The sky is pearl-grey when I awake. My sister Phulan pushes me out of bed. Yawning and rubbing my eyes, I tie a piece of soap into the corner of my chadar. I pick up two earthen pors and a padded ring to balance one pot on my head.


The other fits under my arm. My camel, Mithoo, and I set off for the water hole, the toba. Mithoo's small brass bell jingles cheerfully as he moves his head, impatient for me to fold back the reed door which leads from our courtyard to the outside. I make Mithoo carry the empty goatskin to the toba.


At the toba I look out over our dwindling water supply. We probably have a month, perhaps three weeks, before the water disappears. The monsoon will not begin for another two months. Then will be the time for flowers, mushrooms, weddings and water, but not now. Two-toed camel footprints are baked into the shiny clay at the outer edges of the toba. I clutch my skirt withone hand, and the mud squirts between my toes as I enter the water. I push aside the green scum that floats just under the surface and place the edge of my chador over the mouth of the water pot to filter out impurities. I take the filled pot to the bathing rock at the edge of the toba and started by cleaning my hair by pouringthe water that I had collected.The sun edges over the horizon. I can feel its heat on my back and shoulders as the water trickles over my scalp. I rub the soap into my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the soapy water drain down my shoulders and neck, rubbing into my skin before rinsing off to preserve every drop. Mama used to bath my sister and me with a single cup of water when we were small.




The sun is extremely hot as I walk back. Over the next week we watch our water dwindle yet further. In the heat of the afternoons, before the daily wind and dust arrive, we dry herbs. As the precious water slips away with the hot desert wind, we also make our preparations for leaving the toba and moving on.