EXATIO: Water for The Desert

By Jullie Hsieh

"Exatio is an amazing read. Hsieh has written the most important book you can read right now. Beautiful."

Mark Victor Hansen, NYT Bestselling Author Chicken Soup for The Soul

About the Author:

Julie has always looked at things a little differently. Instea

• Language: English
• Publisher: BEYOND PUBLISHING
• Release date: Feb 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781637924846

Book preview

The town of Exatio was small, a bare pin-prick on the map of Jharkhand, on the edge of Chaibasa and Ghatshila. The soil was always dry and hot during the summer months, parched from baking in the heat day after day. Most of the foliage was tough and brown, holding on to every scrap of moisture until the rains came, waiting, thirsty for something to drink.

I was born during the monsoon season, a time when the rains bring much-needed water to the land. My parents named me Aarna, which means wave or ocean in Sanskrit. We were lucky the year I was born, my father always told me—there was plenty of water for everyone to drink, even during the dry months. Over the past few years, though, less rain has filled our wells, and now we do not have enough water to slake the thirst of my village.

Our farmlands, which used to be filled with crops, are now barren, with a few wisps of dried leaves quickly eaten by hungry goats and cows. My mother and father, unable to grow food to feed our family, walk two kilometers to neighboring farmlands, where they work from dawn to dusk to earn enough to support all five of us.

I was the oldest daughter, so it was my duty to take over the household responsibilities. Every morning, I rose early to make a breakfast of rice and chapati—a flat wheat bread—for my parents, who would soon leave for the fields, and then for my brothers. My youngest brother, Naveen, was two years old and needed to be fed small, careful bites. At six years old, Qarin ate at such a pace it was a wonder he didn’t choke. I reminded him that soon he would be too old to listen to me.

After breakfast, I stacked the dishes to be washed by me later; then I tied Naveen to my back so I could walk Qarin to school. He already felt he was man-enough to walk himself, so I followed behind, carrying the empty water containers I would fill in the next town over. Our well had been dry for months, so I had to walk three kilometers to get water from the water truck that came every other day.

The schoolhouse was located one kilometer from our village, a long trek even in the morning when the air was still cool. It stood tall, made from mud, with a sturdy straw-and-stick roof that kept most of the elements out. Qarin ran for it the second it came into view, shouting greetings to his friends and leaving me in the dust. I was supposed to walk to the next village and fill up my family’s water containers, but sometimes I would sneak around the side of the schoolhouse to the window and listen to the lesson as Naveen slept on my back.

Like most girls in my community, I had to stop going to school when I was old enough to help with the household chores. Though I could read and do sums as well as most of the boys in my class, it was not considered necessary for me to further my education.

If my parents discovered me reading or studying at home, I would be scolded and told how worthless education was for girls. Yet, most days, after returning from taking my brother to school, I sat outside my window on the roof, reading, until the sun climbed almost to midday before scooping up Naveen and continuing with my daily duties of cleaning and cooking, sewing, and walking to the well for water.

The morning cool was long gone as I started the trip back after filling the jugs with water. I had to carry almost forty pounds of water in each hand—enough to last my family for a few days—while Naveen slept on my back, blissful and unaware. The sun beat down, and the cotton sari I wore did nothing to protect me from the heat, snagging on the occasional twig or branch as I trudged along the dusty road. My hair, twined into a thick braid that reached halfway down my back, felt like a sweaty rope. Naveen sometimes tugged on it in his sleep. My thin sandals couldn’t protect my toes from the scorching sand, either. It felt like I was walking on hot coals.

I wished for the thick western sneakers that Qarin and his friends were allowed to wear or the shorts that looked cool and comfortable—unlike my ankle-length lehenga2 that stuck to my sweaty legs, with its many patches and mends. I wished for a comfortable western cotton t-shirt instead of my choli2, which had become tighter over the past few years as I grew. But most importantly, I wished I was a boy like my brothers, so I could sit in the cool classroom and learn, rather than walk to get water like the other girls my age.

Yatin was waiting for me, as he always did on the days when I went to get water. He was the son of the village Sarpanch3—our elected leader—and had one of the largest houses, along with three goats and a cow. I had known Yatin all my life. He was tall, with dark skin, hair, and eyes. Though I did not consider him very smart, he was strong and a talented carpenter who was always busy with repairs around the village.

When I was almost a year old, and he was four, our parents arranged for us to be engaged, or mangetar4. Unlucky as he was that his first born was a daughter, my father considered himself fortunate for being able to find me such a