A potter rests his two baskets upon the stone floor of the alley. He is waiting for the woman who had called to him from her window. The alley is almost lightless and scarcely five feet wide. Houses rise above him, shoulder to shoulder, some of them cracked by the earthquake of 1934. He waits, leaning against a cold wall, facing the doorway through which she will appear. His clothes are home-spun, rough and colored by the dark earth with which he works. There is a decoration on his forehead, a red dot that he put on in the morning as a blessing of Ganesh, the elephant-headed god of good fortune.
A long bamboo pole stands beside his two baskets. When he is walking, the two baskets dangle from the ends of the pole balanced on his shoulders. Sometimes, especially during harvest time when help is needed and his wife accompanies him to his field, he carries his grandchildren in the baskets, among tools, packets of food and jars of rice beer. Today the baskets are filled with reddish-brown clay flower pots, water jars and basins.
There are steps on the stairway. The door is opened, its hinges screeching, and a woman in a brilliantly colored sari appears. She asks why he has not come for the last few months.
“My daughter was to be married; we had to arrange for her giving-away.” They discuss the groom for a long time.
She squats in the doorway telling of her children and what they are doing. She examines the clay wares. She needs one basin to wash clothes and one water jar. The old clay water jar that she is using can be seen through the door. Its sides are green, covered with slippery algae.
There are bumps on its glistening belly, like boils, where cracks have been cemented to stop leaks. The water jar is three feet high. She uses its water to wash dishes and clothes. She has two medium-sized copper water jars and one bronze, she says, but for the summer she likes the clay ones better because water remains refreshingly cool in them.
The jars she uses for drinking water are cleaned twice daily–a woman who does not do so is alachhin, one who brings bringer of ill fortune. She goes back inside and brings out another clay water jar she is using. There is a hairline fracture along its side, through which water seeps. She has to be very careful to lift it, she complains, otherwise it will fall apart. Water leaks from it and makes a puddle on the kitchen’s mud floor, and her mother-in-law is always grumbling about it. This morning when her husband was ready for work, all dressed in clean clothes, he walked past the water jar, slipped in the puddle and fell. His clothes were discolored by the red floor and he was very angry.
After she washed the dishes with water from the old jar, she has to wash it again before they eat. “One has to be very careful; my aunt’s daughter caught typhoid.” She likes good water jars that are not in danger of breaking because the ones she has must be carried one at a time to the upstairs kitchen, otherwise they will fall apart.
At home his land is clay; it gives him his material for work. His crops are rich and healthy; the land gives him his food. Grey, unbaked pots are set in rows to dry out on the sunny lawn. He has been making these pots for days. The straw ceiling of his home has to be changed this fall and the plastic shade under which he stores his work has to be replaced too.
His daughter and wife are out weeding in the fields. He feels sad sometimes that he did not send all his children to school (his eldest son is an officer in the Nepalese Government). But the fingers of those that did not study are deft and the pots that they make are good. As for his daughters, one was married recently and the other has received offers of marriage from good families.
The clay that he prepared more than a week ago is properly soft. He added water to the clay of his field and when the water was absorbed, he mixed them together with his feet. Now and then, when his feet encountered pebbles or stones, he bent down and picked them out. Later he added more water and let the mixture stand for a few days. When it was ready, he took out lump after lump, carefully kneading each by hand. Every portion had to be perfect. This prepared clay was covered from the sun and air by sacks so it would not lose its moisture. If the clay dries prematurely, his products will be of inferior quality.
His second son is kneading lumps of clay in preparation for this afternoon’s work, throwing pots on the huge wooden wheel. This wheel has been with the family for a long time; it is very expensive to make another one like it today. A lump of clay is placed firmly on the wheel, a stick is inserted in a notch and the wheel is spun in a flurry of effort. The potter squats by the wheel, grasps the spinning clay and after a moment’s pressure the clay rises magically between his hands. His thumbs dig into the spinning lump and without effort the shape of a pot appears.
When the basins are ready, they will be dried in the sun and, in a day or two if the sun is out, they will be ready to be baked in the oven until they are bright red. His oven is small compared to the ones that are used to make bricks. One day he had gone to look at a local brick factory erected with Chinese technical assistance; the enormity of its chimney had made him dizzy.
His oven is circular, and at its bottom is a matting of husk, straw and sawdust. He will place layer after layer of raw clay wares in the oven and fill the gaps with husk or sawdust. When the oven is filled, he will seal it and light a fire. After being baked for seven to ten days, the pots will be ready.
She originally wanted to buy only one water jar and one basin, but as they talk she decides that she needs two water jars, large and small, a basin, and three flower pots. Business is smooth and he raises the price of his goods just enough not to scare her away and still leave a margin for bargaining.
His baskets sway lightly from the pole on his shoulders as he prepares to go. He promises to come by the next month, wishes her well, and smiles a goodbye. She smiles back at him. Her gums are red, like the pots that he sold to her.
