The fur in the pot

A line from the bard’s Measure for Measure played out in my life recently. That morning, I carried a few lit incense sticks to the verandah to place them in a foot-deep terracotta pot. As usual, I put my hand through the narrow opening to place it within.

Even before my hand went halfway down, it chanced on something soft and cuddly. I withdrew my hand in a jiffy, accompanied by a stifled scream, frightfully flabbergasted. What could have got into the pot?

The colour and the size matched that of a kitten. I recollected that a cat of a similar hue had littered recently in the vicinity. Perhaps she had placed her kitten in the hollow of the pot. I decided to verify my guesswork and focused the torch into the orifice. There was no movement. 

Apparently, an animal of some sort. Though we do not house any pets, a stray kitten or, God forbid, a rat from the garden probably slinked in through the open door and decided to rest there. I dreaded the thought of even speculating on the possibility of any other species nestling there. So, I armed myself with a stick, fetched the spray used to kill pests and a flashlight for a better view.

Then I wiped my spectacles clean, switched on the light and, with a prayer on my lips, prepared myself to solve the mind-boggling mystery. I gently pushed the pot towards the main door to facilitate the creature jumping out and making an exit. I waited in anticipation. In the absence of action from the creature within the urn, I gathered the courage to peer into the narrow neck flashing the light. I was taken aback to see a tawny furry creature crouched in it. 

By then, I was considerably reassured and emboldened. I breathed deeply and put my hand into the pot and retrieved the fur ball carefully out of it. It will be an understatement to say that I was stunned to see a stuffed owl doll in my hand. A moment later, I smiled at the pot. Just a day ago, we had five little guests. Apparently one of the toddlers had stashed his booty in the pot and forgotten about it. 

I speculated on how he would feel when he did remember. Maybe he would cry, mope or sulk and eventually get over it and move on. New exposures and experiences will expand his horizons. He will find himself seeking pots of gold at the end of the endless rainbows he would encounter in his life.

On rumination, I realised that the humble mud pot had captured the crux of childhood innocence and the angsts of adulthood ignorance without much ado. Perhaps this why William Shakespeare wrote, “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.”

(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.)