The Project ***

The old man worked feverishly, a cigarette dangling at the tip of his lips. I watched him as he shovelled the small stones and sand, making a small hill. Then he emptied the bag of cement over it, and shoveled and mixed, making a crater on the hill. Then he added some water from a bucket, and mixed it again. Turning it over with his shovel. The grating sound was irritating, but the dangling cigarette was so captivating that I continued to watch. Then the other man came along with the wheelbarrow. Together, they carted the concrete over to the construction area. They spoke little, but they knew exactly what to do.

Soon they stopped work for the day, had a quick wash and left. I left too. I had to find two tins. And a rod.

It was soon dark. I looked around. The coast was clear. I brought the two medium sized tins. I filled both with a mixture of stones and sand. This I carried to the secluded area behind the wall, emptying them on the small flat concrete area. I went back a second trip for the cement. And again for the water. I mixed everything. I used a trowel to mix the ingredients, and once satisfied, filled the two tins with the concrete. I was soaked in sweat, and my legs and feet were grey with sand and concrete. I still had to find the rod. I quickly went over to the bathroom area at the end of the wall, washed up and started looking for a rod. And then I saw it. A wooden stick. It was round and smooth, and at least 4 feet long. It looked sturdy enough. It would do.

I tilted the two tins on their side, praying that the contents would not slide out. It did not. The concrete mixture was quite firm. Juxtaposing the two tins opposite each other, I carefully inserted the rod into each. Some of the concrete fell out, and I plastered it back with the trowel. I stood back. It looked good. Covering the whole arrangements with some fallen leaves and debris, I left.

***
It had been 3 days now. Every morning I would arrive anxiously. I would test the hardness of the concrete. I would stand, admiring the beautiful object. And after a while, I would cover it, and leave. It was a daily ritual.

I was sure the concrete had hardened sufficiently. I gripped the wooden rod delicately with both my hands. I carefully measured the distance, making sure I was gripping at the exact center. Balance was important. And heaving a sigh, I lifted. It was not heavy. But the moment the tins left the ground, “Crack.” The rod broke, and the tins fell with a sickening thud to the ground.

I looked down at the scene of the disaster. My home-made dumbbells lay in pieces.