white dhoti and yellowish khadi-silk kurta,slightly stocky in build,and wearing a black-framed pair of spectacles over deep penetrating eyes.He was brilliant, but never flamboyant, solid but never seeking recognition, an original thinker who could easily and without showing any burden mix with the most ordinary.
An unusual man who was extra-ordinary in many respects, and yet strove to conceal all this under modesty and nonchalance

Remembered Late Prof.P G Mavalankar, former M.P. and a well-read man himself: “Rohitbhai was a five-in-one personality - a thinker,philosopher,interpreter, writer and speaker, clear in thought and precise in language and eloquent in delivery. All these took him to the top.” He was all this, and much more.

A many spleandoured man,Rohitbhai as he was universally known was not just a run-of-the-mill freedom-fighter,a socialist-turned-spiritualist. He was in the world class, a thing about which he never had to seek certificates or to boast. Yet, he was so self-effacing that one would have to hunt for a photograph of his.

It all began in an innocuous way.
It was a hot day in May in 1940.The world was, for several months, at war for the second time in the 20th century. The Quit India movement was a good two years away in the future and the independence of the country as yet a dream.

Thirty years old then Pranlal Patel, a Rolie-flex camera slung on the shoulder, set out for Kashmir, long hailed as paradise on the earth, with a return ticket from Ahmedabad to Srinagar via Rawalpindi. Inclusive of the bus-fare from Rawalpindi to Srinagar, the cost per head was a meagre Rs.42.5. But the young man was not from among the rich in search of pleasure.

He was setting out to take photographs, in an era when a camera was a rare thing to possess, more a hobby of the wealthy or the crazy. A Kodak 120 reel cost 14 annas. Like the anna coins, the 120 film too is extinct now.
Every thing clicked in the life of today’ camera wizard Pranlal Patel, internationally reputed pictorialist. His specialty has been his mastery over  Black &  White photography. So much so that the photographs taken during that trip continue to fascinate even today, not only because of their excellence but as a collection of historic value. It effectively brings out how much more enchanting was Kashmir just 70 years ago and what damage man has done to it. In the process the photographs become an irrefutable witness to an era for posterity, far more trustworthy than words.<!--BREAK-->