Invisible Pebbles

By Parthavi

The bustling town and the calm village collided at the lane; the village ended there, and the town began. Standing at this border on a foggy, quiet morning was the old widow. The town gave her bread, the village gave her shelter. She was known for her little tricks — some called them ‘magic’. Carrying two pots in her hands, she waited for people to convene. Many puzzled faces paused there; she kept the pots in the center of the lane. One was marked with “For women”, the other had “For Men” engraved on it. 

Two notes on each pot were hanging by a thread : “Leave a pebble inside this pot each time you feel unsafe.”

Men laughed it off, women exchanged glances. The old woman announced that she would be picking up the pots, once they get filled. Few days passed by; the pots became talk of the town. Initially, the residents were just the onlookers. Until one day, when a eight year old girl from the town dropped a pebble. Others dismissed her attempt by passing comments like, “little girl thought it’s a game”. Gradually, rest of the women, right from the farms to big firms started slipping stones inside — each after a gaze that haunted, a hand that silently rubbed off, footsteps that followed, whispers that were loud enough to shake them on the busy market road. Soon, the women’s pot began to fill. All dropped a pebble, all dropped an experience.

The men played the curious spectators all along. Few participated, but their pot remained almost empty with just a few pebbles resting at the bottom. 

Weeks later, a group of males saw the old widow walking towards her pots. They gathered and earnestly peeped into both the pots. Some smirked while some frowned. “The women’s pot is empty”, others nodded. The men’s pot glinted in the sunlight. One woman from the crowd peered into their pot  — “ours is full”. “Exactly!”, exclaimed the old widow, “it had to be”.

The men looked again astonishingly, but all they could see were their own reflections in the hollow pots. The pebbles were invisible to those who would never had to carry the fear of existing; existing in a world where each moment you’ve to carry the weight of “will I reach home safely, will I be safe today?” 

Each pebble was a story — an unheard one. The hollowness of the pots was a sign of “peace” to the men while all it meant was the ignorance.

The old widow took the filled pot and went away. All could hear the soft clinking sound — the echo of invisible pebbles, heavy enough to fill the world.

By Parthavi