Yesterday, I wrote about my grandmother, and since then, I have been remembering my childhood in her home. I am remembering where we got water. Growing up in a rural area made me aware that water does not come from the tap and rice does not come from stores. We had a well, which was a man-dug well. It had a wall to protect us from falling down. I knew how to take water by using a bucket tied with a long rope from that well since I was very young.
We did not have a bathroom, and we bathed in an open space near the well. We washed our clothes near our well. In summer, our well usually dried up and had only a limited water supply. We had to go and bathe and wash our clothes in our neighbors' wells, which still had good water sources. After that, we would also carry some amount of water back home for regular use. When women were using the well, men did not come near us, and therefore, I felt safe.
In some villages, they did not have good water sources, and therefore, needed to go a very long way to carry water. These girls and women, we said, had better body shapes because they needed to walk a long way and carry water. When everyone was doing that, carrying water over my head was nothing special, and I was very willing to do that to help my grandmother. I felt useful.
Both in front of our home and behind it were paddy fields, and nothing obstructed my views. There was a stream behind our home that separated our home from the paddy fields. It was linked to the sea, and therefore, the water had a salty taste. I am remembering and missing those days.
Now the place has changed a lot with the development of a bridge linked to the nearby city. Previously, we needed to take ferries to go there. I needed to learn how to balance and walk on a thin wooden slab connecting the ferries and the harbor since I was very young. Rarely, but there were times when people fell from that place into the water, and therefore, it was not safe even for adults. Nevertheless, I survived all these.
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