Ryah’s Home

Dandi, India

April 5, 1930

    I woke up to the sound of fans cheering and chanting, “Gandhi! Gandhi! Gandhi!” The stomping of people’s feet drowned out the sound of my mom cooking breakfast. The usual sound of metal to ceramic was completely gone when the crowd of marchers passed right by my house. I jumped out of bed and put on my kurta. I ran downstairs and set the table quickly before I got yelled at by my mom. My older brother - Devon (Devvi for short) - had not woken up yet. I sighed and went back up to get him out of his bed.

    I opened the door harshly. I saw Devon roll over on his mattress. His leg was sticking out of the blanket. I made up my mind to wake him up by kicking his leg. I lifted up the hem of my kurta and stuck my left leg up, in the posture to kick. My foot shot out fast and I made contact with his right calf.

    “Ouch! What the heck?” Devon yelled, “What was that for?”

    “Watch your language,” my mom called up from the bottom of the staircase.

    “Time for you to wake up!” I choked out between laughs.

    “Ryah? What did you do?” my mom called up again.

    “Nothing!” I answered her.

    “What do you mean nothing?” Devvi hissed at me under his breath.

    I shrugged. “Ma is cooking breakfast downstairs already. Come eat after you change, okay?”

    I slowly walked back downstairs, a sweet smell wafting around in the cool air of our petite house. I headed over to the kitchen counter and poured goat milk into my mug. I put some fried breadsticks on my plate. I sat down on a circular straw ground mat. I bit into…

    “Ma? Why are the breadsticks not salty?” I asked, turning to face my mom, who was impatiently tapping her foot waiting for my brother to come down. I tried not to look too disgusted because of the breadsticks.

    Some late passersby who were trying to catch Gandhi chanted, “Gandhi, Gandhi, Gandhi!” They waved around some posters that read “No tax on salt!” Those people ran after a huge and fading crowd in the distance. My mother politely waited for them to pass before speaking.

    “The British put a heavy tax on salt. We require salt for almost everything we cook. Unfortunately, we have not been able to afford any.”

    Then why are the British taxing us in the first place?”

    “There are numerous reasons why, but the main one is that they want everyone to obey them.”

    “It’s not fair!” I bursted out.

    “I know honey,” my mom said to me, “But, that is why Gandhi and a bunch 

    and a bunch of people are marching outside!”

    “Are they trying to lower the tax on salt just by marching?” I asked curiously.

    “Yes. They are going to make their own salt!” my mom answered excitedly. She sat down once she saw Devon coming down from the stairs. She picked up a breadstick and slowly chewed on it. As Devon made his way over to the arrangement on the floor, I finished my last bite of unsalty breadsticks (which was absolutely not my mother’s fault).

    “You better eat up,” I said to my brother.

    “Why?” he asked me.

    My mother explained to Devon. “We are going to join Gandhi's march for salt. Three miles of walking to get to the coast okay?”

    Devon nodded and obediently finished up his food. Once he was done, I collected all the dishes and put them in the sink. The three of us rushed out the door to catch up to the group. We chased them down two alleys until we got to the back of the group. My mother started to chant along with the crowd. We soon joined her, our voices ringing throughout the small village.

    “Gandhi, Gandhi, Gandhi!”

    Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of green. It was hard to tell what it was, so I ignored it for the time being. But throughout the course of the first mile, I could not stop thinking about what I saw. I knew something was wrong about

the unmakeable thing, but I wasn’t sure what.

    “Just don’t think about it,” I repeated over and over to myself in my head, “Just don’t think about it.”

    I marched on. An hour larter, I started to drag my feet. My ankles ached. My back was hunched. My entire body was numb from walking. I didn’t even know how much we had left. We were in the middle of a sandy village. It was fairly small like ours, but with a lot less houses. It wasn’t promising that we would meet the ocean soon. I looked to my right. Devon and my mother were all out of breath from chanting and walking.

    “Ma? How much longer?” I asked.

    “I’m not sure, but I hope we get there soon!” she said, acting fake cheerful.

    I decided not to complain like a baby. I sighed and kept walking. Another flash of green - like the same one I saw earlier - caught my eye. This time, it took longer for it to disappear. I made out a badge that was red, white, and blue. I couldn’t tell what the design was though. I was more worried than ever. Could that possibly be a British flag on the badge? That thought made me want to puke right on the street. I was electrified. Could someone really be stalking us? I wasn’t sure. I pushed my thoughts aside and walked forward.

    One step… two steps… three steps…

    I wanted to give up. Wanted to pass out now. But, I knew I had to go on. After what felt like 800,000 miles, I finally saw a palm tree.