Salt of the Earth

by Rithika Baruah (India)

I didn't expect to find India

Barefoot and cold, I decided to stop and rest for a bit. I was walking in the desert for an hour now. I sat on the ground, picked up a piece of the earth and ate it. The salt was on point. The Great Rann of Kutch is a salt desert that stretches up to four thousand square miles in what is called the 'wild west' of India. I looked around at the vast expanse of nothingness against the backdrop of an orange sunset at the horizon. It occurred to me that even if I shouted here at the top of my voice, no one would hear me. And yet, if Kutch was a pizza cut into four slices, The Great Rann would be just one slice. I chuckled. "I must be hungry", I thought to myself. It was time to head back to Dhordo, the last inhabited village near the White Rann. I stood up and had only placed one foot forward when I found myself covered knee deep in black muck. The unique feature of this mystical desert is that it turns into a wetland filled with water during monsoon. This was January. It was supposed to be peak winter but climate change had impacted this region and it had rained a couple of days ago. While the entire top layer was covered with pristine and luminous white salt crystals, which is what you see in travelogues; only about a centimeter underneath, the place was filled with marsh muddy dark black soil. Interestingly, what I would find out next about Kutch is that beneath the surface of a heavenly abode for tourists lies the dark history and reality of the natives living there. Year 2001 had seen a devastating earthquake in the region that killed almost twenty thousand people and injured ten times the number of people. I, and everyone else, had heard about the development narrative that followed the tragedy claiming that cultural tourism brought back the economic development of the region with people earning as much as their counterparts in bigger cities of India. When I dug deeper, I unearthed the muck beneath the salt. Our local host, Bharmal Bhai has been selflessly working with folk musicians of the region since more than a decade now through his social venture to revive the rich tradition of 'Reyaan', an evening of idea exchange through words, poetry and music. The earthquake had displaced hundred of thousands of villagers and the tradition was dying a slow death. Before economy became paramount in the nature of human existence, the region thrived with leisure, art and culture. Villagers would gather in the evening to discuss philosophy and poetry. Art wasn't a profession. It was a way of life. Even the clothes sewn by women for their husbands were love letters and the weaves on the shirts told the significant other about the thoughts and emotions of their lovers. Today, most art forms are practiced and perpetrated with the goal of pleasing tourists, like myself, and making money. The respect and purity that the art and artists deserve is dwindling. I was almost sinking into a whirlwind of nihilism in my mind when he made my eyes sparkle by bringing out a unique handmade instrument that I had never seen before in my life. It was a stringed instrument that was bulkier than a ukulele and lighter than a guitar with a weird shaped body and a surreal sound. Bharmal Bhai continued, "This is the 'Surando'. It is made out of a single wood and is played using the hair of a horse. It is the last one left in the world. The only master player of this instrument is Osman Jat, a truck driver living near Rudrani village. This art form should not die with him forever. My mission is to bring these folk artists the same level of respect that global artists enjoy. One day, Osman will not have to drive a truck anymore."