He had seen everything. Pure moments of joy and utter hopelessness. He had seen the extremities of both. He found out quite early the risks of being passionate about ones profession. But his passion was too strong to let go a vocation that he loved.
There was nothing like waking up in the morning and rotating the wheel to make a pot. He kept the wheel moving and was rewarded with some of the most beautiful and graceful curves that a pot could ever hope to get. People thought that there was some kind of magic in his hands and he was perhaps blessed with the skill. But only he knows how much he toiled to master the craft. But he loved working hard at his favourite skill. He had a secret ingredient – Love. He was passionate about his love and dedication for making the best shapes. His eyes never failed to find out the minutest flaws or identify a brilliant pattern.
Patterns. He was very good at identifying them. He was also good at creating them. Not that he consciously trained for it, but this was an unconscious reward for all his hard work. He thought that there was a pattern for everything in life, not only his pots. He wondered at the master architect of life for having created such an artistic piece of world which seemed arbitrary at first glance, but deep down he thought that there was a specific pattern to happenings. The patterns and their connections were so nakedly visible to him that he never complained. Even when the wheel of life left him all alone. He thought it was better for people to live under illusions as the naked truth is very hard to accept.
There was something he was not able to understand – commerce. Lots of people visiting him gave him lots of advice as to how cheap he had priced his wares and how much more he could earn if he sold them in the nearby town. They also told him that he ought to paint the pots as it would look colourful. He never understood the last point. What better colour can there be than the colour of the earth – brown? How could a pot look beautiful in green or yellow or blue? To him, those colours were highly artificial and he thought his creations looked best in their raw form. In the colour of mother earth.
His wares were under priced and he knew that the wholesalers were selling them at a very high price in the neighbouring town. In fact, he had no fixed pricing strategy. Forget it, he had no strategy. He priced his wares according to his necessities. The prices went up and down like a stock market without any logic and so frequently. But no one complained. He always managed to make more money than he wanted.
Since he was quite popular in his locality, he was rarely approached by journalists. Once, a reporter from a national newspaper asked him if he got any support from the Government.
“Why should the Government support me? I am not affected or something. To a creator, creating a masterpiece gives immense happiness. Much more than selling it for the highest price or becoming world famous because of it”
To a creator, his creation is his happiness.
You could visit the Short Stories (Fiction) Section of this blog to read more such stories.