he Fire’s Secrets
I was breathing easily now, knowing I had been very lucky. My thoughts travelled ahead of me, dreaming of pots full of hot food, boiling just now, Mother cooking for the many hungry mouths around the table... My wild imagination laid out an image: the mute daily suffering of the clay moulded into pots. It knew the heat of the fire and the clack of the embers, alive with sparks, giving alms for the souls of the dry firewood, heading to the heavens on the wings of flame. I was dreaming of the tantalizing aromas coming out of the pots, the intermittent quarrel and buoyancy of the boiling, envious of the hosting pot, the only one enjoying, at times, Mother’s undivided attention.
My mind was pleasantly engaged in wandering, to such an extent that I did not even realise that
