Of Wells And Childhood Memories

Our next door neighbours have recently had a new well dug at their house. The construction of the well was done a few weeks back (shortly after the diggers reached water), but the pulley/ropes, pipes etc to actually draw the water out were installed just yesterday (thank you, Lockdown 2021). 

I have a clear view of this well from the first floor balcony of our house, and earlier this evening, when I was standing in the balcony, checking on my newly planted potted seeds and sprouts, I spotted my neighbours' approximately 12 year old son busy in the process of drawing water from their newly constructed well. I looked on as he carefully lowered the pot into the well using the rope and pulley, and then I could hear the familiar "plop" as the pot fell into the water. He then proceeded to pull it up, slow and steady.

Watching him immersed in this process took me back to the simple days of my childhood, spent at my grandmother's house. 

With the advent of modern living, compressed spaces for homes, and more people living in flats and housing societies, most homes rely on borewells nowadays, and digging wells has majorly become a thing of the past, although they do still very much exist. A few years back though, wells used to be the main source of water for most households.

Having spent most of my growing years in North East India (Nagaland), as a child, our family used to visit our hometown of Mangalore, in South India, only once a year, mostly in December, for the Christmas/New Year holidays, and it was also when me and my brother would celebrate our birthdays, both of which coincidentally happen to be in January, within a few days of each other. It was always a really fun filled time, spent playing with cousins and neighbourhood friends, surrounded by loving uncles and aunties, and experiencing the peaceful life in the countryside, so to speak.

At my maternal grandmother's house in Moodbidri is a very big and old well, which I can safely assume is quite a bit older than I am. It has bravely withstood the test of time, although now its water has pretty much all but dried up. About two to three decades back, however, it used to be the principle lifeline at my granny's house.

It is a very wide and really deep well, and as I recall it was quite deep even when the water in it was abundant. It stood proudly at the right side corner of the house, and I can fondly recall tiny little me slowly sneaking out of my granny's house at times to go peep into the well. I was never really a mischievous child, mind you, but there was something about staring into the depths of that huge, mystifying well that would just fascinate me. I would be eventually discovered by the elders of the house, of course, and dragged away from it, but those minutes spent in pure solitude, throwing tiny stones and watching them make their way through space before they touched the water with the musical "plop" and create magical ripples in the water; these are very fond childhood memories that not even the best or most expensive gadget in the world can ever hope to beat.

We do still visit my grandmother's house, although the frequency now is nowhere remotely near where it was in the days gone by, what with the complexities of growing up. Whenever we do visit though, I never fail to spend a few minutes with my dear old friend, that majestic well, straining my eyes to see if I can spot the water in it, and throwing a stone or two in, for old time's sake, as I wait for that familiar sound, that's always music to my ears.