His mom shook him, the sun had risen and was shining over him. The charpai creaked as he rose, straining from his concentrated weight. He went towards the ghusal khana, the lota was there, filled to the brim. He squatted, washed his face and then brushed his teeth using manjan, unthinking. As he walked back inside he thought about what lay in store for him today, his teacher would be expecting his project, he had not finished yet. Lost in thought he walked back inside, expecting to find his pressed uniform waiting for him. Instead he found nothing. 

Something was different today. 

The stove and pots were where they should have been: rusted, burnt, used but as good as ever. The almirah creaked and protested when he opened it. Still no uniform. The portrait of his grandfather hung over him, garlanded and watching and looking after the family. He searched the hooks on the walls but to no avail. 

He would be going to school soon. Maybe his mom would know. 

“Mom?” He called out. No answer. Maybe she was outside. Bent over, she was washing the clothes, his uniform was sitting 

in the middle of the pile. The water had run out. His mom turned around. 

He wouldn’t be going to school today. 

Sighing, he set out with a bucket in his hand, clad in shorts, setting out for the well. 

What would his teachers think if he didn’t show up today? Would his teacher get mad? Thoughts occupied him as his feet moved forward. A certain time had passed before he realised he had walked out of his village. 

The tall grass sprouted in all directions, the cattle grazed on the very same grass. What a life it must be! Chewing, digesting, excreting and then chewing again. A simple cycle of life. Fatigued donkeys pulled cartloads of goods behind them, spurred on by their masters who looked just as tired as the donkeys themselves. 

The sun blistered them all. 

In front of him the fields stretched outwards towards the horizon, there was still a long way to go. 

He thought about his forefathers who had spent the greater part of their lives in these fields, living on the lands that created them. He thought about his father, somewhere, harvesting the land, from dawn to dusk, one in thousands. Why had his 

father not sent him to work in these fields? 

The other village came into sight. Walking through the gates one man shouted about farmer’s rights, another man shouted about saving their country from terrorists, another roared about weak governments. They all tried to be heard over the other. No one noticed the boy. 

In a world where all the politicians are the same, why did the poor man care if one of them triumphed? 

Making his way through the crowd, bucket beside him, occasionally hitting him on the side the boy realised the well must not be far along. The smell of freshly made rotis reached his nose, was it almost lunch? He didn’t know. As if indifferent to all that was happening to the boy the sun still shone as bright as ever, scorching and relentless, almost as if it had followed him. What was his class doing now? Had his mom made lunch yet? 

His stomach grumbled, his throat was hoarse, his legs hurt. Sweat glistened off his bare back. His fingers had turned red gripping the bucket, he wanted to drop everything and lay down. 

But he kept on going, Not too far along. After some time the well seemed to materialise before him. He lowered the bucket into the well. The rusty old bucket came back up, filled with water. So he drank, and then he drank some more. 

The bucket was heavier now but he didn’t mind, he was energised. He walked back into the other village, men still shouted about farmer’s rights, another man shouted about saving their country from terrorists, a third one roared about weak governments but the boy didn’t notice them. 

The sun was still relentless as ever but now it seemed shallower, somehow more gentle. He walked straight past the municipal building and the post office without sparing a second glance. Now once again he found himself facing the fields, where would his dad be? He thought. On his left? On his right? 

He didn’t know. He started walking. 

He noticed the cows grazing the grass, did they never get bored of it? The donkeys pulled the carts, they seemed to be carrying mangoes now, mangoes that would be shipped to god knows where by the end of the day. His village came into sight at last. 

What had the others done in school? What was his mom making? Thoughts occupied him but his feet kept moving. He walked past his school, his class had been dismissed, everybody had gone. 

In a daze he reached home at last, his mom seemed to be inside. Come to think of it he was still thirsty. 

So he picked up the bucket, 

and drank. 

and drank. 

Glossary: 

Charpai – a bedstead of woven webbing stretched on a wooden frame on four legs, common in India 

Ghusal Khana – Bathroom, a room (as in a residence) containing a shower and a washbasin, usually separated from the toilet 

Manjan – A powder or other substance to be used in cleaning the teeth; tooth powder 

Almirah – Cupboard 

Lota – a round water pot, typically with a handle