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Water Cans!

The picture below is one of many disappearing stories. What is a story? The one which is told or the one which is written, the one which is sung or the one which is enacted. What about those which are neither told nor written, simply play out there and cease to exist? But one hot day...


The water cans in this picture were provided to these labourers by my house. These are not people employed by us but construction workers on a road site.

Meaning a government contractor brought them in my lane for work and left them there for good.

It is the end of the day; you can see life and work partners are getting into the auto rickshaw, after a hard day's labour. Their kids are already lodged behind the seat in semi-dazed condition.

The woman folk are getting in, well-aware their day's work is not yet over. They have to go back to their ramshackle existence, cook and feed all, service the elders and later maybe their husbands.

But the cans. They had come running on being told by my passing father, they can come at our place and get some water to drink. 
He had seen them working in the scorching heat.

He saw how a lady had shut her door on a girl when she approached her with a tumbler for water. She had her own reasons maybe.

But what followed after my father's offer overwhelmed me. One of the caps seen above, came running after the car. I was reading a book in a nonchalant demeanour when I saw this scene. My father parked and called me for help. The man came and stood beside me all the while I filled the water cans, afraid we might renege on our non-committal promise to give them water.

When the three jars seen above were filled and given to him, there were tears in his eyes. I couldn't make sense of the situation and decided to followed him secretly, to his group. 

When the water cans came in sight, the kids' eyes shone brighter than the afternoon sun. They leapt towards it. 

The women workers did what they have always been asked, expected and programmed to do. They never betrayed their emotions. Very thoughtfully, they held onto the kids in case they grab onto the three cans and spilt the water.

In the three cans that came out of nowhere, in baking summer heat, the mothers first fed their young ones. The elders then took turns with meagre doses. I wondered why? I knew just why, in a couple of hours.

After the day's work the kids were wiped clean by the mothers using the same water. Very judiciously. The men casually wiped their hands upto their elbows.

The women took a palmful each to wipe their faces. That's all.

After all this, about one and a half can worth of water was left over. As they filed into the auto one by one, I noticed how carefully they made room for themselves with the most generous of space reserved for the water cans.

My curiosity drove me behind their auto. They were camped in make-shift tarpaulined encampments on the outskirts of the city.

The one and a half can was cashed in a little by the old folk there.

One can remained.

About a quarter of it was used to cook dinner that evening. A humble dose of rice. With a little pickle and chutneys they had gathered, I believe, in their travels.

A quarter of that one can was used up in the post dinner gala. A gala being water and stories before calling it a day under the starry and mosquito filled sky; neither of which interested their minds or bodies. 

With the last image of them lined up sleeping like logs, I drove back home. Maybe their conversations that night would have included the story of how the cans were procured. Maybe they dreamt of my father. It turned out to be their happy day.

They might move to a different site the next day and a new city another season. Or they might come back again the next day. They might look in great anticipation towards my house for a refill. Only three cans if possible. We might not give it to them this time, joining ranks with our super-rich neighbours in the act complaining about the lack of water these days.

Or maybe once again, I'll bring out happy tears under one of those caps. And the women, again, will betray no emotion.

Comments

  1. Anonymous9 April 2025 at 10:57

    This is so beautiful Prashant 🥺 made me cry and think about how kindness is still a small act that makes a big impact in someone's life.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Prashant9 April 2025 at 11:45

      Thank you! It was both a happy and a sad feeling, writing this one.

      Delete

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