10 am in the morning and I swayed in the streets along the countryside gandering at everything. Two streets off and I was stuck at the courtyard of a hut. Covered in hay stack it had walls of brick that held it. The wall owned many cracks that smuggled light into and eventually opened in an entrance covered by rugged sheet of cloth. None of these caught my sight but the spinning wheel at the wall’s feet. Covered in layers of indistinct mud, it spun endlessly. It splashed drops of muddied water at the wall and the potter, who himself looked nothing less than a statue of mud unless he decided to draw his stick to spin the wheel. I stood there with my eyes transfixed on the transition that was going to impose a question on mankind.

     The potter drew his stick to spin the wheel, this time more vigorously. He bestowed a block of clay to the wheel which curiously spun aping the nature of time…it spun like the never stopping time and with it spun the clay too. The potter drew his hands closer to the clay and touched it. Like a sorcerer’s touch to a lifeless body, the clay started to take shape. Molding itself!! The wheel spun with vigorous enthusiasm as if it was curious about the consequences of the touch… as if it was curious about the clay’s fate. The clay continued to mold itself but the potter’s touch has decided its fate already. The touch has defined its existence already like the million years of humankind which has endlessly spun on the wheels of time molding itself by the touch of his society, by the touch of his thoughts, by the touch of his experiences….and like the one which will continue to spin for a million years to come seeking for a touch that would better his existence, justify his eras of evolution and a touch that would define him finally. He spins like the clay on the wheel…. Waiting for the touch of his soul!! He spins!!! I chuckled.


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