There are many aspects of small town and village living that the ‘sophisticated’ cannot understand.
Amongst them, is the plastic pot. A very important lifeline to many. They come in different colours. Bright pink. Yellow. Orange. Green. Of course, the pot had to be identifiable in a sea of pots waiting for that trickle of water.
Getting to the tap, before anyone else can is important. At the dead of the night. Sometimes earlier than that. And take a place in the queue.
But that’s not where it ends. That’s where it starts.
It really ends when a pot full of water gets balanced on the head. And another on the hip. And gets home by walk. When home is a perhaps a kilometer or two away. And a flight of steps to climb, by the way. Careful that not a drop drips. For each drip means more trips to the tap.
And as this is getting written, there are other folks in big cities of the world. Who think water and such else, are in perpetual supply like a television soap. And the worst water woe is parked at the doorstep of the municipal corporation. But then, this post is not about them.
This post is about awe. And the plastic pot. The pot that helps carry water. With much love and such else.
I truly am in awe. Of a different life on the same planet. Of daily struggles. Of people. Of water. Of pots.
And of course, of mothers. Especially, one that i know, that carried many pot fulls, from the community tap. And climbed the stairway, many times. As her young sons fought over the plastic ball that each wanted for himself.
And she let them be. And they played, watching their mother amble along for more water in thirsty summers. Those were different times.
And so, the plastic pot opens a dam of memories.
And now, indeed there is awe. Now that i see.
What it would have taken to raise my brother and me.