The history of Surat's geography

Surat Municipal Corporation’s recent book release- ’At the Core’ not only provides a peek at the built heritage of Surat and Rander but also enriches readers with information on important areas of Tapi town and how their names came into being.

Tapi, also known as Suryaputri, is named after the Sun God’s daughter. Author Ishwarlal Desai who has penned one of the most wonderful versions of the history of our town –‘Surat Sonani Murat’ mentions how mythology revolves around the belief that the Sun God upon being pleased with the penance of Kapil Muni, settled in this region as Kantarswami, which is why it was known as Suryapur. Rander derived its name from his wife Rannade, while Ashwinikumar was christened after his son, who, locals believe performed the pyre rites for gods.

The name Choriyasi Taluka was derived from the fact that flags of 84 nations proudly furled over the trading ships that sailed the Tapi. As the town began to progress, turning into one of the most successful ports in global trade, various core areas of the city were named after rich merchants or clans that resided there, like Gopipura, Sonifaliya, Wadifaliya, Shahpore.

Certain areas were named after the trade that flourished there like Nanavat-where money of all International currency could be exchanged, Ruwala Tekro-where cotton commodity ruled, Machhlipit-fish market.

Saiyyedpura is said to have taken its name from the Sufi Saiyyed saint while Meccaipul derives its name via the ferry station bridge from where Haj pilgrims boarded ships that set sail to Mecca.

Rustompura is named after a leading Parsi trader in the 17th century-Rustom Maneck Seth (1635-1721) .This gentleman was the vital link for business between Aurungzeb, the Dutch and the British.A favourite with the monarch, he was gifted large areas of land which he named after himself and family members. Sagrampura was originally called Frampura, after his son- Framji Seth, Nanpura is named after his grandson, Nanbhoy Seth.

While the English and Dutch cemeteries are part of the city’s heritage structures, all that otherwise remains reminiscent of the British are the Hope Bridge and Andrews Library and though the Dutch did not make it to Delhi, their factory and garden are still very much part of our town .Interestingly, French Garden is present day Diwali Baug. While both the Dutch and the French gardens look out to the river, in the ancient times, the popular river fronts were the various Ovaras. Amongst the aptly named numerous Ovaras such as Navdi (boat), Ghanta (bell), Patali (Hanuman temple) Raja (King) the one that holds distinction is the Paanch Pandav Ovaro where, it is believed that the Pandava’s emerged ,through a secret tunnel ,when they escaped certain death.

The area we know as Mugalisara derives it name from Mughal Sarai where caravans once rested; it now houses the offices of the municipal corporation. Surat’s modern suburbs begin with Athwalines; its name comes from Athwa gate-meaning the eighth gate. Through its years of progress, rulers tried to secure our prosperous ‘city of Kubera’ with a circumference of two walls. The inner wall was named Sheharpanah (city shelter) while the outer one was Alampanah (shelter of the world).

Surat originally had 12 city gates which were majestic and named -Phatak Darwaja,Variyavi Darwaja,Katargam Darwaja,Lal Darwaja,Delhi Darwaja,Sahra Darwaja,Salabat Darwaja,Maan Darwaja,Navsari Darwaja,Jafarali Darwaja,Majura Darwaja,Athwa Darwaja-the positions of these were determined via the routes of trade.Even as the areas around these now non existant gates are still known by the same names,Surat’s Ringroad is the replacement of most of the same

From Chowk to Zhampa , Katargam to Timalyawaad, the city carries on its ancient names with pride. A few areas near Ramnagar in Rander and Sachin GIDC area are officially known as Pakistan Mohallo and Bangladesh Mohollo, thus named after migrants from those countries who are now successfully settled in Surat.

Surat Nu Jaman,Tapi Nu Maran

They say that the crows come to fetch your soul when it departs from its mortal being.

There were five of them, silently perched in a dignified demeanor outside her windowsill.

Her face beamed an inner glow as she slept peacefully in the room within, revealing no sign of agony suffered since past three months; encased within a network of fleecy wrinkles, hair out of harm’s way in a bob cut; dressed in her signature Khadi skirt and short sleeved shirt-her preferred attire since days of picketing straw dolls at Bhagal crossroads; when she supported Gandhiji’s Quit India movement as a child.

The doctor who came to issue her certificate of death broke down.” Who will rebuke me for my unpunctuality now?” He sobbed. Since the time she had needed physicians, she had been wary of their degrees.” I could bet my last Icy balm that most of Surat’s labourers in Varacha and Pandesara are given shots by quacks with fancy degrees.” she would state, as she scrutinized credentials of every doc who examined her. The balm was her precious jar of relief for bow legs that had seen better days when she bicycled to Nari Saurakshan Gruh, originally located at Piplod. She would pedal from within the walled city, over Ghodod road which was then a dusty track for racing horses; spend the day counseling rescued female sex workers, women who knew no better than being suicidal. Later, she had trekked the Dangs, educating independence to adivasi students. By the time rheumatism set in, she sheltered and kept a sharp maternal eye over local college girls.

As the sun changed its last set of windows for the day, the house began to fill with mourners. Wobbly kneed sisters lamented their irreplaceable loss, braver family members held on to their tears as best they could because she had chuckled upon instructing them,” I don’t want any crying; remind everybody that it is considered shameful accordingly to Hindu Bali. Don’t trouble the NRIs, for I have no intention to wait on an ice slab while they manage a special leave from their tedious routine.”

Somewhere within the cross legged crowd of veiled women, a ringtone blared out a stale item number .Unnerved, the elders began to discuss dates for ‘besnu’,’barmu’,’termu’. Before their mission for setting menus could commence, they were politely informed by a grand child about her last wishes -
” Don’t host any post death ceremonies whatsoever. Don’t run an obituary in the papers; there will be people eating bhelpuri over my photograph the next day. Help the needy, not the greedy. Feeding our God men will not nourish my soul, I would rather you all remember me every time you bite into a hot ‘mirchi bhaji’ or relish a ‘ghari’.”
Talk about Gharis sent her gleefully reminiscing; she would relive delicious tales about delicacies that originated in Surat, the art of rolling paper thin patulis, how the English first discovered custard apples here and named them so, how the original ‘sancha’ ice cream was pure cream laden with luscious fresh fruit, how khaja got combined with mango pulp, citing reasons why Surti cuisine is glorified.

The monotonous chanting of God’s name died down at Ashwinikumar cremation ground. Now modernized with the passage of time; it offers ashes of the deceased within a few hours of the pyre being lit. A little shop across the road, offers voluntary service of sending the same to Varanasi; via which, relatives recieve a post card of confirmation from a trust, stating that the ashes of their loved ones have been immersed in the Ganges at Kashi.

She preferred the Tapti. “The old proverb stating ‘Surat nu jaman ane Kashi nu maran’ is meant for visitors, not us Surtis. Flowing by the Shivji temple at the Paanch Pandav Ovaro, near Ashwinikumar, is a segment of the Tapi known as Gupt Ganga, even the Ganges comes to here to wash her sins. It’s futile for Surtis to go to Kashi when the Tapi is pure enough for the Ganges herself.” she had informed.

She will be missed terribly, but then again, her Surti spirit shall live on forever.

An open letter from an abandoned child

An open letter from destiny’s child


Dear Ma,
I often think about you, as I lie here in my hospital cradle. I miss the warmth of your womb where I lay snug and safe for nine months. Feeding from you as your foetus. Feeling along with you, your happiness and pain as I tossed and tumbled inside you. I heard the sounds of music you listened to and jigged with it in my own way within the space you so generously provided me. I am sorry but I dint mean to hurt you when I gave you that occasional kick from within, it was just my way of assuring you that I was okay and I existed.

It was not my intention to hurt you at all when I made way out, but your body had given signs that it was time for me to come and join you in your world outside. I cried because you cried .My favourite moment was when you first held me close; nothing will ever feel that good again.:-) .

There has been a lot of buzz around here since the time I have been brought to this new place. People bend over me in curiosity and give sweet smiles. I have also been photographed and featured in newspapers. I wonder if any of them reached you and if you recognized me. The people looking after me are called doctors. They are helping me get healthier by giving me something called antibiotics .I am also given infant nutrition but it doesn’t taste even half as good as what you fed me. :( . Last fortnight, they brought in another girl like me who was forgotten in a train by her mother, by mistake. The poor child refused to have anything for 16 hours until she was happily united with her mother.

Then last week, I got new company. This baby weighs twice my weight and is really cute. That’s what all the nurses say. She was wrapped in a cloth and left behind on the main road! I wonder why parents are becoming so forgetful these days. But you know what, when she was brought in here, another mother of an infant offered to feed her :-) I suppose breast milk does not differentiate between children. If her parents don’t come looking for her, maybe she will be my best friend at Nari Saurakshan Gruh ,where both of us will be growing up till our parents find us .I hear they celebrate all festivals and holidays and have good health and educational programmes. But I would rather celebrate my birthday with you; will you be able to find me by then?

I am looked after lovingly by the inmates of that institution. Instead of one mother I have many. But you know what? I miss you. Do you miss me too? I hope you do.

Today is a very special day for girls, I hear.The town has been fasting, observing Navratri before Ram Navmi, praying for health, wealth and happiness from all the avatars of Goddesses. Little girls like me are called ‘Kanjaks’ meaning incarnations of Goddesses .They will be invited at homes and people will wash their feet and bow in front of them asking to be blessed. The little giggling girls will be given goodies and gifts. If I could talk and someone asked me what I wanted for a gift, I would most certainly ask to be united with you.

They say I am a survivor, some bad people buried me alive but I called out loud from below the earth mounds and made it .They have named me after one of the sports champion in town and I hope to make my mark in this world ,as she has. I will. And just as her parents are so proud of her, I hope you and Papa will be too. :-)

Hugs and kisses,

Destiny’s child.

MEMOIRS OF A ‘TEXTOIL’ TYCOON

Memoirs of a 'textoil' tycoon.


‘A story like mine should never be known, for my world is forbidden, fragile and well, fatuous. I was born in a faraway land, in the lap of luxury, thanks to the toil of my predecessors. My childhood was the happiest phase of my life; a time when I could be and express myself and have nobody judge me for it, when friends were just that, when my surname was not an invisible decorum ;Then, I grew up.

’ Go make a life ‘, they said.’ See the world for yourself. We have set up a textile mill for you; all you have to do is run the show.’ I smiled to myself; this meant Independence, an opportunity to prove my ability. I wanted a life that was mine to live, this was going to be it or so I thought.

I had read that the Parsis considered themselves as sugar when they first arrived in Gujarat to mingle in and spread sweetness; I thought of myself as water. Water can carve its way through even stone and no matter how tough a time I would face, I was ready to work my way out from it.Ah! But I was young then, and naïve.

So, I gave up my city of joy, its club culture and cosmopolitan crowd .Trading old girlfriends for a wife, my top end car for a second hand model and a palatial mansion for a condominium that was part of the mill premises was not exactly as much adventurous fun as books otherwise make it out to be. I often wonder if that wry smile on father’s face when he talked about Surat actually meant that he knew it was part of a ‘dry state’ area. Freedom came with its own set of limitations here, I realized it much later.

A man’s power cannot be judged by his appearance alone-It’s the first lesson my mill labourers taught me as they twisted me around their little fingers. I learnt to adjust myself to filthy surroundings, gutter tongue and toxic air; the moolah mania overpowered all other senses. Competition and inflation were yet to take over, making good money was really easy; I was determined to not seek to defeat the men I was competing, I had decided to defeat their confidence, taking myself to unreachable heights.

I was quick to make it to the top slot. But dreams, alas! They can either make or break you. As you try and make them come true, you must live both the sides of that desire. With power also comes responsibility and if you cannot handle both, there will be none left.

Through the years, my life turned to routes I had never foreseen, the city took back as much as it gave, monetarily and socially. My wife switched from a veiled, head nodding docile daughter in law to a vain, haughty socialite whom I no longer recognized. Was she in the wrong company, I wondered? But then again, her inner circle was that of my community, how could I blame the city? The women in Surat are modern, I admire that, they voice their opinion, wear what they want and even as they are feminine, think themselves no less then the man they are with. They are also traditional in their own way and for an outsider to come understand and balance both, is a tall order. My children have a life of their own, and I certainly won’t be the one to write their future.

I sit back and realize the only three things that matter in life are- cricket, business and war. Understand one and you will understand all .This past week, has provided a peek into all three.

With our union still on strike against yet another price hike, I shall spend the present week thinking about my gains and loss.

One cannot read loss, only feel it. So, here I am, a lonely Lala, penning thoughts in a diary that will never be read.’