Ganga was one of two clay pots that hung from a bamboo pole across old Bhola’s shoulders every morning, swaying together on the walk from the well to Meera didi’s farmhouse.

The other pot, Yamuna, always arrived full to the brim.

Ganga arrived half-empty every single time. A crack ran down her side like a dry riverbed, and no matter how carefully Bhola walked, water seeped out drop by drop along the path.

“Look at you,” Yamuna said one morning, smug in her fullness. “By the time we reach the farmhouse, half of what he fetched from you is gone.”

Ganga said nothing. What was there to say? She knew it was true.

For two years this continued. Every day, Bhola filled her at the well, and every day, she failed him a little more.

One morning, unable to carry the shame any longer, Ganga spoke as they set off. “Bhola, I should be replaced. A new pot wouldn’t waste your effort.”

Bhola didn’t answer straightaway. He kept walking, sandals scuffing the dust, until they reached the bend where the neem tree threw its shade across the path.

“Ganga,” he said, “look down.”

She looked.

Marigolds. Rows of them, orange and gold, growing thick along her side of the path — the exact stretch where her crack let water fall, day after day, for two years.

On Yamuna’s side, only dry earth and stubborn weeds.

“I noticed the flowers the first month,” Bhola said. “I planted marigold seeds along your side and let your leak water them. Every morning, without knowing it, you’ve been growing something for Meera didi’s puja and for her daughter’s hair, and for the temple steps in the village.”

Ganga stayed quiet a long moment, the water still trickling gently from her crack, darkening the earth beneath the flowers.

“I always thought I was the pot that failed,” she said finally.

“You were the pot that watered what the whole pot never could,” Bhola said, hoisting the bamboo pole again. “Come. Meera didi is waiting, and so are your flowers.”