PARCHED

It was a usual Sunday morning in the streets. People were moving at a leisurely
pace compared to the weekdays: chatting with one another, taking a quick bite at
the local coffee shop or perhaps lamenting about the hot weather. Kids were pla
ying tag on the street amidst the traffic that mostly consisted of bicycles. I t
oo joined the others who were playing. The hot sun scorched the streets with no
mercy, but we just did not care as we played the hide-and-seek with glee. As the
boy who played the catcher started counting to ten with his eyes closed, we sea
rched frantically for hiding spots. As I ran to the end of the street to hide be
hind my hiding spot behind the well, I could see my friend already hiding there.
Having no time to find another spot, I settled there huddled close to her when
I heard the sound. It was loud and clear-as loud as my mother’s wailing everyday
. I knew the game would be suspended when my friend and the others started runni
ng to their homes.
The elders too, started pacing to their homes. “Has it arrived?” they asked each
other as while collecting pots, barrels, and anything they could get their hand
s on to queue up as quick as a lightening. I ran as I looked out for my mother.
I could not see her anywhere in the queue. Maybe, she had fallen asleep. I ran i
nto my house and in a hurry, tripped over a bottle and fell down. It did not hur
t much but the sound had woken my mother up. She looked out. Realizing the situa
tion, she took two small pots in her hand and hastened to the end of the queue.
I combed my house for the third pot my mother had forgotten to take before it da
wned on me…
<The previous day>
My brothers were fight with each other as their heroes did in the television. T
hey had those sharp-thingies (I always forget its name) in hand with which the h
ero pokes the villain. I always wondered why they liked it so much. I hate to se
e them fighting and tried to stop their fight. However, they pushed me off sneer
ing at me. ”Don’t you dare stop us! You are but a puny little girl!” They presum
e that I cannot fight as they do: maybe because they see my mother resists so li
ttle when father gives her those blows every night. Maybe they learned to hit ot
hers from father. In the middle of their ‘battle’, as my younger brother was def
ending blows from my elder brother, he missed a step and landed right on top of
the pot. The earthen pot broke into pieces at that instant – after all, it canno
t withstand every beating like my mother! Hearing the crash, my mother ran into
the house. At the sight of the broken pot, she was gripped by rage and gave both
my brother a slap on their cheeks. They howled in pain, as I stood there frozen
in shock. I had never seen my mother in such an aggressive state before that te
ars started rolling from my eyes. She too broke into tears and collapsed onto th
e ground, leaning onto the wall for support.

<Sunday, the present>

The scene I had witnessed the day before came before my eyes. I was shocked, eve
n now, by the scene- by mother’s reaction. The harsh ringing sound brought me ba
ck to reality. The much-awaited water tanker had arrived at last. I could hear t
he elders pushing each other to be the first one to get the water. The huge tank
er lorry came, leaving a trail of water on the road as it came. It stopped by th
e end of our street. The driver got down, a slimy green pipe in hand. He attache
d one of its ends to the outlet at the side and the other end was dropped into t
he pot of the first person. The commotion just got worse. Elders just rushed to
get the pipe into their pots even stamping others’ foot in a hurry to get there.
I always knew that in the bustle, a lot of water made it to the ground rather t
han the pot. About ten minutes passed. The crowd had dwindled considerably but m
ore than fifteen people-my mother among them- were waiting to collect water. All
of a sudden, the driver yanked the pipe away from one of the barrels, and remov
ing its other end from the outlet, walked to the front of the tanker lorry. The
people waiting screamed at him, shouted curses at the driver but he seemed not t
o hear. An old lady begged him to let her have a pot of water but he did not car
e.
“I have to go to another area quickly. I cannot spend all my time here!” he com
mented rudely, as the woman walked away shaking her head in despair. Most of the
others had left in anger. Yet, my mother stood rooted at the spot. Her eyes wer
e moist. She had screamed at him along with the others but in vain. As the drive
r was about to take the lorry away, she went near the lorry’s front. The driver
tried to shoo her away but she seemed determined. “I need this pot of water. Ple
ase…, I have none left at home- just a single pot. I won’t ask more…” she pleade
d. “Go away, woman! I have no time for your nonsense!” he shouted from the drive
r’s seat. “Just one small pot of water…”she croaked- her throat dry and cheeks w
et. The driver reluctantly got down, without the pipe. He snatched the pot away
from her to open the outlet just a little. A thin stream of water came out. He f
illed the pot, just about half of it and gave it gruffly to my mother with a hug
e frown spreading on her face. With a swift movement, he closed the outlet and m
oved to his seat. The lorry moved fast with a huge roar and a cloud of grayish s
moke as a parting gift.
My mother stood shattered, gripping the pot as if she had no connection to it wh
atsoever, all the life sucked from her. She walked to the house, in silence. I s
uppose she felt humiliated -the price for her humiliation being half a pot of wa
ter. My mother had never begged for anything. If we did not have enough money fo
r food, we went hungry but never begged for food. I did not know what had driven
her to do that but knew that the episode had somehow shattered her. I felt sorr
y for her but did not know what to do, as I saw her lying down on the floor, (in
pain or exhaustion, I didn’t know which). As I was pondering on what my next ac
tion would be, the normalcy returned to our street. The hide and seek game had r
esumed, for I found my friend pulling my hand and taking me to our hiding place.
However, my mind was not in the game as it drifted off to think about my mother
standing as a lone woman on the road begging with the rude driver. I just could
not concentrate on the game. It no longer seemed important to me. Time flew by
as we played many games none of which I cared about just then. Just as we were a
bout to finish our games for the day, I saw my brothers returning home from thei
r friends house two streets away from ours. They were staring at the sky prompti
ng me to do the same. It was only then that I noticed the grey clouds that adorn
ed the sky, hiding the midsummer sun. The air seemed much cooler and I could sme
ll the scent of the earth in the air. Just then, it started to drizzle. Water dr
ops plopped on to my head.
I felt sheer rage then. If it had only rained a few hours ago, my mother would h
ave been spared of agony, pain. My mother was the one who told me that God was t
here looking after you from the sky. I doubted it for would God have allowed my
mother to suffer while the others watched her pleading from the comfort of their
houses? Wouldn’t God have sent the rain hours before and not just then when it
was too late? I wanted to shout at God for sending the rains late, for not help
ing my mother. I looked at the sky searching for those words that banged my head
to be let outside but, as it had always been, my throat would not respond. It h
ad never bothered me to before to be labeled as “dumb”, but it did now. I knew w
hat I wanted to, and knew I had to say it, but I just could not do it. My throa
t was parched. Cloaked in silence, burning with angst, ignoring the cruel rain,
I walked into my house, to continue with my parched life!