A long bamboo pole stands beside his two baskets. When he is walking, the two baskets dangle from the ends of the pole balanced on his shoulders. Sometimes, especially during harvest time when help is needed and his wife accompanies him to his field, he carries his grandchildren in the baskets, among tools, packets of food and jars of rice beer. Today the baskets are filled with reddish-brown clay flower pots, water jars and basins.

There are steps on the stairway. The door is opened, its hinges screeching, and a woman in brilliant colored sari appears. She asks why he has not come for the last few months. "My daughter was to be married; we had to arrange for her giving away." They discuss the groom for a long time.

She squats in the doorway telling her children and what they are doing. She fingers the clay wares. She needs one basin to wash clothes in and one water jar. The old clay water jar that she is using can be seen through the door. Its sides are green, covered with slippery algae. There are bumps on its glistening belly, like boils, where cracks have been cemented to stop leaks. The water jar is three feet high. She uses its water to wash dishes and clothes. She has two medium-sized copper water jars and one bronze, she says, by for the summer she like the clay ones better because the well water she draws remains refreshingly cool in them.

The jars she uses for drinking water are cleaned twice daily - a woman who does not do so is alachin, a bringer of ill fortune. She goes back inside and brings out another smaller clay water jar she is using. There is a hairline fracture along its side, through which water seeps. She has to be very careful to lift it, she complains, otherwise it will fall apart. Water leaks from it and makes a puddle on the kitchen's mud floor, and her mother-in-law is always grumbling about it. This morning when her husband was ready for work, all dressed up in clean clothes, he walked past the water jar, slipped in the puddle and fell. His clothes were discoloured by the red floor and he was very angry.

After she washes the dishes with water from the old large jar, she has to wash it again before they eat. "One has to be very careful; my aunt's daughter caught typhoid." She likes good water jars that are not in danger of breaking because the ones she has must be carried one at a time to the attic kitchen, otherwise they will fall apart.

After this long recital, she asks, "How is business?"

A toothy smile. "Dasain is coming," he says, "everyone will need clay utensils for worship and I have begun to make them. After all, it is never good to wait until the last moment."

At home, his land is clay; it gives him his material for work. His crops are rich and healthy; the land gives him his food. Grey, unbaked pots are set in rows to dry out in the sunny lawn. He has been making these pots for days. The straw ceiling of his working shed has to be changed this fall and the tiles on the roof have to replaced too.

His daughter and wife are out weeding the fields. He feels sad sometimes that he did not send all his children to school (his eldest son is an officer in the Nepalese government). But the fingers of those that did not study are deft and pots that they make are good. As for his daughters, one was married recently and the other has received offers of marriage from good families.

The clay that he prepared more than a week ago is properly soft. He added water to the clay of his field and when the water was absorbed, he mixed them together with his feet. Now and then, when his feet encountered pebbles or stones, he bent down and picked them out. Later he added more water and let the mixture stand for a few days. When it was ready, he took out lump after lump, carefully kneading each by hand. Every portion had to be perfect. This prepared clay was covered from the sun and air by sacks so it would not lose moisture. If the clay dried prematurely, his products would be of inferioir quality.

His second son is kneading lumps of clay in preparation for this afternoon's work, making pots on the huge wooden wheel. This wheel has been with the family for a long time; it is of solid wood and very expensive to make if one had to be made today. A stick is inserted in a small hole in the wheel and the wheel is spun in a flurry of human effort. His son squats next to the quickly moving wheel, takes a lump of clay, places it on the centre of the wheel gently and after a moment's pressure, the clay rises magically between his hands. His thumbs dig into the spinning lump and without effort, the shape of a pot appears.

When the pots are ready, they will be dried in the sun and, in a day or two if the sun is out, they will be ready to be baked in the oven until they are bright red. His oven is small compared to the ones that are used to make bricks. One day he had come to look at a local brick factory erected with Chinese technical assistance; the enormity of its chimney made him dizzy.

His oven is circular, and at its bottom is a matting of husk, straw and sawdust. When the oven is filled, he will seal it and light a fire. After being baked for several days, the pots will be ready.

She originally wanted to buy only one water jar and one basin, but as they talk, she decides that she needs two water jars, large and small, a basin, and three flower pots. Business is smooth and he raises the price of his goods just enough not to scare her away and still leave a margin for bargaining to make her feel good.

His baskets sway lightly from the pole on his shoulders as he prepares to go. He promises to come by the next month, wishes her well, and smiles a goodbye. She smiles back at him. Her smile is red, like the clay wares that he sold to her.