A hole in the bucket is not just about a hole but reflects a whole lot of holes that need to be plugged in life – from potholes to manholes to pocketholes… And there are some holes that should happily stay that way. Santosh Bakaya goes on an expedition to understand the whole thing about holes.
Enjoy Morning Meanderings with a hot cup of tea or coffee and some cookies to munch on the food for thought. 😊 ☕️
As I stepped out of the house for my walk, I was absolutely amused by the sight of an egret commuting between two slothful cows – one sitting, the other standing, both looking around equally mournfully.
The egret pecked at one of the legs of the standing cow, and then went towards the sitting cow. It continued pecking, and the cow continued sitting, totally unfazed.
Had it noticed me watching its antics? It hastily skittered away on wobbly legs, and started stalking insects on the rain-wet patch of grass near a freshly formed puddle.
Soon it was back – this time it hopped on to the back of the sitting cow, while the cow continued its ponderous introspection.
Some of the labourers were still in deep sleep. One of them was looking at me, bleary-eyed. I remembered hearing their highly inebriated snatches of conversation, gusts of laughter, loud music and disjointed shouts, late into the night. A party had been in full swing, and expletives had flown about like dirt from under a horse’s hoofs.
Saluting the grit and never-say-die spirit of the egret, and the equilibrium of the cow, in which the cocky egret, had failed to make any holes, I walked further and saw Kanchan hurrying towards me with brisk steps. She seemed to be in a highly excited state.
Rushing towards the apartment farther away she greeted me, with a very bright good morning.
“You look very happy today?” I asked.
“Yes, I am. 23 ko birthday party hai, aapko aana hai.”
“Whose birthday party?”
“My son’s. All the villagers are going to come – relatives from my parents’ village and those from my husband’s.”
“But people from two villages! Hosting them will be pretty costly, won’t it?”
“Yes.” She beamed, waving to me and racing towards the neighbouring apartment.
“It will cost nearly twenty thousand. We are taking a loan from the bank.” She shouted, still beaming.
I almost gasped, at this revelation, but decided not to bother.
If she is not worried that such fiscal imprudence would create holes in their pockets, why should I be worried?
On the practical side, I had to be more wary of the potholes on the road.
And manholes (should it be men holes?) just waiting to welcome head-in-the-air, absent-minded women into their watery depths.
Out of nowhere, Harry Belafonte and Odetta started singing in my head:
“There is a hole in the bucket.
With what shall I fix it, dear Liza, with what?”
“My pocket is like a drum, nothing but air in it.”
I heard one of the labourers remark.
“And my pocket has nothing but holes.” Another rejoined as raucous guffaws rent the air.
The resounding laughter had popped comedian Mehmood in my mindscape bellowing:
Na Biwi na Bachcha
na Baap bada na Bhaiyya
The WHOLE thing is that ki Bhaiyya
Sabse bada rupaiyya
(Neither wife nor kid nor father or brother
The whole thing is that Brother,
the Biggest of all is MONEY)
But now Mehmood had been firmly replaced by Bellafonte who chirped “With what shall I fix it?” but I was convinced there are indeed some things which can never be fixed.
But, I must confess, my morning walks are a WHOLE lot of fun – and one needs no fixing there.
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