Ninety years ago,

we extracted from the sweat of

the ocean’s ceaseless waves,

a handful of salt:

a blossom of tender white

in a lean raised hand.

One hand suddenly turned into

six thousand manacled ones :

millions of fists raised against

an empire  ‘where the sun never set’.

From that day truth in our land

came to be called ‘ imprisoned salt.’

Ram, Allah, Khuda, Messiah:

that salt was everything to us:

the prophetess who emerged from

the seafoam  and arrived in the kitchen,

the white-winged angel,

the eternal  saviour of our dreams.

A handful of liberty,

a handful of equality,

a handful of love,

a handful of kindness,

a Buddha of salt.

Today once again we raise

a flag of white salt

in the background of

the ocean’s dark turquoise blue:

the fleeting vision of

dark-haired freedom

slipping off from our little hands,

the snowy elaboration of fair equality

that we still keen our ears for,

a calloused hand with the scent of sweat

our flesh and tears have,

a handful of the dark-edged salt of justice

studded with the sand grains of rebellion

that Gandhi had raised in Dandi

ninety years ago.