Soiled Clothes

 Reflect upon your present blessings -- of which every man has many -- not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.” ― Charles Dickens

She stopped, and eyed woefully at the few more soiled clothes that were thrown carelessly into the sparsely grassed ground. There was a granite stone, raised and plastered to a square that was being used to hurl, and  rhythmically beat the soiled clothes to release the dirt from it.  It reminded me of the action of soap, which says that soaking of clothes is a must for the removal of dirt.  The less water used could have never helped in cleaning 

There were two plastic buckets left out after  mixing the distemper paints to paint walls. In India, even the disposable are definitely reused. The buckets too, as such landed in the yard after their use in the new multistory complex. While  one  of the buckets contained some water, the other one was being used to wet the cloth before running the bar of soap on the cloth. She picked the soiled thick Bermuda and eyed it, she then threw the cloth  angrily into the plastic bucket and brought it out, thick muddy water poured out of the cloth. She then threw it on the flat granite stone and briskly soaped it. Then she picked it high above and thrashed it on the stone, hit it twice, picked it, and pounded it on the rock  three to four  times. Her tiny hands could do no more. She now picked an empty tiny steel pot used for filling water and walked precariously through the stones on the muddy ground.

She was no more than five years old. She wore a pink half sleeved frock, which was crumpled, dirty, filled with mud, and now it was wet. Her beautiful curly hair was left open, and am sure no comb could have ever been able to open those curls as it looked unkempt and dirtier than ever. Her skin was brown with the sun’s heat and the muddy soil.

She walked like her mother, perhaps, the seriousness on her face was written to picture the responsibility. As she walked, she spat angrily, and then hurried back to work.

Then came a little boy who seemed no more than three years old, he carried a five liter can. He was also muddy and wore yellow shorts,  he didn't wear a shirt, we could count his ribs as he hurried to her. The little girl raised her head like an adult and threw the pot with a clang. The steel pot had several dents, and gyrated slowly towards the boy. The boy dived and picked it,  he carried the can and the pot to a water spout that was located near the center of the ground. There I saw an adult, a man, perhaps their father standing. He was the one who had hurled his clothes into the turf to get them  washed by the little girl who was no more than five years old, she must have been his daughter.

The large ground is in fact a brick kiln. There is a large place where men and women carry mud, tossed on the ground by lorries that ferry the sand. It is then mixed with water and laid on the ground and  cut into the regular shapes changing  it into bricks. The bricks are then burnt in the kiln and transported. These men and women begin their job early in the morning, sometimes even before six. They live in makeshift shafts built by them on one corner of the ground. All the shacks are in a line facing the brick kiln. Their day dawns with a glance of the bricks, and their day ends with the whiff of the smoke from the kiln.

The weather and climatic changes at Pune no longer follow the set pattern, it followed once upon a time. The erratic changes have an effect on the lives of these people who depend on the brick kiln for livelihood.

Last week there was heavy rain accompanied by hail, and later heavy rains lashed the city. So great were the wind speed and the downpour that we kept the doors and windows locked. The evening was very pleasant. We went out in the pleasant weather and had a great time.  The rain appeared as a torrent of relief in the hot days of March. The next morning when I went out into the balcony  to see  my potted plants. I glanced at the brick kiln as usual. I saw the bricks submerged in water, the blue coloured plastic sheets flying hither, thither unable to cover and control nature. The shacks and shanties were uncomfortable, their temporary tin sheets being mended.  Many of the  workers stood  watching their destroyed hard work. Still later, some of the half broken bricks were  gathered and thrown to a corner in the ground. The whole ground was swept clean for a couple of days. Young girls helped their parents. These two little children were trying to console their parents by helping them fill water and wash their mud laden clothes.

On one side it reminded me of child labour, at another point, it reminded of team work. A few  of them rebuilt the shed, while  the young kids carried the adult duties of relieving  their parents to rebuild the brick kiln. The annoyance of the kids  harks back  the fretfulness of the parents, while the responsibility of the kids portrayed the likeness to the accountability of these labourers. Their lives illustrate the pliability of the adults and kids in adversity. In a world where one man’s gain is another man’s loss, they  showed the ability to embrace the loss with a smile, and the reassurance to begin afresh.

“Courage was not that hard to come by for children. No matter the hardships they faced, given a little love and encouragement, their spirits rebounded and thrived.  Sophie Littlefield