It's 4 am. The crows have begun their morning lament; the roosters will grab the baton soon. The water is dribbling from the tap at the crossroad. And underneath an orange plastic bucket collects its meagre dose for a family of six. It will have to last the day.

The line of buckets begins the evening before, as those that finish their water first seek a refill. There is very little extra, and there is but a small damp patch of waste in the red earth. An occasional car passes and kicks up the dust. It leaves a film on the waters surface. This terra cotta will permeate everything. All whites become pink, and then get darker every time they are washed.

Still the water drips, and dark skinned women in brightly coloured sari's squat and chat together as they watch the dribble bring them closer to their return home, to a smoky fire and the cooking pot.

No one will touch another's bucket, but the excitement rises as the bucket fills, lest the next in line should forget to come back and thus be ousted from their place. No regrets, no bitterness, just go to the back of the queue again and risk the wrath of a husband not yet clean enough to call his day finished.

The queue never ends. This plastic serpent just changes colour and form with different times of day.

And from above the crows bear witness, passing comment.

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