Chapter 16: The Road Gets Harder**
The sun rose on the twelfth day like a hot iron pressed against the sky. Krishna Devrai stood at the edge of the camp near Borsad, rubbing his tired eyes. The night had been short and restless. His back still hurt from the lathi blows two nights ago. The purple bruises felt warm under his thin khadi shirt, but he did not complain. Around him, the column of more than six hundred satyagrahis was slowly waking up. Some stretched their sore legs. Others folded their thin blankets and tied them on their backs. The air smelled of wood smoke from the dying campfires and the sweet rotis being cooked on flat iron pans.
Krishna looked at his Devrai Guard. They were his family now, closer than blood. Suresh was already on his feet, sharpening the end of his bamboo staff with a small stone. His face was serious. "Bhai, your back looks worse today. Sit down. I will rub some mustard oil on it before we start walking."
Krishna smiled weakly and sat on a flat rock. "Pain is only pain, Suresh. It will pass. But the real pain is thinking about Karim. He is in their hands because of me. Those notes he carried… if the British read them, they will know everything about our haveli, about Aarti's secret circles, about the money my father hid."
Suresh poured a little oil into his palm and gently rubbed Krishna's back. The touch was rough but kind. "Karim chose this, bhai. He said your words changed him from a spy into a true satyagrahi. We all chose this road. Even if they torture him, the truth cannot be locked away forever."
Mohan came over, adjusting his new spectacles. The bandage on his shoulder from the last raid was still fresh. He carried a small tin cup of tea made from the last of the village jaggery. "Here, drink this. It is sweet. The new recruits from the coast keep repeating your speech from the night of the raid. They call you the 'young voice of salt.' One boy, Raju from Khambhat, told me he joined only because he heard you say, 'Truth multiplies.' He said it gave him courage to leave his fishing boat."
Krishna took the cup and sipped slowly. The warm sweetness spread through his chest. In his mind, the reborn Vijay Suri remembered a different world – a world of airplanes, fast trains, and news that travelled in seconds on glowing screens. But here, in 1930, news travelled by word of mouth, by tired feet, and by simple speeches under lantern light. He had to be careful. He could not speak of the future he knew. He could only use it to guide them without anyone guessing the truth.
Old Laxman hobbled up, leaning on a stick. He was frail, but his eyes were bright. "Beta, I slept well last night because of your words. You made us feel like one big family. My old bones ache, but my heart is strong. Today I will walk without help."
Ramesh and Ratan joined them, carrying fresh rotis wrapped in banana leaves. Ratan's face lit up when he spoke. "Bhai, last night I dreamed of my son Satya. He was taking his first steps on the banks of the Ganga back in Patna. By the time we reach Dandi and make our salt, he will be running. And he will run on soil that belongs to us, not the British. That dream keeps my feet moving."
Ramesh nodded and handed Krishna a roti. "My sister sent a message through a villager yesterday. Aarti behen is still under house arrest, but she has started two more women's circles in the haveli godown. They spin khadi at night and pray for us. She says your name is like a lamp for them. The dowry money we sent before leaving has bought three new spinning wheels."
Krishna felt a lump in his throat. He thought of his mother Aarti, alone in the big haveli, teaching village girls to read by the light of a single lantern while British guards stood outside. He thought of his father Ramchandra in the harsher jail in Yerwada, smiling through the bars even when they beat him. He thought of Meera's little children – Satya and the baby girl – now in British custody in Surat, taken "for safety." The telegram still burned in his pocket like a live coal. Every step he took was for them, but the weight of it made his chest tight.
The reborn part of him, Vijay Suri, knew exactly what was coming. In a few days, Gandhi and the top leaders would be arrested. The British would try to crush the march. But non-violence would win in the end. He could not tell his friends this. He could only lead them with calm words and steady feet.
By the time the sun climbed higher, the whole column was ready. Six hundred and fifty now, because twenty more villagers from Borsad had joined after hearing about the raid. They carried empty earthen pots on their heads, ready to fill them with salt from the sea. The front ranks began to sing "Vande Mataram." The sound rose like a wave, rolling across the dusty fields. Krishna walked at the front with Gandhi and the other leaders, but he kept looking back to make sure his Guard was safe.
The road stretched ahead, narrow and hot. Dust rose with every footstep. Krishna's feet were blistered and bleeding again. Each step sent a sharp pain up his legs, but he kept walking. He remembered his solo ride to Khambhat only days ago – how the horse had galloped under the stars and how he had felt unstoppable. Now he was just one among many, but his words had become a banner.
They passed through two small villages before midday. In the first one, women stood along the path with brass pots of buttermilk. One elderly woman, her face wrinkled like dry river mud, stopped Krishna. She pressed a small cloth bag into his hands. "Beta, this is salt we made in secret last night. It is illegal, but it is ours. Your mother's courage in Patna gives us strength. Take it to Dandi and show the British that Gujarat women also fight."
Krishna took the bag with both hands and bowed his head. "Thank you, aunty. This salt is worth more than gold. When we reach the sea, I will remember your hands that made it."
The woman's eyes filled with tears. She touched his cheek like a mother. "Go safely. We are praying for you and your family."
In the second village, children ran out with garlands of marigold and jasmine. They hung them around the necks of the marchers. One little girl, no more than six, looked up at Krishna with big eyes. "Uncle, are you the boy who spoke against the raid? My father said you saved Bapu."
Krishna knelt so he was at her height. "Yes, beta. But I did not save him alone. All of us together saved the march. Will you give me your blessing?"
The girl smiled and placed a small flower in his hand. The simple act filled Krishna with new energy. These were the real people of India – farmers, mothers, children – who had nothing but courage.
At midday they stopped under a cluster of mango trees for rest. The shade was a blessing. Krishna climbed onto a large flat rock so everyone could see him. More than four hundred marchers gathered close. The air was still and hot. Flies buzzed around the water pots. Krishna wiped sweat from his forehead and began to speak. His voice was clear and simple, the way Vijay Suri knew would reach hearts.
"Brothers and sisters, look at your hands. They are empty today. But in a few days, at Dandi, those same hands will hold the salt that belongs to India. The British made a law that says we cannot make our own salt. They tax us for something God gave us free. Today we say no. Not with guns. Not with anger. We say no with love and truth.
My father is in jail. My mother is under house arrest. My sister's small children are locked away in Surat by the British who say it is 'for safety.' I feel the pain every mile. But I keep walking because I know one handful of salt from the sea will break every chain. Truth multiplies. Courage spreads. Join us. Walk with us. When we reach Dandi, the whole world will see that India is awake."
The words came from deep inside – part Krishna the zamindar's son, part Vijay Suri who remembered how history books would one day call this the Salt March that shook an empire. The crowd listened in complete silence. Then a roar went up. Men raised their hands. Women wiped tears. Fifty more villagers stepped forward on the spot and joined the column. The number grew to seven hundred.
Suresh clapped Krishna on the shoulder after the speech. "Bhai, every time you speak, it feels like Bapu himself is talking through you. The new people are saying your name like a prayer."
Mohan smiled. "And you did not even use big words. You spoke like one of us. That is why they believe."
The afternoon march was slower because of the heat. Krishna walked beside old Laxman, holding his arm when the old man stumbled. "Laxman kaka, if it is too much, we can make a small stretcher."
Laxman shook his head. "No, beta. I left my village to see the sea. I will walk every step. Your stories keep me young. Tell me again about your mother's letters."
Krishna told him softly while they walked. He described how Aarti wrote secret notes hidden inside the pages of the Gita, how she taught village girls to read even when the British warned her. The story gave Laxman strength. Ramesh and Ratan walked behind, sharing their own hopes. Ratan spoke about the first time Satya called him "Baba." Ramesh told how his sister's dowry had changed from a wedding expense to money for freedom work.
As the sun began to set, turning the sky orange and gold, they reached the next camping ground – a wide field beside a dry riverbed. The marchers set up quickly. Small fires were lit. Rotis were cooked. Wounds were cleaned with boiled water. Krishna gathered his Devrai Guard in a tight circle away from the main group. The lantern light flickered on their tired faces.
They talked for a long time. Suresh spoke about his own brother who had been beaten in a previous protest. "He still limps, but he smiles when he hears about this march. He says the Devrai name is now known in every village from Patna to the coast."
Mohan quoted a simple line from Tagore: "Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark." Then he added his own words. "Last night's raid was our darkness. Today's walk is the first light."
Old Laxman led a short prayer. His voice cracked but it was full of feeling. Everyone bowed their heads. Ratan spoke again about Satya, his voice thick. "If they take my boy the way they took Meera's children, I will still walk. But I pray every night that Satya grows up knowing we stood when others sat down."
Krishna listened to every word. The situational impact of twelve days on the road had changed them all. Bruises had become badges. Tired feet had become a shared story. The Devrai name was no longer just a zamindar family from Patna – it was a banner that gave hope to strangers.
After the prayer, Krishna stood up. He needed to walk alone for a few minutes to clear his mind. He moved to the edge of the field where the riverbed was dry and cracked. The stars were coming out, sharp and bright. In his future life as Vijay Suri, he had seen cities lit up at night with electric lights and cars rushing on smooth roads. Here there was only starlight and the soft sound of people singing bhajans around the fires.
He whispered to the dark, "I know what is coming. The arrests are only days away. Gandhi will be taken. The leaders will be locked up. The British will think they have stopped us. But I also know we will keep going. Give me strength to stay on the path of non-violence. Do not let me use the weapons I remember from another time."
A soft footstep made him turn. It was Suresh. "Bhai, the tea is ready. Come back. We need you with us."
They walked back together. Just as they reached the circle, a scout came running out of the darkness. His clothes were dusty and his breath came in short gasps. He had run all the way from the forward post. He handed Krishna a small folded paper.
Krishna opened it under the lantern light. The note was from one of the Congress contacts ahead. It said: "British mounted police and two lorries are now only five miles away. They are moving parallel to us. Orders from Inspector Thorne say to watch the Devrai Guard especially. A bigger raid may come soon. Stay ready."
Krishna read the words twice. His heart beat faster, but his face stayed calm. He folded the note and looked at his friends. "The British are closer now. They are watching us like shadows. But we are not afraid. We rest tonight. Tomorrow we walk with even more care. Non-violence is our shield and our sword."
The Guard nodded. No one spoke much after that. They finished their simple meal of roti and dal. Wounds were bandaged again. Blankets were spread on the hard ground.
Krishna lay down last. He kept the Gita under his head and the telegram about Meera's children close to his heart. The lantern beside him flickered low. Its glass was still cracked from the night of the raid, but the flame inside burned steady.
Sleep came slowly. In his half-dreams he saw his father's face behind bars, his mother teaching in secret, Meera's children crying in a strange room in Surat. He saw the sea at Dandi waiting with its white salt crust. And he saw the British coming closer, their lanterns swinging in the dark.
But when sleep finally took him, it was deep. The road had grown harder, but so had their hearts. Tomorrow would bring more miles, more pain, and more hope. The British were watching, but the march was growing. And in the quiet Gujarat night, the small lantern beside Krishna Devrai kept burning – small, cracked, but unbreakable.