A Common History

History happened here. It wasn’t the kind of history that made the news, or the kind that was mentioned in history text books that children thirty years from now would have to memorize. It wasn’t even the kind of history that the village would talk about in the coming months or years. It was a simple history. A history of love and kindness. Of sacrifice. Of a mother and a son. Of long days under the scorching sun and short nights on cold and sandy floors. Of infinite paddy fields surrounding their mud thatched house. Of one jute sleeping mat, patterned green and red, spread on the floor. Of a mosquito net unfurled, protective, above the mat. Of clay floor stoves just inches away, surrounded by steel pans and mud pots. Of spice jars filled with every flavor imaginable. Of a tiny well shared by a hundred villagers. Of the two mile walk from their thatched house to the well, women barefoot and braving the heat. Of the little brass pot that was filled with their days' water supply, that they rationed ever so carefully. History happened here, and all it was, was the struggle of everyday life. The greatest history ever.