Highest Ranking #1 in Ethnicity
Veena Parthasarathy, an 18-year-old American girl, has her whole world turned upside down after the sudden demise of her mother. Veena's dreams of starting university are deferred, and she's left with a lingering guil...
Restless and unable to sleep, I found myself wrestling with my thoughts after Nandhini and Varun had left. The village, once brimming with life and excitement, now felt strangely quiet and uneventful. After yesterday's weird dream, I needed to distract myself. My brain was definitely acting weird. I decided it was high time to acquire a new skill—something different, something I hadn't had the chance to learn. I wondered; I researched, but nothing really hit me.
But, then I remembered mom telling me that our ancestors were originally potters. When it came to my grandfather, his father taught him pottery, but didn't want him to do it as a profession. Since, they were landowners, busy with farming activities and taking care of village duties, pottery had become a lost cause.
If I was going to connect with my roots, what better way?
I knew my grandpa was a skilled potter, but I had never seen him in action. With curiosity tugging at me, I approached him with the idea of learning pottery. His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he agreed. He led me to a small, rustic shed adjacent to our house, a treasure trove of his crafted pots, each bearing a unique tale.
Inside the shed, the air was thick with the earthy scent of clay. My grandpa began showing me his creations, explaining their purposes and the intricacies of their design as I admired their artistry. My interest soared with each passing moment, and I was eager to dive into the world of pottery.
Excitedly, I inquired when we could begin crafting pots on the wheel. My grandpa smiled warmly but gently shook his head. "Not yet," he said, "First, you need to understand the clay, the very essence of pottery." Disappointment washed over me, but I trusted his wisdom.
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In the days following, he let me play with the clay, teaching me how to wedge the clay properly. It was tiresome, but instead of sulking over it, I took a different approach. Besides learning, I also focused on painting the finished pots and capturing their essence through photographs. To share our newfound passion with the world, I even created an Instagram profile, 'Thatha's Pottery', dedicated to my grandpa's work. Although my initial frustration simmered, bonding with my grandpa became a beautiful experience.
Weeks passed, and my curiosity resurfaced. I couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't allowed me near the wheel. One day, unable to contain my curiosity, I asked him outright. He smiled and gestured for me to sit beside the wheel.
With a patient and steady hand, he taught me to wedge the clay to perfection. The process was both soothing and challenging, and it was only the beginning. Afterward, he turned on the wheel, and my heart raced with excitement as the clay came to life beneath my touch. Slowly, with his guidance, I began to shape my first piece—a delicate flower vase.
As the wheel spun, the vase emerged, slender and graceful. My grandpa's voice was a gentle presence, guiding my every movement. "Feel the clay," he'd say, "Let it speak to you." With his guidance, I shaped the vase's body and delicately fashioned its neck. Eventually, we knew it was time. With a wire, I cut the vase free from the wheel. A sense of pride welled up within me as I beheld my very first creation.
