I wet my hands to mold the pot, the water cold. My wheel makes a slow spin. I look back at my days. Many moons ago, my family came into the art of pottery. My father and his and many more who had preceded. I learnt the craft, too. Rather, I picked it up. I had no training--the art just flowed, one son to the next. Of all the sons, I was the most interested in the craft.
Life however was taking an unpleasant turn. There was no school for us to go to. No money for meals. No market to sell. Plastic had invaded, and the once used earthen pot in the kitchen was fast being replaced. My son chose not to take pottery any further. With plastic now, what could earthenware do? He works as a laborer, sometimes painting people’s homes, finding an odd job and a thing or two to do. I am too old for that now; I cannot change my craft.
I work on my pottery, hoping to find a market. If it sells it is good. I like doing it. I carry on. It is my art.
After all I am the only one left to carry it forward.
