17. Assistant Collector and Sub-Divisional Magistrate, Dahod
Dahod
The Panchmahals district was divided into two subdivisions — Godhra and Dahod. Among them, Dahod was considered particularly important because it was far from the district headquarters and was entirely a tribal area. The name Dahod came from “Do-had,” meaning “two boundaries,” as it was the border where the kingdoms of Malwa and Gujarat once met.
Dahod holds a special place in history and mythology — it is believed to be the site of Rishi Dadhichi’s ashram, was a camping site for King Siddharaj Jaysinh of Gujarat, and is known as the birthplace of Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb. During India’s first freedom struggle of 1857, Tatya Tope, one of its key leaders, is said to have hidden in the dense forests near Dahod.
Lord Curzon had even established a Military Academy here to recruit Bhils into the Indian Army. Later, the railway coach yard built by the British evolved into what is today known as the Rolling Stock Workshop, Parel. Bhaikaka, a follower of Gandhian philosophy, carried out significant constructive work for the upliftment of the tribal communities in this region.
During my posting, I met Dahyabhai Nayak, a Gandhian worker from the Bhil Seva Mandal, at a nearby village. I often wondered what Gandhi himself must have been like — the man whose single call could inspire thousands to renounce all worldly pleasures and dedicate their lives to the service of the nation and its people.
Near Kali Dam, we once discovered dinosaur eggs and fossilized bones. Unfortunately, everyone who found something took it home, and thus, the opportunity to develop a dinosaur park like the one in Balasinor was lost.
Sub Division
The Dahod Subdivision comprised five major talukas — Dahod, Limkheda, Devgadh Baria, Zalod, and Santrampur — making it a vast and important region. People respected the Prant Officer (Sub-Divisional Magistrate) of Dahod as if he were the Collector himself. Today, Dahod is an independent district with seven talukas.
After completing my probation period in August, my first posting was as Assistant Collector and Sub-Divisional Magistrate of Dahod. During my training, I had already visited Dahod and its talukas, and I had developed a friendly relationship with my predecessor, Bhagubhai Chaudhary, which made taking charge and understanding the work much easier.
ALT Mamlatdar Mukundbhai Desai had also helped me understand the Tenancy Act thoroughly and ensure its proper implementation.
As Assistant Collector and SDM of Dahod, my key responsibilities included not only revenue administration but also managing drought relief operations. I had to hold regular meetings of drought relief committees in all five talukas, approve relief works, monitor their implementation and timely payments, and personally inspect the sites.
In addition, I chaired meetings of Taluka Planning Boards to recommend works under discretionary and incentive grants for inclusion in the district plan. I also presided over Taluka Coordination Committees, where interdepartmental issues were discussed and resolved.
In essence, every task that the District Collector performed once for the district, I had to do five times — once for each taluka. I also conducted RTS (Record of Rights) appeal hearings at the taluka level. Thus, my monthly schedule typically included one full day for hearings and another for field inspections in each taluka. Fixed weekly and monthly programs ensured smooth communication and continuity of work.
In addition, I had to constantly monitor and review family planning targets, inspect fair-price shops following public complaints, carry out village revenue office inspections, police station visits, jail inspections, and much more.
Days, weeks, and months passed entirely in work — only work, work, and more work. I would leave home freshly bathed in the morning and return at night completely covered in dust. A bath every night was a must.
The government had provided a jeep, which had a hood and doors, but the open wind always carried in plenty of dust. There were no air-conditioned vehicles in those days — not even the Collector had air conditioning in his office or car, let alone the Sub-Divisional Magistrate.
People and Culture
Our subdivision consisted mainly of tribal population, primarily Bhil people, though there were also some Patelias and Parmars among them. They are largely simple and innocent people, the major workforce of roads and buildings works of Gujarat. Many of them are agricultural workers looking after farms in many districts of Gujarat.
Their way of life functioned largely on the barter system, so the use of money was minimal. Groups of nearby villages would organize weekly markets (haats) on fixed days. Sellers and buyers from those same villages would gather there, and people would exchange goods — giving what they had for what they needed, or selling their produce to make payments.
Food
Among the tribal communities, their staple food consisted of split black gram (urad dal) and maize bread. Many kept poultry as well. Though they were mostly vegetarian, they would eat meat during festivals or special occasions.
If an officer happened to visit their village, the chickens raised under a government scheme would often become sacrificial offerings in his honor!
In the Ratanmahal hills, the tribal people prepare a delicious dish called paniya made from maize flour, which they cook on aranda (castor) leaves. It is not only tasty but also considered an excellent remedy for stomach ailments.
Gol Gadheda Fair
The GOL Gadheda Fair is held in village Jesavada in Garbada Taluka near Dahod. The fair held every year in Falgun month (Holi Festival) was famous for its unique “partner selection” ritual, popularly known as the Gol Gadheda Mela (Donkey Fair). Thousands of people come and enjoy the drums, dance and singing of this culture.
At this fair, a tall pole is erected in the centre of the ground. Bundle of jaggery is tied at the top of the pole. Around this pole, unmarried tribal girls, holding bamboo sticks, dance in a circle to the beat of drums and sing traditional songs. Few young men wishes to marry a choices girl would try to climb it while girls struck him with sticks. If he managed to reach the top, eat the jaggery and throw the rest on the crowd, he earned the right to choose his life partner from among those who had struck him with sticks.
In a way, this fair served as a socially accepted arena for love matches — where couples could win their right to be together in public.
Sex Ratio
In the Adivasi (tribal) society, there was no need for a “Save the Girl Child” campaign — daughters were considered valuable assets.
While at their father’s home, they contributed to the family by working in the fields; and upon marriage, it was the groom’s family who paid a bride price to the bride’s side — not the other way around.
Witch
In some backward tribal villages of Limkheda, if villagers branded a woman as a witch (dakini), she was often stoned to death. Blind superstition ruled these areas — if a child fell ill or died unexpectedly, the blame was laid on some helpless woman, accused of witchcraft.
Early marriage was also common — girls became mothers in their early teens, leading to premature and underweight births. Anemia among mothers and intestinal worms among children were widespread problems.
One can only imagine how many innocent women must have lost their lives over the centuries in the darkness of ignorance.
Criminal Village
In Dahod, there was a village considered criminal by reputation — even the police hesitated to go there without heavy security.
Traveling at night on the highway leading into the neighboring state was considered dangerous. Bandits would scatter nails on the road, puncture passing vehicles’ tires, and then rob the stranded passengers after beating. Yet, these robbers had a strange sense of morality — they wouldn’t take anything “free,” meaning they wouldn’t steal unless they “earned” it through beating!
Taluka Office
I used to hold the subdivisional office’s work at the Mamlatdar’s office of each taluka, so that the people would not have to travel long distances to meet me. I also made surprise visits to check whether the Mamlatdar offices were truly public-oriented in their functioning.
Whenever I visited any such office, I would notice the tribal men and women sitting in the compound, often carrying small bundles weighing a kilo or two. They never came empty-handed. Whether they had some official work or wanted to meet the officer, they believed it was inappropriate to come without an offering. So, they would bring along something from their fields — whatever was in season — as a token of respect.
One day, while going through the official correspondence file, my eyes fell upon a five-rupee note tucked between the pages of a four- or five-page application. I immediately called the head clerk (Shirastedar) and rebuked him.
Upon inquiry, I discovered that it had become a customary practice — whenever an application was submitted, the applicant would quietly place two or five rupees inside the papers, which the Shirastedar or his clerks would then pocket.
I further questioned my driver Bharat and other staff members and learned that this malpractice had not yet spread widely. I acted firmly and put a complete stop to it before it could take root any deeper.
Devgadh Baria, the Paris of Panchmahals
Devgadh Baria was one of the taluka of the subdivision and the HQ of it is a small town, yet it had once been the capital of a princely state. The former ruler, Maharawal Jaydeepsinh Baria, was a respected figure and a Member of Parliament. When he passed away on November 20, 1987, I met Ghulam Nabi Azad for the first time, as he had come to represent Jaydeepsinh’s political party. Azad was tall, handsome, and impressively courteous. The king’s cremation took place with full protocol and honors.
After his death, some of the descendants of his cousin filed RTS (Record of Rights) appeals, claiming portions of the ancestral land. The late ruler’s only daughter, Urvashi Devi, lived in Devgadh Baria itself. She was an elegant and dignified woman, with a graceful and commanding presence.
During 1967–69, Khan Saheb, who had been the Collector of Panchmahals, was a well-known name in the administrative circles. As I used to conduct RTS hearings in the taluka, Urvashi Devi would call me beforehand to schedule an appointment. Whenever she came, she would bring two cups of ice cream — one for herself and one for me.
After two or three such visits, she once requested me to favour her in the inheritance dispute that was under hearing. I found myself in a moral dilemma. Under the Hindu Succession Act, ancestral properties could not legally remain undivided under the name of a single royal family branch, and rightful heirs in the direct line were entitled to their shares.
As an officer, I was being tested. In the end, I chose the side of justice, a decision that would later cost me dearly in 1992.
By that year, my appointment as Collector of Panchmahals had almost been finalized. My colleague from Mehsana, Yogendra Bhai Dixit, was then serving as Secretary to the Chief Minister’s Office. He called to inform me that Chief Secretary Khan Saheb had recommended my name for the Collector’s post but had remarked that I should “first speak with Urvashi Devi.”
I was naïve. Having long forgotten the Devgadh Baria case — which I had decided without bias or malice — I called her. But she had not forgotten. Alerted, she used her influence to block my appointment as Collector of Panchmahals.
Dahod Grain Market and Civil Supply
Just as Unjha in North Gujarat is famous as the market of cumin seeds, Dahod in Eastern Gujarat was known as a grain market. Among its prominent figures was Girdharlal Sheth, a respected businessman whose mills, charitable buildings, and community service had earned him much prestige.
There were also many traders from neighboring Madhya Pradesh. In those days, under the Fair Price Shop (FPS) system, wheat was distributed, but since the tribal population preferred maize, the wheat meant for them often got diverted elsewhere. Complaints were common — FPS shops wouldn’t open on schedule, and when they did, they closed quickly, so people couldn’t get their rations.
Since the tribals didn’t eat wheat, few came to collect it, which led to “ghost ration cards” being used to siphon off the grain to flour mills in and outside the district.
To control such irregularities, the District Supply Officer (DSO) and his team of inspectors were responsible — but with only one inspector per taluka, proper supervision was impossible. The Mamlatdars and their deputies were already overburdened with issuing permits.
Therefore, I personally began inspecting ration shops, market godowns, and even trucks on the highway.
As soon as my official vehicle entered the market, shop shutters would start closing. If I caught one truck on the highway, the news would spread so fast that transport of such goods would stop for four or five hours.
After B.M. Leuva was transferred, Chari Saheb took charge as the new District Supply Officer. Known for his strict and fearless approach, he inspired me further. Encouraged by his integrity, I intensified inspections and began filing more cases.
Chari Saheb was extremely pleased with me and never tired of praising my work during district coordination meetings. His firm stance against corruption revived the Gandhian spirit in me.
A few months later, when the Collector went on leave or training, I was given charge of the Collector’s office for two to three weeks. I thought, “This is my chance — let me check the status of the supply cases I filed.”
To my surprise, I found that my strong cases had become a source of easy income for the Supply Office. Most cases were quietly settled with token punishments or minor fines, effectively closing them.
I was furious. Even though I was holding charge only temporarily, I transferred long-entrenched staff and inspectors from the supply office and talukas. After that, Chari Saheb avoided even meeting my eyes.
That episode taught me an important lesson — to remain cautious even with those who seemed upright. The experience made me more alert to the layers of compromise that existed within the system.
Private Transport
When I caught overloaded passenger jeeps on the Dahod–Godhra highway and reported them to the RTO, the officer would appear grateful — but even then, I grew suspicious. Was I, in my zeal to correct the system, actually creating new opportunities for others to profit?
My inner conscience began to stir, warning me to stay alert.
Externment Proceedings
I also initiated externment proceedings against those running illegal liquor dens, in coordination with the police. I issued orders to drive them out of the area.
But even as I acted firmly, when I saw how deeply entrenched the liquor trade was and how comfortably it survived within “protected corners,” my mind began to churn with questions once again.
District Panchayat Administration: Relief and Family Welfare and other Works
Most of the district panchayat programs fell under my supervision. I had an academic interest in becoming a District Development Officer (DDO) someday, and perhaps because of that, I carried out those responsibilities with great enthusiasm.
Relief Works
During scarcity relief operations, I was effectively the head of my entire subdivision. All five talukas under me were large, each headed by a Class-I Taluka Development Officer (TDO). As Chairman of the five Taluka Scarcity Relief Committees, I held full authority, maintained ownership over all five talukas, and conducted fortnightly meetings in each.
One meeting would be held before the District Scarcity Relief Committee met — to prepare and ensure we could present complete information at the district level — and another meeting afterward to implement the district’s directives and address local grievances. Most of the time, problems were resolved within these taluka-level meetings themselves.
At the peak of the drought season, we managed the work of around 150,000 laborers, earning our district recognition and respect at the state level.
Family Welfare
Similarly, in the field of health, two major programs were under my supervision — Family Planning and Women and Child Development (ICDS).
The then Health Minister, Vallabhbhai Patel, had opened more than 800 Primary Health Centers (PHCs) across the state, expanding access to primary healthcare on a large scale. However, constructing new PHC buildings and filling medical officer posts was no easy task. Still, his initiative had raised awareness about the importance of health services among both district panchayat officials and the public.
At that time, population control was taken very seriously by the administration. Instead of seeing population as a “demographic dividend,” the focus was on the growing strain it placed on public resources.
With the arrival of laparoscopic surgery, family planning operations became more efficient. Yet, men rarely came forward for sterilization, so most efforts focused on women.
To encourage participation, apart from the government’s monetary incentives, we often arranged for donated gifts such as utensils or household items. To meet the family planning operation targets, regular review meetings were held with doctors and health workers.
We often felt sympathetic toward those unable to meet their targets, but administrative pressure had to be maintained. Occasionally, when the pressure became too intense, we would see old cases—of operations done five to seven years earlier—being brought back on register and counted again to meet the numbers.
At that time, private gynecologists dominated family planning camps. They earned well and had a strong influence. Our own Superintendent of Dahod Cottage Hospital, Dr. Kamlesh Solanki, was himself a gynecologist, and a doctor wife, Dr. Rageshwari. Yet, surprisingly, he was not given any family planning operation work during these camps.
He drew my attention to the monopoly of private doctors in the camps. I decided to support him and ensured that he, too, was included in the family planning operations.
With his skilled and confident hands, Dr. Solanki quickly earned the trust of the people. So much so that, in 1990, when I was serving as the District Development Officer at Mehsana, my wife Lakshmi and I traveled back to Dahod — where she underwent a laparoscopic sterilization operation performed by Dr. Solanki himself.
Anganwadi Centres
The number of Anganwadi Centres was steadily increasing, and with that came growing issues related to recruitment and supervision by the Mukhya Sevikas, which began to surface regularly in the taluka coordination meetings.
Of the two main objectives of the Anganwadi program — nutrition and pre-primary education — most of the focus remained on nutrition. Children and their mothers would come to the centre for snacks and then leave.
There was a widespread problem of malnutrition and anaemia among pregnant and nursing mothers. Similarly, malnutrition and intestinal worm infections were common among children. Although a school health check-up program was introduced, such tasks could not be completed overnight — it would take decades of effort. Still, like drops gradually filling a lake, the administrative machinery had begun taking small, steady steps in the right direction.
Mid-Day Meal
The Mid-Day Meal Scheme was also slowly taking root. Issues frequently arose concerning the quality of grains, pulses, and vegetables supplied. There were frequent cases of pilferage of oil and spices.
Those who engaged in such thefts often had their bills easily approved by the Deputy Mamlatdars, while those who ran the program honestly and served good-quality meals to children faced unnecessary hurdles and delays.
We did our best to repair and discipline the system through strict checks and penalties, but it often felt like patchwork reform rather than a lasting fix.
Land grabbing case and land allotment to Forest Department
Wherever there are vacant government lands, the scope for irregularities always exists. On Zalod Road in Dahod, there was a large open piece of government fallow land. A man named Vikramsinh had fraudulently prepared documents in his own name and even managed to get a temporary entry made in Record of Rights (Form No. 6).
Before the entry could be certified, the matter came to my attention. I took suo motu cognizance of the case and immediately initiated action. The entire fraudulent process was cancelled, and the land was retained under government ownership. We even prepared a land-grabbing case against the individual, but he absconded before it could proceed further.
However, I realized that with my promotion and transfer due within a month or two, there was a real risk that the land might once again be illegally acquired after my departure. As a precautionary measure, I handed over the land to the Forest Department. I knew that once the forest officials took possession, no one would dare to stake a claim or encroach upon it again. Today, the campus is filled with forest offices and forest related activities.
Encroachment Removal
That was the era of S.R. Rao and Jagadishan, both well-known officers who, as Assistant Collectors, had earned fame for removing urban encroachments from main roads. I wasn’t one to stay behind either — I too cleared numerous encroachments along both sides of the Dahod S.T. Bus Station Road.
At that time, during my training in Godhra as a supernumerary officer, my friendship with the District Judge and the Additional District Judge who lived opposite us proved helpful — it prevented encroachers from obtaining stay orders from the court.
When I visited Dahod about six months ago, I realized that while I had grown into a senior citizen, the encroachments had reappeared — now as permanent concrete shops in the very spots I had once cleared. It reminded me that officers who remove encroachments may leave, but the encroachments always return.
Supervision over Municipality
As Prant Officer, my authority extended to the municipality as well, including the power to suspend councillors for misconduct.
In Dahod Municipality, I received complaints regarding electricity works—fixtures not fully installed or of poor quality. On investigation, it became clear that the contractors were linked to certain municipal councillors.
Owing to these irregularities, I suspended about six to eight councillors, which significantly boosted public confidence in my administration.
The people of Dahod began to trust that their Prant Officer stood for fairness and accountability.
Chhab Lake in Dahod is quite famous. Around the year 1130 CE, when King Siddharaj Solanki of Patan (Gujarat) marched toward Malwa, he had camped in Dahod. His army was large, and it was not customary to prepare flatbreads (rotlas) while on the move. So, the soldiers dug a lake there, filling baskets (chhab) with the excavated soil — hence the name “Chhab Talav” (Basket Lake). The site where the army camped came to be known as Padav Naka (Camp Gate), which still stands today as a historical landmark.
Over time, there were attempts to encroach upon and reclaim land by filling the lake embankments from one side and pressing the soil for land gain. The Chief Officer of the Municipality, Dani, was a smooth talker, smiling while enabling such activities. The Mayor, Jainuddinbhai, had little real authority, so whenever called, he would merely attend meetings.
Eventually, as Prant Officer (Sub-Divisional Magistrate), I took a firm stand, removed the encroachments, and saved the lake lands. My vision then was to develop Chhab Lake like Kankaria Lake in Ahmedabad, but the municipal treasury was empty and there was no state project support at the time.
Robbery of sheep and goats at Nagankhedi
Who could forget the incident at Nagan Khedi? The village lay in the hills near the border of Dahod (Gujarat) and Jhabua district (Madhya Pradesh).
In the drought year of 1988, herders from the Gujarat side had crossed unknowingly into Madhya Pradesh territory while grazing their sheep and goats. Soon there was an uproar — reports came that local Adivasis had looted their livestock.
A police team led by the Circle Inspector set out from Dahod, armed and accompanied later by Madhya Pradesh police. But the terrain was against them — the police were on the plains, while the Adivasis stood on the hills with bows and arrows. Arrows came whizzing down; one even pierced through the Circle Inspector’s helmet, narrowly missing his head.
Most of the sheep and goats had already been slaughtered. The police managed to recover what remained and brought the herders back safely. But the firing by Madhya Pradesh police had resulted in one or two deaths, and the matter created a major political storm in the Madhya Pradesh Legislative Assembly.
Mamlatdars
Among the five Mamlatdars under my charge, I had a solid and efficient team:
Ibrahim Bandi at Dahod,
Dhanjibhai Patel at Zalod,
Pitabar Patel at Limkheda,
Kadiya at Devgadh Baria, and
K.T. Kansara at Santrampur.
All of them were hardworking and capable officers. Dhanjibhai, in particular, could accomplish any task assigned to him — but his temperament was harsh. People often said about him, “A cow that gives plenty of milk but kicks the pail — what use is that milk?”
Bandi, on the other hand, had a strange habit of being absent on important occasions. Every year, on the day of the Republic Day flag hoisting, he would find some excuse not to attend. From 1989 onward, dignitaries from the state began attending flag hoisting ceremonies at sub-divisional headquarters. That year, Bandi invited me to attend the ceremony at the Mamlatdar’s office. My staff warned me jokingly, “Sir, be careful — if he’s in charge of the flag hoisting, something will surely go wrong!”
On that very day, Bandi came to me requesting headquarters leave, confirming my suspicion. I denied the leave, kept him present at the event, and made sure he himself saluted the flag.
Project Administrator
In the tribal areas, the post of Project Administrator was an important one. At that time, Hathi Saheb was serving in that position, and under his guidance, I gained a deeper understanding of Tribal Area Sub-Plan (TASP) projects and gap funding mechanisms.
Divisional Forest Officers
The Divisional Forest Officer (DCF), Chauhan Saheb, tragically died when his jeep overturned near the dangerous Rampura curve close to Dahod while returning from Godhra.
Through this period, I also came to know Tyagi, the DCF of Devgadh Baria, and Shyamal Tikadar, an IFS officer — both of whom became good friends.
Peers Relation
At that time, the Panchayat administration functioned under two District Development Officers (DDOs), and I could see their contrasting styles. Whenever I went to the district headquarters for meetings, I would make it a point to stop by the Godhra Club. I never had time to play, but I would often meet Dr. R.K. Patel, and our conversations would naturally turn toward administration.
Dr. Patel, being an experienced and outspoken man, and I, being new and somewhat naïve, ended up discussing which of the two DDOs ran a better administration. The current DDO was intelligent, affable, and composed — he never believed in taking work by intimidating anyone. His predecessor, however, had a temper; out of fear, people used to work faster under him.
Dr. Patel, perhaps mischievously or carelessly, misrepresented my remarks to the current DDO. As a result, that otherwise calm and dignified officer — a good friend — became upset with me and distanced himself.
As fate would have it, we both later worked together again for three years in Junagadh, and later, when he served as Principal Secretary to the Chief Minister, and Chief Secretary of the State, the balance of gain and loss from that earlier misunderstanding became apparent.
That incident taught me an important lesson — to stay away from gossip and informal power circles. My principle thereafter became clear: “Let me be good, and let my work speak for itself.”
Entertainment Tax and a tussle with an MLA
That was still the era of entertainment tax, when small cinema theatres at taluka headquarters were the main source of public recreation. Cable TV had just arrived, but not everyone owned a television, so theatres were still popular.
At Zalod, there was a complaint about entertainment tax evasion. Acting on my directive, Dhanjibhai and his team carried out a strict inspection and uncovered clear tax fraud. The theatre was subsequently shut down, and a case was filed.
Unfortunately, the theatre owner turned out to be the son of the local MLA, Virjibhai Muniya, who was also a close associate of Godhra MLA Abdul Rahim Khalpa. During my training days, Khalpa had lost a Taluka Panchayat President election that I had overseen — so, naturally, he already bore a grudge.
The two MLAs joined forces, went to Gandhinagar, and complained directly to Chief Minister Amarsinh Chaudhary, demanding my transfer.
Soon after, I received a message that the Chief Minister wanted to see me. When I met him, he calmly mentioned the names of both MLAs and their complaint, asking me to explain the facts.
I narrated both incidents truthfully — the entertainment tax case and the previous election matter. He listened patiently and said,
“No problem. I’ll handle it. You continue your work with the same enthusiasm.”
His words brought me immense relief and deep respect. I admired him for not being swayed by one-sided complaints or acting on hearsay — a rare quality in political leadership.
In administration, after all, one never knows when a “small scratch” can turn into a “fatal blow.”
Communal Harmony : Jinnah’s blunder
Dahod has a mixed Hindu–Muslim population, and yet communal harmony has always been maintained. Among Muslims, the Shia Vohra community consists largely of traders and peace-loving people, while the Sunni population is mostly poor and middle-class. As a result, festivals of both faiths were celebrated peacefully.
As Assistant Collector, I handled revenue (RTS) appeals, and as Sub-Divisional Magistrate, I dealt with CrPC cases under Sections 109, 110, 133, 144, etc. This brought me in contact with many local lawyers, and a few of them became friendly enough to discuss matters beyond official work.
One such lawyer, Fakhruddin Sheikh invited me to his daughter’s wedding (nikah). During a casual conversation there, he remarked that Mohammad Ali Jinnah had caused great harm to their community.
I was taken aback — it was contrary to the general perception, and hearing a Muslim criticize Jinnah was something entirely new for me. When I asked for the reason, he explained:
“By partitioning Hindustan, Jinnah divided the Muslim community into three parts. The Muslims of West and East (now Pakistan and Bangladesh) got independent nations, but the Muslims who remained in India lost their numerical strength and, with it, their political significance. Those who left forfeited their right to live, move, and prosper freely across an undivided land of 4.2 million square kilometers.”
Fakhruddinbhai’s perspective opened a new dimension in my understanding of history — one I had never considered before.
Learning Driving
Dr Dinesh Pandya tried to teach me scooter driving, but my fear of falling kept me away from it. Instead, I began learning to drive the jeep.
My driver, Bharatsinh, explained the gears, steering, axle, and brakes, and I would carefully observe him. Gradually, I began driving short distances — from home to the office and back.
In those days, getting a driving license was easy — especially for officers — with no formal test required. Eventually, I started driving longer routes myself — to Godhra for meetings or Gandhinagar–Ahmedabad for official work.
I still remember my first long drive: near Mehmedabad, I braked a bit late, and the jeep gently nudged a donkey, which stumbled but quickly got up and ran off. Though it was a minor incident, Laxmi never let me forget it.
Apart from that one episode, I remained a careful, accident-free driver ever since — confident behind the wheel and grateful for every safe journey.
When Bhagubhai was posted as the Prant Officer of Dahod, there was no independent government residence for the post. With his own initiative, he selected a plot of land within the same compound where the PO cum TDO and Mamlatdar lived, obtained a budget sanction, and personally supervised the construction of a small but beautiful house — two rooms, a hall, and a kitchen. Bhagubhai lived there only for three to four months before being transferred, and after that, the house came to me.
Painted in pista green, that house gave us a sense of independence. Though small, it was our first self-contained official residence, and even today, it remains one of my fondest homes.
Within that compound lived Ibrahim Bandi, the Dahod Mamlatdar, a bachelor, and Chhaganbhai Balat, the Project Officer-cum-Taluka Development Officer, a Class-I officer, with his family — his wife Manjulaben, one son (Prafull), and four daughters (Monika, Mittal, Hemangi, and Jalpa). Along with our two sons, Ujjwal and Dhawal, there were seven children in all — a lively company for play.
Ramayan serial and our first buy of TV
That was the time when the Ramayan television serial was at the peak of its popularity. Around the same time, Rameshbhai Oza’s Bhagwat discourses on TV also held people spellbound. In those days of cable TV, one could only watch what the cable operator chose to broadcast. On holidays, a Hindi movie would be shown.
We didn’t own a TV then, so in the evenings, Laxmi would go to Chhaganbhai’s house to watch television. If I returned from office early, I would join her. Chhaganbhai and Manjulaben were such simple, warm-hearted people — respectful yet affectionate. The two families often spent evenings together watching Ramayan or Rameshbhai Oza’s devotional talks, deeply absorbed in the spiritual experience.
On holidays, it became routine to have tea, snacks, or even meals together, taking turns at each other’s homes. It wasn’t until 1989 that we finally bought our own Crown black-and-white TV and a Voltas refrigerator — small but memorable milestones of those early days.
Education of Children
Intuition saved children
Next to our house was an open, undeveloped plot. One day, Laxmi was busy in the kitchen while Ujjval and Dhaval were playing with a ball outside. The ball bounced into the open plot, and the boys ran after it. Suddenly, an inner voice told Laxmi — “Your sons are in danger; what are you doing here?” Alarmed, she rushed outside — and couldn’t see the boys. Looking toward the neighboring plot, she saw a well — and inside, Ujjval and Dhaval were standing precariously on a narrow ledge just above the water, their ball floating below. A moment’s delay, and they could have fallen in. With presence of mind, Laxmi pulled them out — and a major accident was averted.
In 1987 (24 Sept to 2 October), during the first Navratri, our entire family went out to watch the garba. After making the rounds, we stopped by our friend Dr. Dinesh Pandya’s house. While we sat upstairs chatting, the children were playing below. Suddenly, we realized Dhaval was missing. He was just four years old.
We looked around the house and the surrounding area, but he was nowhere to be found. Panic set in. A thousand dreadful thoughts crossed our minds. As I was known as a strict officer, I even began fearing some retaliation or foul play. I immediately called my friend Anup Kumar Singh and informed him. He used the wireless network to alert all patrol vehicles and checkposts to begin a search.
Meanwhile, Dr. Dineshbhai Pandya prayed to Ambe Maa for Dhaval’s safety. Dahod being a small town, we had hoped to find him soon—but after two to three hours of searching, there was still no trace of him. Disheartened, we returned home late that night.
I went next door to wake up Chhaganbhai Balat, the Project Officer-cum-TDO, and told him what had happened. His wife, who had just woken up, said in surprise,
“But Dhaval came here long ago—he’s asleep at our house!”
Tears of relief streamed down our faces. Our dear Dhaval was safe. I immediately called Anup to inform him and thank him and his team for their help.
The next morning, we asked Dhawal,
“How did you come home from Dr. Dinesh uncle’s place?”
He replied innocently,
“I was getting bored there. I knew the way, so I walked home. When I found our house locked, I knocked on Chhagan Uncle’s door, and Aunty let me sleep inside.”
Fall and head injury to Dhawal
Two years later, in 1989, another frightening incident occurred with Dhaval. Our whole family was visiting Limkheda Taluka and staying overnight at the guest house. The next morning, while we were having breakfast in our room (tea and snacks lovingly sent by the Mamlatdar Pitambar Patel’s wife), the children—Ujjval (6½), Dhaval (4), and our 17-year-old nephew Suresh—were playing outside with a peon supervising them. Confident they were safe, we continued chatting in the room.
Moments later, the peon came running, shouting,
“Sir, come quickly! Dhawalbhai has fallen and is unconscious!”
We rushed out. Dhawal lay face-down on a patch of sand and gravel. We turned him over—he was unconscious, his mouth twisted to one side, and water-like fluid was flowing from his lips. Without wasting a second, we rushed him to Burhani Hospital in Dahod.
Our friend Dr. Dinesh Pandya’s colleague, Dr. Bharpoda, immediately began treatment—oxygen support, Dexamethasone injections, and emergency care. When I asked about his condition, the doctor said,
“We can’t say anything for the next 36 hours.”
We stayed by his side all night. When those 36 tense hours passed, Dhaval regained consciousness, sat up briefly, and fell asleep again. The next morning, he woke up normal—he could stand and walk—but when we spoke to him, he did not respond. He just stared blankly ahead.
The doctor suspected that the speech center in his brain might have been affected. After monitoring him for a day, Dr. Bharpoda advised us to take him to neurologist Dr. Pradyot Thakkar in Ahmedabad if his speech didn’t return.
That very night, around 10 PM, we left for Ahmedabad in the official jeep with a torn hood. I held Dhawal in my lap in the front seat, silently praying to Lord Hanuman for his protection. Laxmi sat behind, deeply anxious. The cold night air rushed through the jeep, chilling us to the bone—but somehow, Dhawal fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.
At dawn, we reached Dr. Thakkar’s clinic in Paldi. When we gently woke Dhawal, he began speaking again, talking normally as if nothing had happened. The doctor examined him thoroughly and said,
“Everything seems normal. There’s no need for further treatment. Just keep watch, and bring him back if any issue arises.”
It was truly God’s grace that Dhawal had recovered completely without lasting damage.
Later, we found out how the accident had happened.
Next to the guest house room was a staircase leading to the upper rooms. From there, one could climb onto a weather shade above the lower room’s window. The boys had been playing catch-me-if-you-can. Ujjwal, being more agile, managed to climb up and down safely several times. Dhawal, trying to imitate his elder brother, slipped and fell about 8-10 feet to the ground below. Fortunately, there was sand and gravel, which softened the impact.
That incident taught us a lifelong lesson — never to leave children unattended, no matter how safe things appear. As my mother used to say: “Chetata nar sukhi”
“The cautious live in peace;
the careless invite misfortune.”
My Batchmates Nearby
Two of my batchmates stayed in touch with me even after Dahod — Bijendra Kumar, who was the SDM of Alirajpur, my neighboring subdivision, and Radheshyam Julaniya, who served as SDM of Khargone, nearby. Together with our families, we once took a trip to Mandu and other nearby tourist spots — a truly memorable journey.
Friends
The Dahod police force was large—almost as big as the district headquarters’ unit—and the Sub-Divisional Police Officer (SDPO) held a position of equal importance. My batchmate Anup Kumar Singh (IPS) was the SDPO then. Being from the same batch, we shared a close friendship. Since he lived alone, he often came over to my house, played with my children, Ujjwal and Dhawal, and sometimes even took them on horseback rides when he brought his horse along. Our bond remained intact.
Hunaid often took Ujjwal and Dhawal for a ride on his Bajaj scooter, giving them joyful spins around Dahod, and would sometimes bring me Dahod’s famous paan as a treat. Dahod also had the renowned Kandoi sweet shop from Indore, whose chaavanu, mithu mixture, and dalmoth were irresistibly delicious.
His parents, Rabab and Najmuddin, loved me like their own son, and his sister Zabeen, his wife Nafisa, and his brothers treated me as a member of their family. Hunaid always kept that bond alive with deep affection. During the COVID pandemic in 2020, both he and his father passed away. The image of him, lying in a hospital bed in Vadodara, waving goodbye with an oxygen pipe in his nose, is one I can never forget.
Dr. Dinesh Pandya was one of my closest friends. He and his wife, Dr. Bhartiben, were both BAMS doctors, but they practiced allopathy with great skill. His father, Laxminarayan, was a gentle, old-world man who loved sharing stories from the past. My friendship with their family grew naturally.
Dr. Dineshbhai was soft-spoken and, much like my grandmother, would often sprinkle conversations with Sanskrit subhashitas and shlokas. With a wide circle of doctor friends, he kept himself updated on modern medical knowledge and became our family physician.
Whenever any of us had even a small ailment, he would rush over on his scooter, treat us at home, and for major issues, call Dr. Bharpoda for consultation. It was he who taught me how to give an injection on the gluteal muscle!
How could one ever forget the elderly vaidya, Shri Ram Sharma? He must have been around 87 years old then — thin, short in height, dressed in a shirt, trousers, and a white cap. He walked slowly, but his mind was sharp and alert.
Since I had a fondness for Ayurveda, I often discussed pure herbs with him and would sometimes take a few of his specially prepared powders (churna). He used to say,
“Heart disease is a disorder of vayu (air), and vayu is our life force — pran vayu.”
He believed that the electric current flowing through the heart is nothing but the name of Lord Ram. So, he would say,
“Those from whom Ram has turned away are the ones who suffer from heart disease.”
For him, the chanting of Ram’s name was not just spiritual—it was the most powerful medicine (rambaan ilaaj) for heart ailments, along with Ayurvedic remedies.
Stayed Connected
Over time, I met many people in Dahod, but Dr. Dinesh Pandya, Hunaid Jambughodawala, and Hasmukhbhai Chaudhary remained my lifelong friends. Hunaid and his father Najmuddin passed away during the COVID pandemic in 2020, yet my connection with their family remains alive to this day. Hasmukhbhai later moved to Vadodara, so whenever I visit Dahod now, I make it a point to meet Dr. Dineshbhai and Hunaid’s family.
There were others too—Harshad Soni, Fakruddin Dhilawala, his daughter Insiya and son-in-law Moez, former mayor Gopalbhai Dhanka, ex–district panchayat president Kishorbhai Taviad, and former MLA Lalitkumar Patel. Whenever we meet or talk today, it feels as if those forty-year-old memories have come alive again.
The younger generation—like Jashwantsinh Bhabhor—still shows deep respect. Badiyabhai’s son, Pravin Gondhiya, became an IPS officer and served the State well. Fakruddinbhai’s son-in-law Moez, who runs a dal mill in Dahod, still refuses to take payment whenever I order pulses from him—out of affection and respect.
And Hasmukhbhai’s in-laws from Indore used to make an incomparable sweet mango pickle—a delicacy I can never forget. I’ve never tasted mango pickle that delicious ever again.
Pay back to Dahod
Many years later, in 2016, when I was Additional Chief Secretary (Urban Development), I made a special effort in Delhi to get my beloved Dahod selected as a Smart City. Using the grant funds received under that program, the municipality spent ₹117 crore to develop the lake with solid embankments, gardens, and public spaces, turning the area into a beautiful, scenic landmark.
To repay my debt of gratitude to Dahod, when I later served as Additional Chief Secretary, Health and Family Welfare, I established a medical college and hospital there under the Brownfield Project in 1989, with the support of Zydus.
What was once a small cottage hospital with only 20–25 staff members and 5–7 doctors later became Civil Hospital when Dahod was made a district and had staff of about 100 was transformed into a full-fledged medical college and hospital — complete with specialists, modern equipment, medical facilities, and diagnostic systems.
Today, Dahod Zydus Hospital serves not only its own district but also patients from neighboring districts and even from the bordering states of Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan, fulfilling a long-held dream for quality healthcare in the region.
We lived in Dahod for two years and even after 36 years, every single moment spent there remains as vivid and alive in my memory as ever.
23 October 2025
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