The Jagadir joins me for breakfast. Middle-aged, he is a tall well-set man with a serious
moustache. We talk quietly of this and that, agriculture mostly, family a little. His parents and
siblings prefer Delhi. Dhariyawad suits him. He is at home here, his roots well-bedded and his
responsibilities both pleasurable and satisfying. He, his wife and children live in apartments at
the rear of the hotel. They hope to put in a swimming pool next year. The children are pre-
school. Eventually they will have to go away. Hopefully his son will return.
I know various of his ilk in England, thoughtful and loyal lovers of the land. For comics, their
lineage brands them as pompous dullards. Meanwhile the comics cheat on their taxes and send
their children to the same schools. Well now, where did that come from?
-x-
I am riding country roads south from Dahriyawad towards Vadodara. Some villages close to
Dhariyawad are tribal - so they are called in the subcontinent where the inhabitants are judged
primitive and of small social value; their lands are encroached upon and often expropriated.
These Tribals are fortunate in having a patron in the Jagadir who organises safaris to view their
religious festivals. Mud walls are freshly white washed, thatch trimmed, Tribals neatly dressed.
Rivers and the Naglia and Jakham damns make this a rich land of watered fields. Wheat is the
staple and tractors are common. Unfortunately road signs are non-existent and asking for
directions to Vadodara is met with blank stares. Vadodara is a large city with a population of two
million. Distance from Dhariyawad is 300 kilometres and I am halfway. How can people not
know where it is? A truck driver saves me. Villagers gather as I interrogate him only to be met
with the same blank look, then sudden comprehension, “Ah, Baroda...”
The listeners immediately nod and murmur “Baroda. Baroda....”
So much for the local politicos who have sought popularity by de-Anglicising place names as in
Vadodara for Baroda, Mumbai for Bombay, Chenai for Madras...
Goa beckons and I am pressed for time. Vadodara is a bed in a guest house whose owner is a
retired headmaster of a local high school. We dine together, vegetarian. He complains of
endemic corruption in the body politic. I leave early for the coast.