The Parable of the Water Pot

The Parable of the Water Pot

There was a Master Craftsman, an artist in the field of metalwork, who once made a Karuwa, a Water Pot for a family who lived in the next village.  With pride, he made not only a vessell that would hold water for a century or more, but one that was ornamented beautifully, with a belly that resembled the pleating of a golden silk sari and a spout that was encircled with devices that resembled an arm laden with gold bangles.  His brasswork was his legacy to his people and he lay awake some nights thinking of new ways to decorate his pots and tals.

He made statues once in awhile, but his fame was based on the items he made for practical uses.  Women who used his spoons and ladles in cooking or who drew water from the village square into one of his pots, felt a little prouder of their role in life because of the beauty that called out from these humble items.

And so it was during his lifetime... but then the house where the pot had been cherished collapsed in a landslide of mud one day and the family did not rebuild on the site.  Instead, as was often the case in those days, they found it easier to build on a new site a few thousand steps form that where the old house had been.  They built a new house and bought new household goods.  Indeed, the son married and part of his new wife's dowry was a collection of new brass that shone like the sun.  It may not have been crafted with as much detail and pride as the old items, but everything matched and it all was new.  Neighbours praised the wisdom and good fortune of the family in taking a bride that brought such a wealth of household goods into their home and life went on...

Decades past and the small country, once almost inaccessible to the world because of its high mountain walls, became less so with the advent of paved roads and airplanes.  Men came from the West to buy goods from this small country, delighting in its uniqueness.  They pillaged temples that had fallen into ruin and sent messages throughout the villages that they would be willing to pay well for old traditional items.  Pay well in the sense that the money was more than a farmer could make when he sold a season's harvest of rice or a man when he sold a young goat.  In fact, what these merchants made by selling the items in the faraway lands far surpassed the amounts given to the poor people of the land.

One day, one of the people of the village remembered the house that had been buried in mud and set out to reclaim some of the items.  Thrilled to find a number of brass pieces, including the old water pot, he sent word to his cousin who lived in the capital.  The foreign merchant came and bought everything, taking it back to his own country to sell to the highest bidder.

To him, the thick incrustation of mud on the items increased their value, speaking as it did of age.  He made no effort to clean anything, and the people who bought the items referred to the mud often as a patina, a charming artistic addition to the original brass.

The poor Karuwa though was miserable.  Her spirit longed to isng again, to delight in the coolnees of the water that once lay in her belly and coursed through her spout to give life to humankind.  The mud stopped up her senses.  She was blind and dumb and shamed by the ugliness that obscured her natural brilliance.

What use is a water pot that cannot dispense water to the thirsy?  What value does such an item have when it is defined more by ancient mud than the careful and beautiful details given to it by its creator?

Is not the person who allows such a travesty to remain untouched an unenlightened being, whatever claims are made as to Eastern enlightenment on his or her part?  Buying an item of power does not confer any automatic power on its purchaser.  If the Karuwa spends decades in her new home miserable, darkened still by the filth of years gone by, indeed filth created by an ancient tragedy and the ruin of a home, will this not dim any potential to enlightenment?

People speak glibly about ritual items and the beauty of Eastern cultures and yet understand NOTHING.  Surely the greatest gift one could make to the artist and the water pot herself would be to strip her of the ancient filth and restore her beauty, to collect water in her belly and drink it.