The Salted Days - Day 7

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The Salted Days – Day Seven

Amod to Samni| 9 January 2026

An easy start today. An upbeat mood. The kind that one enjoys with friends. Breakfast was a delicious poha, accompanied—as always—by our reassuringly small cups of tea. The day began with bhajans, their familiar tunes gently aligning breath and mind. It was my turn to recite a few shlokas before we set off. Faith, I am learning, is a steady driver. Among us, there was a shared, unspoken understanding: divine blessings and protection are non-negotiable when one is walking long distances, day after day.

We stepped out into a misty morning, greeted by a sun that was pleasant rather than assertive. As I slipped on my headphones, the first stotram that played—almost mischievously—was Aditya Hrudayam. Coincidence? Perhaps. But the universe does seem to enjoy these small winks. So do I. You’ve heard that before, right? Another coincidence.

Having missed the turning towards Nahiyer, we retraced our steps a bit—some irritation, some laughs. We turned off onto a village road to bypass the settlement. Just a quiet correction. A three-kilometre walk along a narrow path flanked by fields brought us back onto the road towards Buva. By around 9 a.m., we crossed Buva village and continued towards Kervada, cotton fields stretching calmly on either side, indifferent to our milestones and musings.

A Farmhouse Interlude at Kervada

At Kervada, a surprise awaited us. We were invited into the home of Kishore Singh Rathore, a farmer cultivating moong, toor, and moth ki dal. The house—an expansive, beautifully maintained farmhouse—was a lesson in understated abundance. Chairs and charpoys had been arranged on a manicured lawn, and as we settled in, our modest breakfast of two boiled eggs each was served.

But that was only the beginning. Soon came gari—a local sweet reminiscent of badushahi, but with a rich khoya filling—followed by a milk sweet akin to kalakand, and tea so sweet it bordered on indulgence. A thoroughly saccharine break, in every sense. The generosity—the sheer largeness of heart—was humbling. It may also, we joked, reflect later as a corresponding largeness of tummy when we return home.

We were shown around the house, palatial yet practical, fitted with modern conveniences. A decorated cart on the property quickly transformed into a selfie point. Laughter flowed easily. Hospitality here was so natural. 

Poetic Quips

As we prepared to move on, someone pointed out that our next turning was near a poultry farm. One smart Alec immediately quipped, “After egg—next is a leg.” ( meaning chicken) Without missing a beat, another added, “Along with a peg.”

Egg–Leg–Peg.

Apparently, poets walk among us—even when they don’t know it.

At 10:40 a.m., after a leisurely break, we set out again—and promptly missed the poultry farm turning. A bit of confusion, some friendly directions, from a local and soon we were back on track, heading towards Samni via the villages of Samiyala and Sudi.

Walking through village roads where sheep sat quietly tied under leafy shade was deeply calming. Watching them chew the cud, unhurried and utterly present, one almost believes there are no worries in the world. Or perhaps that worries are entirely optional.

We paused briefly after crossing a canal past Samiyala. Interestingly, as the sun climbed higher, so did the depth of conversations. Soon, we passed a helipad under construction beside the massive solar farm of KP Green. I smiled inwardly, pleased to see my modest investment of fifty shares being put to visibly good use.

We stopped at Green School, Sudi, where NCC cadets from Bharuch had come to receive us. A short water break followed, smiles exchanged, photographs taken. With less than an hour of walking left, our pace naturally quickened.

On entering Samni, we were guided to the village school—and what awaited us there was a revelation. Once a year, the school organises Anand Mela. Students set up food stalls, selling items prepared at home. Every plate—uniformly priced at ₹10. The enthusiasm was electric. Children hawked their wares with the confidence of seasoned entrepreneurs. One insisted I taste before buying—an irresistible sales tactic that worked instantly.

There were dhoklas, chilli pakodas, khichdi, bhel puri, puri-chana, chaas—and, predictably, the longest queue was at the Maggi stall, run by a particularly savvy young vendor. Teachers proudly explained how this mela introduces children to the basics of money handling and enterprise. For the first time, it felt like we wanted photographs with the children, rather than the other way around.

Accompanied by the lady sarpanch, we made our way to the Yatri Niwas where we would stay the night. Tiny tots from the Anganwadi greeted us with flowers—a welcome that needed no words.

Shoes came off. Bodies stretched. Lunch arrived: soft rotis, aloo-gobhi sabzi, pickles, sweet dal, salad, and rice. Predictably, we overate. Again.

The afternoon was devoted to bathing and washing. Room allocations had their own comic undertone—those with attached bathrooms couldn’t use them because everyone else had commandeered those spaces. Baths, they decided, could wait until night.

Today’s tally: a relaxed 22.5 kilometres, nearly 31,000 steps. We crossed the 200-kilometre mark of the nearly 400 planned. Eight days still to go.

Verses That Are Walking With Us

What struck me today was how conversations have evolved. They are shorter now, but deeper. Less chatter, more content. Relationships. Needs versus wants. Lines from philosophical poems. The road seems to be stripping away the unnecessary, leaving only what matters.

Three sets of verses surfaced today—quoted by the poets in our group. The precise context may have slipped away, but the messages remain powerful.

“Panth ki Pehchan” — Harivansh Rai Bachchan

A quiet yet forceful reminder that a path is not defined by slogans, flags, or proclamations, but by the feet that walk it. Bachchan suggests that identity is shaped not by the crowd watching, but by the resolve of those who keep moving despite fatigue, uncertainty, or solitude. The panth reveals itself only through persistence. Until then, it remains almost anonymous.

“Pushp ki Abhilasha” — Makhanlal Chaturvedi

Written against the backdrop of India’s freedom struggle, this poem gives voice to a flower that wishes not to be admired or worshipped, but to be offered at the feet of the Motherland in a moment of sacrifice. Patriotism here is not loud—it is tender, purposeful, and self-effacing. The flower seeks neither glory nor remembrance, only usefulness when the nation calls.

From Kurukshetra — Ramdhari Singh Dinkar

क्षमा शोभती उस भुजंग को

जिसके पास गरल हो।

उसको क्या जो दंतहीन,

विषरहित, विनीत, सरल हो॥

Dinkar reminds us that Forgiveness has dignity only in the one who has the power to harm.

Just as restraint is admirable in a serpent because it has venom, mercy is meaningful only when it comes from strength. What value does forgiveness have in someone who has no fangs, no poison, no power to strike, and is harmless by nature?

Forgiveness is a virtue only when one is capable of punishment but consciously chooses restraint. Without power, forgiveness is not moral greatness—it is helplessness.

Another day done. The road continues quietly teaching, gently stripping, steadily shaping us.

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