What is that makes the length of a day? Surely, not the minutes in the hour. I think perhaps it is the amount of new sensory information one can take in—or perhaps the amount of faces you see in a day, that makes one so long. We were in Ahmedibad, Gujerat only 50 hours—but they filled me up to the brim. We just had a 3 day week end for Gandhi’s birthday—and there was a non-stop flight to Gujerat, his home state, which was good enough for me. We stepped off of the plane into astounding heat and humidity. Even compared to Chennai the air was palpable. Heading into town we saw the subtle differences of the north—the way the women wear their saris, pulled over their heads, and men in dhotis rather than lungis and all in white. Camels on the street along with the familiar ox and cattle, and bikes, and scooters and the deafening horns of countless cars and buses.
We (my friends Barbara and Ashley and I ) left our very non-descript hotel to find the MG house, an magnificient hotel well out of my price range around the corner—this became our second hotel. We ordered exotic drinks of ginger and lime and coconut milk and made our plans.

Off to the market! It was not that far away and the road was packed! We passed elephants, and endless vendors sell everything from underwear to household utensils. The crowds were dense and the sweat streamed down our backs and bellies and we followed the tide of humanity along. We bought garish clothing for little girls, and shoes and shawls, a head scratcher. We looked at the whole street of glittering saris hung over the streets, and were called to come in! Come in! Looking is free!
In the evening, Ashley and I went to eat on a roof top where we were attended by about 10 handsome young waiters who filled our glasses and watched us for any sign of need. We had a Thali, a traditional vegetarian meal with endless food brought for our delight.
At ten o:clock a history professor volunteers to take us on a night tour, a walk through the old part of the city. The neighborhoods are called “poles” and they are like rabbit warrens through the city. Each one has a center area and at this late hour there was a party in one, with light and food and children running to exclaim at the oddity of white women in their neighborhood. There are building there called havelis, like we saw in Rajisthan—only carved of wood, teak from Burma. Buildings that survived numerous earthquakes. There were secret passage ways that freedom fighters hid in. And each pole has at least one large bird feeder—and it is daily stocked with fresh water and bird food—a Jain tradition.
Children ran after us and people gawked. Not much tourism in Gujerat, and we were the only white faces around. Families hung out of their windows—everyone seemed to be up. We were drawn by the sound of the Indian oboe and drumming, and passed under a gateway to the kings tomb. The people played there every night for 5 generations as a notice that the gates were closing. Anyone not in, in time was locked out for the night. We saw the kings tomb, and

people were lying about sleeping—“It is the living to fear, not the dead.”
We went back to our hotel by midnight and slept like the king.
Gujerat had many treats to offer. Gandhi’s ashram on the river, now a library but still a place for prayer and meetings. Mosques, with carvings like lace through the rock for windows. Quaking towers mosque, where people are no longer allowed to climb. Markets, blocks and blocks long—selling underwear and household goods. Shoe shops to make Imelda Marcos pause, shawls, and baby clothes fashioned after Bollywood.
We spent the morning at the Ashram and watched the washer women in the river, and children bathing. Groups of school children were there in matching hats or uniforms. Gandhi is alive and well in Ahmedibad.

We saw women who wore so much gold on the top of their ear, that they flapped down.We visited a shop where they sold emeralds the size of dimes on rings and ancient textiles. We went to the market, and spent hours looking at wares. WE walked the streets greeting that of God in everyone. We rode in rickshaws around ox-carts and camels and elephants.

We went to Jain temples, where the gods all look the same, and resemble the children of the corn, with astonishing carving in stone.

And then, we visited perhaps my favorite spot so far in India. It was a mosque, possibly called the Sarkhej Rosa

—but what delighted me beyond explanation was the mixing of Hindu and Moslem---people were gathered there at the courtyard of the neon lit shrine—moslem women in burkas, and hindi women in saris, holding each other’s babies, eating each other’s food. Children laughed and ran around and peered at us. We were invited to come in and observe and partake. No segregation. The Hindu’s went inside to pray and there was singing and dancing in the courtyard.
Gandhi would have been so pleased. I have never seen anything like it before or since.

After we went to eat where there was traditional dancing, and music, and puppet shows—again a traditional Thali dinner, without the white shirted waiters. Another night in a hotel with no windows, but very attentive room service--$4/day.

We spent the last day seeing the calling cards of Ahmedibad. The Step Wells are a remarkable and beyond our understanding in the West. Water storage structures were developed, the grander they were reflected the power of their patrons. They are wells dug stories deep, each one supported by intricately carved columns, and as the water evaporates one climbs deeper into the well on, yes, steps. Along the way are carvings in the stone and pillars. We walked down realizing the coolness that they provide and sat on the steps for a moment before whisking back to the airport, and our lives in Chennai.