'Mother earth's very teat; it'll never dry'
"The well was always a mystery, it never dried you see. No matter what the season. It helped my people through the harshest summers, the longest droughts, even through war. The war never touched us either. We were lucky to be living near the mountain serene. We would escape to the mountains without a worry, and lay low till the danger died, and come back to our village and our well. We were a prosperous lot, only because of the well—water as calm as patience and as clear as a baby's conscience..it irrigated our fields, quenched our thirst, washed our clothes and streets"
'there was so much water that even thorns softened to petals'
"There was no bottom to that well. They said it was connected to the heart of mother earth, and mother loves her children, and gave, gave all it could. No matter how much water the village used, the well always had more. It must have been enchanted, for its water never became foul, even after months of disuse when my people abandoned the village to take shelter in the mountains. The war was on us and nobody knew who was fighting whom, only that all the young ones were being enlisted for a destined slaughter.
War is a hungry one, it is. It doesn't know what it wants, but has an empty belly all the same and gorges itself with bloodshed and tears and merciless malice. It grows and grows yet stays indifferent to sufferings and pain..craving carnage..its guts are filled with gore. It cleanses itself with bloodbaths and stays dirty still. Yes, war was upon us and all the little lads and men from all the neighbouring villages were forcefully drafted to die for a cause no one knew.
That was when we escaped to the mountains. We were just a small village of happy farmers. What did we know of war? Our children grew up sheltered in abundant fields, spent their summers climbing luxurious opulent flowering trees, ate the most exotic fruits and knew nothing save happiness. War was not for us or our children.. for we never saw pain, nor knew desolation and despair..We were content..all we knew was joy. The well kept us that way and we saw no reason to change what mother gave us..and so the whole village repaired to the mountains.
We waited for months knowing full well what was going down below. We heard noises, shouts, screams, smoke rising from distant lands. Everything below the mountains was shrouded in a feverish sickness of misery. There were blood curdling screams, we saw streams turn red with blood and later green with rotting flesh. There were flies and foul stench, and there were days when the skies turned black with flying scavengers. Thousands of vultures readying for a feast, hovering overhead, waiting to swoop and tear what was already dead.
The putrid stench of death grew so thick that we had to abandon our shelter and move upwards still, lest the contamination reach us too. But we were blessed and so we survived.
One day the skies cleared, the smoke didn't fill the air, the thin stream ran clear again and we knew it was time to make our descent.
We were worried about our village and mostly about our well. The sight that greeted us was most horrific. The streets were caked brown with dried blood. Most of the houses had burnt down, our fields looked barren—they were ravaged by war and hungry soldiers. The few houses that still stood had been ransacked and looked like they were used as shelters. Wasted rusting weapons and half rotten carcasses of humans and cattle alike littered back alleys, and there were no walls that weren't smeared with blood. Bloodied hand prints of dying soldiers, chipped skulls in large dried pools of what must have been blood, bits of dried flesh still stuck to some walls. Pieces of bones lay everywhere, some picked off clean by efficient scavengers, some still wrapped in skin that had turned to leather under the blazing sun.
There was nothing ever as saddening as what we saw, thousands lay dead..some of them had disintegrated to dust, some still waiting be absorbed by soil..and then we came to our well. It looked as untouched as ever. The water sparkling, clear and sweet as we remembered. The well was fine, and we knew we would too.
The next few days were spent in cleaning the village, restoring our fields, rebuilding our homes and bringing life back to normal, for we'd heard that the war was now over, and thousands upon thousands died..with no clear signs of who actually won.
We washed the streets a hundred times over till all the blood that clung to it was but a memory, we washed the walls and repainted them. Reconstructed our broken canals, sowed more seeds, erected new trees and our village was back to as it looked. It shone with white brightness, exuded the fresh clean smells we'd loved, and life seemed like it was back to normal, until one day we saw small children..no bigger than six or seven lugging small pots and glasses into our village.
It was early morning, the sun shone red in a sapphire sky and we saw children, with sallow sad faces, hollowed eyes, dead smiles, ragged clothes carrying small clay pots and urns—whatever their little fingers could tighten around. They came into our village from neighbouring villages asking for water. They were expressionless, most looked like they'd been crying a hundred years and none of them was older than ten. They begged us for water, for they'd been walking since even before the sun came up..we told them to take as much as they'd like. Our magical mother god well stood proud, its never ending luminous clean water rippled ever so slightly by small cups and clay urns.
By afternoon our village was teeming with hundreds of small children from nearing villages, taking water and leaving back for their homes. Most of their clay water pots broken, some chipped from the mouths, some carried only small bowls and copper cups, and it was a sight we'd never seen.
The children looked weary, most of them barefoot, their grief stricken eyes lifeless with dread..and they were all sad. So much sadness and mourn that it was heartbreaking to realize a child had seen so much suffering.
We asked why did they have to come all the way, why couldn't they send their elder brothers and sisters..and they told us that all their elders brothers and fathers had been forcefully enlisted into the war and now were either dead, missing or limbless, their sisters had gone missing or dead since hordes of soldiers showed up in their villages. Most of their fields and houses were burnt, the food was stolen and what was left behind were just small children and mothers.
The water they told us, was not to drink alone, but to wash away the endless tears of their mothers"
"They have been crying since our fathers and brothers were taken away. They cried when our sisters didn't come back from the fields, when our fathers returned home with no legs, when they found our sisters dead in a heap of naked flesh by the river, when our brothers' half rotten bodies were sent back for burial. They've been crying since then, and we have no more water to wash away their tears"
"We shivered at their words, these innocent children..their words seeped in so much dread and what was most tragic was these children so young to only half understand the sick hurt of these wounds, with their tormented faces and questioning eyes, came each day clutching small pots and tiny glasses to our well. We let them take as much water as they liked, and after a few days they stopped coming..because our well had dried up."
"The well was always a mystery, it never dried you see. No matter what the season. It helped my people through the harshest summers, the longest droughts, even through war. The war never touched us either. We were lucky to be living near the mountain serene. We would escape to the mountains without a worry, and lay low till the danger died, and come back to our village and our well. We were a prosperous lot, only because of the well—water as calm as patience and as clear as a baby's conscience..it irrigated our fields, quenched our thirst, washed our clothes and streets"
'there was so much water that even thorns softened to petals'
"There was no bottom to that well. They said it was connected to the heart of mother earth, and mother loves her children, and gave, gave all it could. No matter how much water the village used, the well always had more. It must have been enchanted, for its water never became foul, even after months of disuse when my people abandoned the village to take shelter in the mountains. The war was on us and nobody knew who was fighting whom, only that all the young ones were being enlisted for a destined slaughter.
War is a hungry one, it is. It doesn't know what it wants, but has an empty belly all the same and gorges itself with bloodshed and tears and merciless malice. It grows and grows yet stays indifferent to sufferings and pain..craving carnage..its guts are filled with gore. It cleanses itself with bloodbaths and stays dirty still. Yes, war was upon us and all the little lads and men from all the neighbouring villages were forcefully drafted to die for a cause no one knew.
That was when we escaped to the mountains. We were just a small village of happy farmers. What did we know of war? Our children grew up sheltered in abundant fields, spent their summers climbing luxurious opulent flowering trees, ate the most exotic fruits and knew nothing save happiness. War was not for us or our children.. for we never saw pain, nor knew desolation and despair..We were content..all we knew was joy. The well kept us that way and we saw no reason to change what mother gave us..and so the whole village repaired to the mountains.
We waited for months knowing full well what was going down below. We heard noises, shouts, screams, smoke rising from distant lands. Everything below the mountains was shrouded in a feverish sickness of misery. There were blood curdling screams, we saw streams turn red with blood and later green with rotting flesh. There were flies and foul stench, and there were days when the skies turned black with flying scavengers. Thousands of vultures readying for a feast, hovering overhead, waiting to swoop and tear what was already dead.
The putrid stench of death grew so thick that we had to abandon our shelter and move upwards still, lest the contamination reach us too. But we were blessed and so we survived.
One day the skies cleared, the smoke didn't fill the air, the thin stream ran clear again and we knew it was time to make our descent.
We were worried about our village and mostly about our well. The sight that greeted us was most horrific. The streets were caked brown with dried blood. Most of the houses had burnt down, our fields looked barren—they were ravaged by war and hungry soldiers. The few houses that still stood had been ransacked and looked like they were used as shelters. Wasted rusting weapons and half rotten carcasses of humans and cattle alike littered back alleys, and there were no walls that weren't smeared with blood. Bloodied hand prints of dying soldiers, chipped skulls in large dried pools of what must have been blood, bits of dried flesh still stuck to some walls. Pieces of bones lay everywhere, some picked off clean by efficient scavengers, some still wrapped in skin that had turned to leather under the blazing sun.
There was nothing ever as saddening as what we saw, thousands lay dead..some of them had disintegrated to dust, some still waiting be absorbed by soil..and then we came to our well. It looked as untouched as ever. The water sparkling, clear and sweet as we remembered. The well was fine, and we knew we would too.
The next few days were spent in cleaning the village, restoring our fields, rebuilding our homes and bringing life back to normal, for we'd heard that the war was now over, and thousands upon thousands died..with no clear signs of who actually won.
We washed the streets a hundred times over till all the blood that clung to it was but a memory, we washed the walls and repainted them. Reconstructed our broken canals, sowed more seeds, erected new trees and our village was back to as it looked. It shone with white brightness, exuded the fresh clean smells we'd loved, and life seemed like it was back to normal, until one day we saw small children..no bigger than six or seven lugging small pots and glasses into our village.
It was early morning, the sun shone red in a sapphire sky and we saw children, with sallow sad faces, hollowed eyes, dead smiles, ragged clothes carrying small clay pots and urns—whatever their little fingers could tighten around. They came into our village from neighbouring villages asking for water. They were expressionless, most looked like they'd been crying a hundred years and none of them was older than ten. They begged us for water, for they'd been walking since even before the sun came up..we told them to take as much as they'd like. Our magical mother god well stood proud, its never ending luminous clean water rippled ever so slightly by small cups and clay urns.
By afternoon our village was teeming with hundreds of small children from nearing villages, taking water and leaving back for their homes. Most of their clay water pots broken, some chipped from the mouths, some carried only small bowls and copper cups, and it was a sight we'd never seen.
The children looked weary, most of them barefoot, their grief stricken eyes lifeless with dread..and they were all sad. So much sadness and mourn that it was heartbreaking to realize a child had seen so much suffering.
We asked why did they have to come all the way, why couldn't they send their elder brothers and sisters..and they told us that all their elders brothers and fathers had been forcefully enlisted into the war and now were either dead, missing or limbless, their sisters had gone missing or dead since hordes of soldiers showed up in their villages. Most of their fields and houses were burnt, the food was stolen and what was left behind were just small children and mothers.
The water they told us, was not to drink alone, but to wash away the endless tears of their mothers"
"They have been crying since our fathers and brothers were taken away. They cried when our sisters didn't come back from the fields, when our fathers returned home with no legs, when they found our sisters dead in a heap of naked flesh by the river, when our brothers' half rotten bodies were sent back for burial. They've been crying since then, and we have no more water to wash away their tears"
"We shivered at their words, these innocent children..their words seeped in so much dread and what was most tragic was these children so young to only half understand the sick hurt of these wounds, with their tormented faces and questioning eyes, came each day clutching small pots and tiny glasses to our well. We let them take as much water as they liked, and after a few days they stopped coming..because our well had dried up."
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