Vedantic Tales : I Carry

Sometimes the flat rice fields that surrounded the small village in the heart of India were flooded so that the palm trees along their embankments were reflected in the tranquil waters, but now they were so parched and bare that it seemed as if life could never again spring from them.

For the thirtieth morning in a row Niranjan stood outside his small hut and looked for signs of the black, rain heavy clouds that long since should have raced up out of the south. But as usual the sky was empty; only a faint haze obscured the horizon, and though the sun had barely risen, the air was momentarily growing more hot and close.

Niranjan wife, Prema, walked toward him, coming from the village tank, where she had bathed in the low water. On one shoulder she carried a large earthen jar, and across the other, her long black hair hung dripping wet. He waited for her, watching the dust rise in little puffs around her bare feet. When she came up to him, she put down her jar and sitting on a stool dried her hair. Then together they went into the house to perform the morning worship at their small shrine.

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