**Chapter 10: The March Gains Its Voice**
The sun climbed high over the Gujarat countryside on the second day of the Dandi March proper, turning the dusty track into a river of white khadi. Krishna Devrai walked at the rear of the growing column—now nearly two hundred strong after yesterday's ashram diversion—his bruised arm throbbing under the sling a fellow satyagrahi had fashioned from torn cloth. At nineteen, his body protested the relentless pace, yet Vijay Suri's mind mapped every mile: the route he had studied in classified 2025 archives, the villages where support would swell, the British countermeasures already unfolding. The arrest of his father Ramchandra Devrai the previous dawn weighed like an anchor, but Aarti's unyielding spirit—now under house arrest yet secretly organizing—spurred him forward. His brothers in London remained oblivious; Meera's two children played in distant safety. The Devrai family's fall from zamindar privilege into open resistance had become the march's unspoken fuel.
Gandhi led from the front, staff in hand, simple dhoti fluttering, Sarojini Naidu and Chhaganlal Joshi flanking him with quiet coordination. Pyarelal Nayyar and Mahadev Desai moved among the ranks, chronicling every step. Krishna's forty-six—now forty-eight after two more roadside recruits—formed the disciplined rear guard, bamboo staffs tapping rhythmically, chants rising in waves. Suresh's deep voice anchored the hymns; Mohan's intellectual fire kept morale sharp; Laxman's frail frame inspired awe; Ramesh and Ratan walked as brothers forged in fire. The situational impact of the ashram raid rippled through them all: bruises as badges, Pitaji's chains as rallying cry.
"Rest at the next peepal grove," Krishna called softly. The column halted in a shaded cluster of trees near the village of Ras, midday heat shimmering. Villagers poured out—over three hundred, drawn by rumors of the "young zamindar's son who defied the raid." Krishna's oratory had preceded them; word of the eastern diversion spread like wildfire.
Gandhi approached, eyes kind yet probing. "Krishna beta, walk with me a moment." They moved to a quiet patch under the tree, away from the crowd. Sarojini Naidu watched from afar, her poet's gaze noting the young leader's poise. "Your fever in the haveli… it gave you visions, you said. Tell me truly—what do you see for this march? Not just salt, but the long road after Dandi."
The question tested Krishna to his core. Future knowledge flooded him—Quit India, Partition, independence in 1947—but he framed it as "patterns from deep study," voice humble. "Bapu, I see millions rising. The salt law breaks, then the forest laws, then the empire itself. Villages like mine will boil salt freely; women like my Ma will lead circles. Technology will come—machines for the people, not the Raj—but first, truth-force wins hearts in London and America. International eyes will turn. Your arrest will not end it; it will multiply us."
Gandhi studied him, the conversation intimate and profound. "You speak as one who has walked the road already. The fever was a guru, then. Use it wisely, beta. Lead the rear speeches today. Your words move the simple ryot as mine move the world." Praise from the Mahatma landed like sunlight—Gandhi's hand on his shoulder a benediction that would echo in every future history. The impact on Krishna: renewed purpose amid family loss, his convincing power now officially endorsed.
As the column resumed, Krishna took the rear platform in Ras village square. Hundreds gathered, children on shoulders, women at the edges. "Brothers and sisters!" His voice rang clear, laced with PMO-honed strategy and personal fire. "Yesterday, they arrested my father, the zamindar Ramchandra Devrai, for funding truth. My mother Aarti stands under house arrest yet boils salt in secret. Look at my brothers here—Suresh, whose shoulder took the lathi without striking back; Mohan, who left his school for this school of freedom. Salt is not just grains; it is the taste of dignity. Join us—one man, one woman—and Dandi becomes yours!"
Detailed conversations followed in clusters. A fisherwoman shared how the tax took her husband's boat; Krishna knelt, listening, then wove her story into the next chant. Suresh spoke man-to-man with ryots: "My wife's tears sent me. Yours will send you." Mohan read smuggled pamphlets aloud. Twenty-three more joined by afternoon—column swelled to two hundred seventy. Sarojini Naidu approached later, voice warm with poetic admiration. "Young leader, your rear guard is the column's spine. Chhaganlal-ji says your discipline rivals the chosen seventy-eight." Real Congress leaders—Naidu, Joshi—praised him openly, the process of becoming the great leader accelerating with every mile.
By evening camp, a courier slipped through British lines with a coded letter from the haveli. Aarti's hand, shaky but defiant: *Beta, they arrested your Pitaji but could not break me. House arrest, yet the dawai room now holds ten women boiling salt at night. The children of the village call me 'Satyagrahi Ma.' Your father sends strength from jail. Meera writes secretly—her children safe. Brothers in London must not worry. March on. We hold the hearth.*
Tears stung Krishna's eyes as he read fragments to his inner circle around the campfire. Suresh's voice broke. "Your Ma… organizing like a general. My wife will hear and do the same." The situational impact transformed the men: personal family courage mirroring national resolve. Laxman led a bhajan; Ramesh vowed deeper loyalty. Ratan spoke of his wife Lata's impending birth: "Her salt will taste of this march."
Night deepened. British campfires glowed on the horizon—Viceroy Irwin's forces shadowing them, reports of lathi charges in nearby districts filtering in. Krishna lay awake, full historical recall guiding silent plans: the march would reach Dandi in twenty-four days, arrests would ignite the revolution. But a scout's whisper broke the quiet: "Bhai, British reinforcements at the next river. They target you specifically—'the Devrai boy who inspires too well.'"