In search of water

 

In the heart of our village, nestled a midst lush greenery and swaying coconut palms, lies a time-honoured tradition that binds us together - the reliance on well water. As the clouds gather overhead, pregnant with the promise of rain, we eagerly await the rhythmic patter on our rooftops, yet sometimes it eludes us, favouring neighbouring districts instead. But here, water is not merely a necessity; it's a communal affair, a thread that weaves through the fabric of our daily lives.

In days of yore, when modern amenities were but a distant dream, each household boasted its own well, a lifeline that sustained families through scorching summers and parched seasons. There was an intimacy in the act of drawing water, a ritual passed down through generations, where the creaking of the iron pulley echoed the rhythm of our existence.

Our maternal ancestral home, a sprawling ancestral home, stood as a beacon of this tradition. Its well, deep and cool, was a wellspring of life for over 500 souls in our vicinity. As the dawn broke, the gates swung open, and a procession of women, their laughter mingling with the clinking of their earthen pots, descended upon the well like clockwork. Each vessel carried not just water, but stories of camaraderie and shared struggles, binding us in a collective bond of kinship.

The iron pulley, weathered by time and wear, became a silent witness to our daily routines. Its groans and protests, devoid of the lubrication that would tame its rebellion, served as a reminder of our interconnections, of the symbiotic relationship between man and nature. Yet, despite its defiance, the pulley remained steadfast, a testament to our resilience in the face of adversity.

In the absence of a centralized water supply system, we relied on the generosity of our neighbours, forging alliances that transcended mere geographical boundaries. Those without access to a well of their own would traverse the winding paths to our doorstep, their empty earthen pots eager to be filled with the elixir of life. And we, in turn, welcomed them with open arms, knowing that in times of need, it was this spirit of unity that sustained us.

But as the world around us evolves, our reliance on well water wanes, replaced by the convenience of municipal supply systems and modern infrastructure. The iron pulley, once a symbol of our collective strength, now stands silent and neglected, a relic of a bygone era. Yet, in the depths of our memories, it continues to resonate, a reminder of who we once were and the bonds that held us together.

As we gaze out onto the horizon, yearning for the gentle touch of raindrops on thirsty soil, we are reminded that some traditions are worth preserving, that the simple act of drawing water can be so much more than a mundane chore. It is a testament to our shared humanity, a legacy that we carry forward into an uncertain future, where the echoes of the iron pulley serve as a beacon of hope in a changing world.



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