The Pans · The Salt Road · Pulse Beat
In the morning Mohan took them out to see the work, because he did not know how to say what it was. The land of the salt pans lies flat to the horizon, a white plain broken into squares, each a…
In the morning Mohan took them out to see the work, because he did not know how to say what it was.
The land of the salt pans lies flat to the horizon, a white plain broken into squares, each a shallow pool of brine, shining like a thousand mirrors under a sky so wide that it presses on the eyes. Women in bright dupattas moved across it, bent, raking. The heat was a hammer.
"It starts in October," said Mohan. "We let the sea in at the creek. The sun does the rest. Eight months, and it turns to this." He crouched and showed them a crust, a white crystal skin as thick as a coin. He broke it and held it out. "Taste."
Kavita touched it to her tongue. It tasted of the sea and of iron, and, absurdly, of every summer of her childhood.
"Papa used to say salt is the only thing people kill each other over and the only thing they cannot live without," said Jayesh, from behind them.
"He said that to me every day for fifteen years," said Mohan. He stood. "I don't want to sell. But I don't want him to die in a field, either. I don't know which is worse."