The Salted Days - Day 5

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The Salted Days – Day Five

Kankapura to Kareli | 7 January 2026

I woke up well rested, the mind already awake with thoughts before the body followed. I missed writing my usual Ram Ram the previous day, so I wrote some this morning instead. Hot tea arrived in a small cardboard cup, which I gulped with quiet delight.

As I put on my footwear, I found myself smiling inwardly—deep gratitude for my feet and for shoes that had carried me this far without complaint. I changed shoes today; we were to cross the river by boat and might have to wade through mud. We decided to have early breakfast before leaving and Poha and milky coffee set the tone for the morning. Everyone stood together to have a group photograph taken with our life jackets on. 

I decided to observe silence for as long as possible. It was not very successful. For a talkative man, silence is a discipline, not a state—but the attempt mattered.

We walked about 600 metres on a concrete village path before slipping into a trail that led us to the banks of the Mahi River. Jackals howled in the distance. Soft sand underfoot, a banyan tree behind us, and a slightly forested riverbank ahead—it felt like the land was enveloping us in its fold. I had learnt the river was full because of Amavasya which had passed a few days back. What lay ahead was uncertain.

We were late by a few minutes. That made all the difference.

The river had swollen, and the patch we were meant to cross on foot was now nearly chest-deep. Our feet sank into cold, slushy water. The boat could not reach us—it was too shallow for it. We could not reach the boat—it was too deep for us. So we sat on the banks, muddy, wet, and mildly amused but concerned.

And then decided to do when we had nothing to do - take photographs. What followed was comedy in slow motion. There were to and fro calls with the boatman. We had to convince him to pick us up and cross the river. While we waited for the final coordination some of us wanted our feet clean. So, we walked a short distance to a villagers hut nearby to clean our feet and then walked back to dirty them again before we could wear our footwear. 

Finally, the decision was made to walk four kilometres downstream to Badalpur, where the boatman agreed to pick us up. Since we had worn our life jackets early in the morning, we now found ourselves walking through villages in flip-flops and bright fluorescent orange jackets. Villagers stared. Cattle scattered. Dogs chased us. We hadn’t entered the river, but we had certainly made an entrance. Without doubt, the joke of the day.

At Badalpur, the boatman waved frantically for us to hurry—the water was already receding. We scrambled into a fifteen-foot wooden boat, clay-caked feet and all. Some of us sat on the floor, others perched on thin planks laid across the width. The boat swayed with every nervous shift. The boatman shouted warnings. The boat pitched, rolled, yawed and cut diagonally across the river. Landlubbers attempting three-dimensional movement.

We looked like illegal refugees trying to flee from one place seeking asylum on the other bank. Some people fell silent. Others talked nonstop. Both were clear signs of suppressed panic. 

Then the engine sputtered. Once. Twice. And stopped—right in the middle of the river.

A ghostly silence. Then a collective chorus: “Kya hua? Kya hua?” The boatman was unperturbed. He opened the fuel tank cap, blew into it, restarted the engine. An air lock. The collective sigh of relief that followed was almost musical. The forty-five-minute ride slowly settled into calm conversation. The 7 kms ride across the river is a story in itself. 

When land finally appeared on the other side, relief came again—this time quietly. The boat entered a shallow estuary, crawled forward, and then ran aground. We stumbled out into knee-deep water. Muddy feet once more.

We were received by the Yatri Niwas in-charge and an NCC representative with garlands. Simple villagers smiled broadly as they welcomed strangers. It was a poignant moment. An astonishing fact emerged—no group walking the Dandi Path in the last ten years or more had crossed the Mahi by boat. Everyone had gone around by road.

We walked onward through village paths lined with cows and buffaloes. At Madhavpur, primary school children stopped us, showering rose petals. A tea break followed, then a walk through villages where cattle stood tethered outside every home.

As we approached the Yatri Niwas at Kareli, patriotic songs blared from a large music system. Children from the adjacent school stood in neat lines, waiting. Inside the complex were the recently constructed rooms of the Yatri Niwas while just across stood two dilapidated huts—one where Gandhiji stayed on 20 March 1930, and another where he met Nehru. Their condition was heartbreaking. Why do we struggle so much and not preserve what matters most?

Lunch was hot and comforting—rotis, rice, dal, mixed vegetables, papad, stuffed green chillies, and masala chaas. With stomachs full and spirits high, we waited for our luggage vehicle, which had travelled nearly sixty kilometres by road to reach us.

Once the bags arrived, the Yatri Niwas transformed into a dhobi ghat. Clothes were washed, lines strung, and a hot bath followed. Soon, silence descended. Bodies rested. Minds exhaled. A full afternoon stretched ahead—rare and precious.

Tomorrow we walk toward Amod. Another long day—but we are rested now, muscles tuned, and more than one-third of the journey complete.

A small joke lingered through the day: since the Daily Route Coordinator forgot the morning fruit, a new role has been proposed—F’route’ Coordinator.

Lessons of the day:

You may not change the world—but still, be the change you wish to see.

And as someone said while we discussed Gandhiji on that boat: Every flower will blossom at its own pace. Even Gandhiji’s life was exactly that.

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