For me, Ahmedabad is a city of magic — and contrasts

Indian Express

23-05-2025

Lately, whenever I write about Ahmedabad, for some strange reason, the image of Leonardo da Vinci's drawing of The Vitruvian Man comes to mind. I cannot stop thinking about it in the context of the outline of the city. I have always been intrigued by this drawing, as it depicts a man inscribed within a circle and a square. It is the visual representation of the human body in harmony with the environment. This is how I used to feel in Ahmedabad, which was then similar to an overgrown village. The scale was just right for me to fit into the city, as its axis resembled an aerial-hoop-performer of a circus. I always felt that the hoop was my tool and I spun, swung, rolled closer to the boundary walls of the city. I could touch it and easily navigate the city. I just had to extend my hand and I was part of the city. In other words, it was my world.
For me, Ahmedabad is a city of magic, where dargahs walk, minarets shake; and an eternal light glows in goddess Laxmi's gokhlo. The walls of the city no longer exist, but it has majestic darwazas, which were once connected to the fortified city, symbolic of city, community, society and family. Our ancestral house was close to Delhi Darwaza, which has a special place in my heart. Ahmedabad is a city of contrasts. It has ancient monuments and institutes built by well-known architects from India and abroad. The traffic moves along with camels, cows and elephants, as langurs sit like sentinels on garden walls, and bee-eaters, sunbirds and peafowl add a splash of colour to the city of stories. It was a city with a vibrant living heritage. I was elated when it was declared a UNESCO World Heritage City in 2017. Sadly, in recent times, it lacks upkeep and preservation.
The river Sabarmati still flows on the outskirts of the city, though. In the Sixties, when it flooded, we carried big-black umbrellas and stood at the bridge, soaking wet, just to see the gushing water, known as ghoda-pur in Gujarati, likened to galloping horses. Then, everything changed. Several bridges were built across the river. I was too young then to understand that the bridges would expand the city and make it bigger. Soon after, our family also moved to the new city. During this period, I had never imagined that one day, Ahmedabad would become one of India's biggest cities, what they now call a smart city. Soon, the innumerable textile mills and their tall chimneys disappeared from our horizon, Ahmedabad transformed into a cement-concrete-glass-jungle of highrises. Until that point, I could take an auto and reach the various nooks and corners of the city. But soon, Ahmedabad began to grow in leaps and bounds to the west, devouring villages, fields, farm lands and all that came in its way, like a giant octopus. It transformed into a large unplanned city, the skyline a jagged edge of highrises, commercial complexes and shops with brand names, standing shoulder to shoulder with elite educational institutes.
Slowly, I realised that I had begun refusing invitations to events that were not close enough to reach on the pretext that I did not have a vehicle and it was difficult to find cabs or autos to commute to and from my home. But in my heart, I knew these were excuses. To break this block, I accepted a dinner invitation at a friend's place. I reached late because, predictably, the cab took a long time to arrive. It was an enjoyable evening, but at the back of my mind, I kept worrying about finding a ride back home. Again, predictably, it proved to be arduous. So I decided to walk to the main road and find a vehicle. When I reached there, the road resembled a fiery river of automobiles gushing non-stop on the road, honking and fuming incessantly. When I finally found an auto, it took another two hours to veer through the heartless traffic jam.
Exhausted, I returned home and immediately deleted all invitations at the periphery of the city I had once known like the back of my hand. Then, in the half-light, as I switched on my laptop, something touched my foot. Cautiously, I moved back and switched on the lights. A drawing had flown from my table to the floor. I picked it up and saw that it was a copy of The Vitruvian Man. I went into my bedroom and placed it next to my pillow. I felt comforted because that evening, I had felt small and vulnerable in a city that had become so big that I could no longer recognise it as my own. The drawing took me back to the entirely different, entirely illusionary city of my own, where I exist, and I am.
David is a Sahitya Akademi Award-winning author, artist and art critic