The Saltless Feast

In the autumn of 1995, when the tourist season was just a whisper in the air, I found myself with a group of families, winding down from the pine-scented hills of Kodaikanal. We had chartered a rickety minibus, its engine coughing as we descended toward the plains, and our last stop was a pair of temples perched on a rocky outcrop, built two centuries ago by a forgotten chieftain. The locals called them the Twin Shrines of the Serpent and the Star, and they were famous for their carved pillars and the annual festival where goats were sacrificed to appease the rain god. We planned to spend the night in the pilgrim rest house, a squat building with a tin roof that rattled in the wind.

As always, I sought out the village elders, eager to collect ghost stories and superstitions. An old man with a cataract in one eye sat on the temple steps, chewing betel leaves. He spoke of a band of British soldiers who had camped there in the 1850s and vanished without a trace. He warned me not to eat any food offered by strangers after sunset, for the spirits of the hungry dead roamed the hills, craving the warmth of the living. I laughed it off, as I always did, and gave him a few rupees for his trouble.

Night fell, and after a simple dinner of rice and dal prepared by the temple cook, the families retired to their rooms. I, however, was restless. The moon was full, casting long shadows through the carved windows. I decided to explore the outer courtyard, where a cluster of old banyan trees twisted into grotesque shapes. The air was still, but I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain cold. As I rounded a pillar, I saw a woman in a white sari standing near the well, her back to me. She was not part of our group. I called out, but she didn’t move. When I stepped closer, she turned, and her face was a blank canvas – no eyes, no nose, just a smooth expanse of skin. I stumbled back, and when I blinked, she was gone.

I returned to the rest house, shaken, but told no one. The next morning, as we were about to leave, the cook served us a hearty breakfast of poori and chutney. But when I bit into the poori, there was no salt. I glanced at the others; they were eating without complaint. I asked the cook, but he insisted the salt was there. I said, ‘It tastes flat,’ but he just smiled and said, ‘The dead prefer their food unsalted, traveller. You must be one of them now.’ His eyes held no humour. I dropped the bread and rushed outside, only to find the minibus gone. The families had vanished too. The temple courtyard was empty, save for the old man from yesterday, who was now standing at the well, beckoning me. I walked toward him, and as I neared, I saw that his cataract eye had turned black, like a void. He whispered, ‘You asked for hauntings, so we gave you one. Stay for the feast.’ And then I felt a cold hand on my shoulder from behind, and I knew I would never leave the Twin Shrines again.

Months later, a search party found our minibus abandoned on a cliff road, our luggage intact, but no trace of the families or me. The only thing out of place was a single plastic plate, with a smear of oil and a pinch of white powder. The local police dismissed it as a mass abduction. But the villagers stopped visiting the temples after sunset, saying that if you listen closely, you can hear the clatter of plates and the murmur of hungry voices, asking for salt that never comes. And they say the cook still offers his unsalted pooris to anyone foolish enough to stay the night. I am one of those fools, forever serving the feast to the dead. If you ever find yourself near those hills, heed the old man’s warning: never trust a meal offered after dark, and never ask for salt. For once you taste the saltless bread, you are bound to the Saltless Feast.