The Potter

Tonight there is a very weird light. The sky has turned orange – the colour of gold. The buildings in the distance appear as if they are houses filled with sun. The air in the stone room is still and full. I walk to find freshness, away from the spun golden sky, through the room of colours and smiles and out onto the balcony at the back of New Light. Facing away from the setting sun the sky is already dust coloured. My eyes take a little time to readjust from the strip lights of the classroom and gradually I see that the reflections from the glowing clouds on the still river creates a false silver light which is fading quickly. The air seems a little fresher as it touches my face, enters my nose, refreshes my lungs. I haven't stood here before. I could easily forget I am in the centre of Kalighat. The river, the quiet, the stillness. But then my eyes readjust some more. Small figures dance around just below me. They stop. All is quiet. Then muffled laugher. Movement. Stillness, and so it continues as the children are playing a game of tag, where every time 'It' turns around they need to freeze in time. The fresh air begins to smell of burnt perfume, and I look down to search out the source – a white pillar dirty with the days, housing a Hindu deity and coloured with dying garlands of orange flowers, is sending up signals of smoke. A strange movement catches my attention. I move my eyes to the one small building sitting at the edge of the river. It has a small roof, corner pillars made of wood and no walls.

There is a man wearing a blue checkered lungi and a white sleeveless vest sitting on a small stool. He is squatting in front of a shape which is changing, transforming in front of his hands and in front my searching eyes. The man is manipulating and expertly moving a mound of clay. He is making it grow taller and thinner. He is removing sections from the top, and setting them down on a tray by his side. I focus my eyes and gradually I begin to discern rows of tiny clay cups. His fingers return to the spinning block in front of his bent knees. Spinning, rising, falling, removing, replacing. The mound of clay seems infinite as he is able to make it grow to the same size despite continuously creating and removing small pots. Gradually the lump of spinning clay can no longer keep up with his manipulations and the original lump is almost completely transformed into rows of stationary chai cups sitting wet at his feet. The wheel stops to spin. The original lump disceted and recreated, leaving a small stationary mound. The potter reaches across to push the new pots away from him, pulling forward a empty tray waiting to be filled. He lifts up a block of untouched, virgin clay and drops it onto his wheel. He picks up a wooden stick and begins to spin. His arms transfering his energy to the edges of the horizontal wheel. The momentum building, his foot working and then he releases the stick, lays it back down by his right side and splashes water over the spinning revolving lump. Whirling with momentum the clay turns. His hands settle on the side of the lump and as if by magic the clay surges upwards. It becomes smoother, uniform, full of soft ridges. Thumbs inserted and another chai cup is created, dis-attached from the whirling lump and then laid down on the new tray. And so it continues. Mesmorising me.

Eventually my eyes can no longer adjust to the fading light and it becomes harder to follow his work. But I am left feeling calmer. The evening air is cooler. I feel a two small arms around my legs and I look down to find a Little Miss Squeeky Pineapple. I reach down and pick her up and walk back into the blue light of New Light.