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Some steps into a well in Ahmedabad

An extraordinarily generous soul, our young friend Chetan in Ahmedabad. We had met him just once before. But when we visited his city, he insisted on showing us the sights, taking us wherever we wanted to go, inviting us home for a sumptuous meal. He went out of his way to be hospitable, and his warmth bowled us over.

So today, I feel mildly ungrateful and graceless, writing about two Chetan peculiarities. Still, they made us think about and remember the trip.

The first was merely amusing. We wanted to visit Dada Hari's vav in the old part of the city. Chetan said he would take us there. This is a fine example of that uniquely Gujarati invention, the step well. Magnificently carved, built on several levels, it is a masterpiece of simple, clean design towards a very functional end: escaping the heat of the fierce Ahmedabad summer. At the bottom of the well in the middle of a blazing day, it was almost cool.

Chetan came along cheerfully enough as we tramped around this vav and a less impressive one nearby. But there was something nagging at him. He clearly could not understand why we had wanted so much to see these wells. As we walked about, he pleaded over and over again: you've come to my city! Let me show you what's really worth seeing here! Please!

That evening, he got his chance. Stuffed in his bright yellow Zen, we drove endless miles through faceless colonies of opulent high-rise buildings surrounded by enormous piles of rubble; braving ridiculous traffic that flowed in every direction; to the very outskirts of the city, on the highway to Gandhinagar. There, Chetan's driver gunned the little car over a huge mound of mud that served as the divider, across heavy traffic on this major highway, and into the gates of what Chetan told us repeatedly was a "top" Ahmedabad attraction.

A swanky club.

Yes. We followed our friend over the dusty marble floors, under the faux-wooden eaves, onto the newly-laid lawn. Chetan took us on a proud tour -- to the tennis courts, the swimming pool, the preparations for a massive banquet that evening. Then we got back into the Zen and drove endless miles back into town. Back through ridiculous traffic. To what Chetan assured us was another of the city's "top" attractions.

Another swanky club.

Yes. We got the proud tour again. The badminton court, the library ("best in Ahmedabad"), the health club ("I think it is No. 1 in the country"), the pool, the restaurant.

We kept nodding our heads as appreciatively as we could at the sights, but despite Chetan's best efforts, we wished we had spent more time at Dada Hari's vav. Or visited the textile museum, or the Shaking Minarets. Or any of many other things I could list, rather than spending our limited time in Ahmedabad ogling two snazzy clubs and their numerous members. We didn't express our wishes out loud. Chetan, bless his helpful heart, would not have appreciated our ingratitude.

The other peculiarity was not quite so amusing. It happened as we were driving from one club to the other. Chetan suddenly pointed out of the window. "That's the Mohammedian (sic) part of Ahmedabad," he told us. Then he turned in his seat to explain earnestly. "I love Mohammedian food," and here he paused while a look of distaste came over his face, "but I hate Mohammedians."

Dining together that evening, Chetan expanded at length on this theme, evidently a favourite. "I have 800 friends," he began, with what surely must have been an exaggeration. "All of us hate Mohammedians." To explain, he told us about how he and these friends would gather to swim at the pool in one of the clubs he had taken us to. At some point, they found that some Muslims also used the pool. Immediately, Chetan's gang asked their fathers to transfer them to some other club because "we didn't want to swim in the same pool as the Mohammedians." Most of the fathers complied, said Chetan, but not Chetan's father. "He's secular and all," he said with a trace of scorn. "He didn't listen to me."

They are just short of voting age, but Chetan and his 800 friends are sure whom they will support when they can vote: the BJP. He was surprised that this was even a question. Could there be any doubt? Which other party is there that's worth any attention? Besides, the BJP would be tough on the "Mohammedians," said Chetan, which is what they needed. He spelled out for us the action he expected a BJP government to take against Muslims, things I would rather not spell out here.

Trying to absorb all this, I remembered that a lot of political comment has seen long-term hope for the BJP in the general youth of its fans. It occured to me that if I was one Mr Vajpayee, I'd be intensely worried about support like young Chetan's, on the threshold of voting.

But of course, I am not Mr Vajpayee. And by this time, my head was reeling. It had been a searingly hot day. We had gone from vav to vav to club to another club, crammed into a little Zen that weaved crazily through crazier traffic. We had been treated so well by this charming young man. And now, over dinner, this same young man was spouting utterly vicious rhetoric as if it were the most natural thing in the world; he seemed astonished that there were people -- us -- who didn't share his feelings. I didn't know how much more of all this I could take.

That night, the sound and light show at the Sabarmati Ashram played itself out for a handful of us. The gentle breeze from over the river died down just as the show began. The stillness spurred the mosquitoes into especially virulent action. Sweat ran free and I scratched helplessly at my bites as I listened to the story of Gandhi's stay in Ahmedabad.

And even on such a hot, scratchy night, we couldn't help sinking into the aura, the history, of this spot. Nearly seven decades after the man left here to march to Dandi, never to return, Sabarmati was still pregnant with Gandhi's humanity, his austerity, his humility, courage, ideas. We ridicule the little old man today, and he certainly had some odd ideas. But the show that night reminded us of a few things we once knew better than we do today: that courage does not mean bluster from behind Z-grade security, but standing up for your beliefs. That strength comes not from blaming the other guy, but from your own introspection.

And some time during that mosquito-bitten night, I reflected: we had met Chetan for the first time right across the street from here. Just a few feet away. Yet how impossibly far from here were the things we had heard him say.

Dilip D'Souza