The Lantern Bearer of Saltpan Road

Our family had embarked on a journey through the sun-scorched hinterlands of Gujarat, heading towards the coastal town of Dwarka. The air was thick with the scent of saline earth and drying fish, and the landscape was a stark canvas of white salt flats that shimmered in the oppressive heat. With me were my parents, my younger brother, my grandmother, and my grandfather, whom we affectionately called Dada and Dadi. The trip had been a mix of awe and unease, especially for my mother and me. There was something about the desolate stretches of the Rann that made us feel watched.

It was past midnight when we pulled into a roadside eatery, a small shack made of corrugated iron and wood, glowing faintly under a single bulb. The owners, a weathered couple, served us simple fried fish and chapatis. Dada and Dadi, tired from the long drive, declined any food and dozed off in the car. We ate quickly, the meal tasting of salt and smoke, and then we were off again.

My father drove, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Dada and Dadi were soon fast asleep in the back. I sat in the front with my mother, while my brother, Ved, sprawled across the middle seat, watching a comedy film on his tablet. The humor was hollow against the vast blackness outside. At some point, Ved’s head lolled, and his breathing became steady. The movie ended on a cheerful note, and silence enveloped the car.

My father decided to pull over by the roadside to rest. He cut the engine, and the sudden stillness was suffocating. The headlights died, plunging us into darkness. I was about to close my eyes when I saw a distant flicker of light, a small orange tongue that grew and wavered. It was a man, carrying a burning brand of wood, like a torch. He stood motionless, his face obscured by the glare, but I could discern his silhouette against the salt-encrusted horizon.

I thought little of it. Perhaps a villager from a nearby settlement. But as minutes passed, that tiny flame became larger, closer. My heart began to race. I nudged my mother, who was beside me, and she stirred. ‘Look,’ I whispered, pointing. She squinted into the dark, and I watched her face change from curiosity to alarm.

The man was walking directly towards our car, his loping gait unnatural, each stride eating up the distance. The torch in his hand cast long shadows that danced like specters. My mother’s voice was sharp: ‘Wake your father.’ I shook my father’s shoulder, and he stirred with a grunt. ‘There’s someone coming,’ I said, my voice trembling.

My father turned on the ignition, but the engine sputtered and died. He tried again—nothing. The man was closer now, his features becoming discernible. He was gaunt, with a scraggly beard, and his eyes reflected the firelight with an unsettling glint. He wore a tattered coat, and from his waist hung a collection of rusted keys and charms that clinked with each step.

My mother’s whispered prayers filled the car. Dada and Dadi remained blissfully asleep. My brother stirred but didn’t wake. The man stopped a few feet from the driver’s window, his head tilted, as if inspecting us. The torch flame hissed and spit, and in its light, I saw that his fingers were blackened, as if burnt to the bone.

He raised the torch and brought it close to the glass, the heat reaching us even through the closed window. The glass began to warp and bubble. My father slammed his hand on the horn, but it emitted a weak, broken sound. The man smiled, revealing stained, broken teeth. He tapped the glass with a charred finger and spoke in a voice like crackling wood: ‘Borrowed salt, borrowed time.’

I didn’t understand his words, but my mother did. She gasped and clutched her Ganesha pendant. My father revved the engine with a roar, and this time it caught. The car lurched forward, and we sped away, leaving the man and his torch behind. But as we drove, the headlights illuminated something that made my blood freeze: a solitary figure standing at the side of the road, another torch, watching us. And then another, and another, appearing every few hundred meters, like grim sentinels on the endless saltpan road.

We drove in silence, the only sound the hum of tires on asphalt. The comedy film had long ended, and the night stretched on. When we finally reached Dwarka at dawn, we checked into a hotel and collapsed into our beds, trying to forget the events of the night. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had been marked, that the salt had claimed a debt.

Months later, I unearthed an old diary of my grandfather’s. In it, he had written about a legend his own father told him—of a ferryman who guided lost souls across the Rann, carrying a lantern of fire, and who demanded a toll of salt from the living who crossed his path at night. Those who paid no heed became his new lantern bearers, their arms burnt and arms raised in perpetual guiding gestures, forever walking the saltpans. I closed the diary, my hands trembling. And from that night on, I never looked at a flame the same way again, and the taste of salt in the air brings with it a chill that seeps into my bones.