The Crooked Pot

In the village of Kumharpur lived a potter named Dhanna. Every morning his wheel hummed, and round, even pots rose under his fingers like magic.

One day a gust of wind shook the wheel, and a pot came out with a long, crooked neck that leaned to one side. Dhanna laughed, baked it with the others and put it on the shelf.

The other pots were proud of their straight necks. "Nobody will buy you," said a shiny water pot. "You cannot even stand up properly." The crooked pot said nothing. At night, when the shop was dark, it wished it could be melted back into clay.

Customers came and went. The straight pots were sold one by one. The crooked pot stayed, gathering dust.

Then, one hot afternoon, old Kamla Dadi walked in. Her hands shook, and she could no longer lift a heavy pot to water the tulsi on her window sill. She tried pot after pot. Water splashed everywhere.

Her eyes fell on the dusty corner. She picked up the crooked pot and tilted it only a little. A thin, neat stream of water flowed from its leaning neck, straight to where she pointed.

"This one," she said, smiling. "It pours by itself."

From that day the crooked pot sat on Kamla Dadi's window. Every morning it gave the tulsi a drink, and every morning Dadi patted its bent neck and said, "My clever pot."

Dhanna heard about it and began to make one crooked pot every week. People now ask for them by name.