Faces in Clay

Chapter One

The morning light filtered through the woven reed roof, casting soft shadows on the studio floor where Sunbal sat cross-legged, her fingers stained with ochre and cobalt. She wasn’t shaping pots today — her wheel was silent, the clay untouched. Instead, she was painting. A wide terracotta platter lay before her, and on it bloomed the face of her neighbor, Bibi Shazia, eyes closed, lips curved in a half-smile that held both weariness and grace.

Sunbal was fifteen, the youngest artisan in her family’s pottery workshop in Chak Daulat. Her father made sturdy water jugs, her uncle shaped ceremonial urns, and her older brother carved floral patterns into bowls. But Sunbal painted women. Not idealized goddesses or faceless brides — real women. Women who carried firewood and heartbreak. Women who laughed with missing teeth and danced at weddings with henna-stained feet.

She dipped her brush into a mix of crushed charcoal and tamarind pulp, outlining the creases around Bibi Shazia’s eyes. “These lines,” she whispered, “are stories.”

Her mother often frowned at her work. “People want paisleys and parrots, Sunbal. Not wrinkles and sadness.”

But Sunbal knew better. Tourists came for tradition. She painted for truth.

Her sketchbook was filled with faces: her aunt, who had lost a child and still sang lullabies to the wind; her cousin, who wore lipstick only on Eid but smiled like it was a daily ritual; her schoolteacher, Miss Rukhsana, whose stern face softened when she read poetry aloud. Each woman had a story, and Sunbal captured it in glaze and pigment.

Last week, she’d read an article in an old magazine left behind by a traveler. It was about Clay & Co, a global pottery chain that trained young artists from remote regions and showcased their work in galleries across the world. One photo showed a girl from Oaxaca, Mexico, painting portraits of her village’s midwives on ceramic tiles. Another featured a boy from Tunisia who sculpted pots shaped like his grandmother’s hands.

Sunbal had stared at the page until the ink blurred. “They see us,” she’d thought. “They see what we carry.”

She kept the article folded inside her sketchbook, tucked between drawings of her aunt’s grief-stricken face and her cousin’s wedding-day joy. Her dream was no longer vague — it had a name, a destination. She wanted to work for Clay & Co. She wanted her pots to speak in galleries where people listened.

That afternoon, she painted the face of Miss Rukhsana onto a wide vase. Her expression was stern, but Sunbal added a small dimple at the corner of her mouth — a secret softness only her students knew. She wrote a line beneath the chin in Urdu: “She taught us to read, even when the roof leaked.”

Her cousin Imran wandered in, carrying a bundle of dried reeds. “You’re painting again? That teacher looks like she’s about to scold me.”

“She probably will,” Sunbal said, smiling.

He peered closer. “You should send these to that company you keep talking about. What’s it called — Clay & Something?”

“Clay & Co,” she corrected. “They take submissions from young artists. I just need to send photos and a story.”

Imran shrugged. “You’ve got stories. And faces. Just need someone to believe in them.”

That night, Sunbal sat by the lantern and wrote her artist’s statement. Her Urdu was poetic, but she struggled to translate it into English. Still, she tried:

“My name is Sunbal. I paint women who are not seen. I use clay and color to tell their stories. Each pot is a face. Each face is a memory. I live in a village where women carry the world on their heads and in their hearts.”

She paused, then added:

“I want the world to see them. Not just the pots.”

She folded the paper and placed it beside her sketchbook. Tomorrow, she would ask Imran to borrow a phone with a camera. She would photograph her work — close-ups of painted eyes, cracked smiles, and the quiet dignity of women who had never stepped into a gallery but deserved to be immortalized in one.

The next morning, she woke early and walked to the kiln. Her father was already there, checking the temperature. He glanced at her painted platter and raised an eyebrow. “You’re still painting faces?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

He didn’t reply, but he didn’t stop her either.

Sunbal placed her platter inside the kiln, watching the flames flicker around Bibi Shazia’s painted smile. She imagined the heat sealing the story into permanence, like a whispered truth hardened by fire.

Later, she sat by the window, sketching a new face — this time, her own. Not the way she looked in mirrors, but the way she felt: curious, determined, quietly fierce. She added a line beneath the chin:“She dreams in clay.”

And somewhere, in a studio far away, she imagined her work displayed under soft lights, with strangers leaning in to read the stories etched in glaze.

Chapter Two: Submitted to Clay & Co

The sun was high when Sunbal pulled the platter from the kiln. The clay was warm, the glaze set, and Bibi Shazia’s painted face gleamed with quiet defiance. A fine crack ran along the rim — barely visible — but Sunbal traced it with her thumb, wondering if it was a flaw or a mark of survival.

She placed the platter beside the vase of Miss Rukhsana and the bowl etched with her aunt’s lullaby. Three pieces. Three stories. Enough for a submission.

Imran arrived with his friend’s phone, a battered Android with a cracked screen. “It still takes pictures,” he said, handing it over like a sacred relic.

Sunbal nodded, her heart thudding. She arranged the pots on a white cloth, propped them against the courtyard wall where the light was soft and forgiving. She crouched low, framing each shot with care — close-ups of eyes, the curve of a smile, the Urdu inscriptions beneath each face. She took twenty photos, then twenty more.

Uploading them was harder. The signal flickered, the website took ages to load, and the submission form was in English. She leaned on her sketchbook, translating line by line, typing slowly with clay-stained fingers.

“My name is Sunbal. I am a potter from Chak Daulat, Pakistan. I paint the women around me — their faces, their stories, their strength. My work is rooted in truth and tradition. I hope you will see them.”

She attached the photos, added her artist’s statement, and clicked “Submit.”

The screen froze.

She stared at it, breath caught. Imran leaned over. “Did it go?”

“I don’t know.”

They waited. The page refreshed. A message appeared: Thank you for your submission. We will review your work and respond within 4–6 weeks.

Sunbal exhaled. It was done.

That evening, she didn’t paint. She sat by the kiln, watching the flames dance, her thoughts flickering with them. What if they didn’t understand her work? What if her English was too broken, her pots too raw?

Her mother brought her tea and sat beside her. “You sent your pots?”

“Yes.”

Her mother sipped quietly. “You know, when I was your age, I embroidered shawls for the bazaar. I stitched birds and vines. But once, I stitched a woman crying. My aunt scolded me. Said no one wants sadness on cloth.”

Sunbal looked up, surprised.

“I sold it anyway,” her mother said. “To a woman who said it reminded her of her sister.”

They sat in silence, the fire crackling.

The next morning, Sunbal returned to school. Miss Rukhsana was teaching metaphors. “The moon is a mirror,” she said. “The heart is a locked room.”

Sunbal raised her hand. “Can a pot be a memory?”

Miss Rukhsana paused. “Yes,” she said slowly. “A pot can hold more than water.”

After class, Sunbal lingered. “Miss, I painted your face on a vase.”

Miss Rukhsana blinked. “My face?”

“I wanted to show how you look when you read poetry. I wrote a line beneath it.”

Miss Rukhsana smiled, unsure. “What did it say?”

“She taught us to read, even when the roof leaked.”

The teacher’s eyes softened. “You noticed that?”

Sunbal nodded. “I notice everything.”

Miss Rukhsana didn’t speak for a moment. Then she said, “Bring it tomorrow. I’d like to see.”

That night, Sunbal wrapped the vase in cloth and placed it beside her schoolbooks. She felt exposed, like she was carrying her own heart in a pot.

The next day, she handed it to Miss Rukhsana, who unwrapped it slowly. Her fingers traced the painted lines, the dimple, the inscription.

“This is… honest,” she said. “And beautiful.”

Sunbal’s throat tightened. “I submitted it to a company. They showcase young artists.”

Miss Rukhsana looked at her. “You’re brave.”

“I’m scared.”

“That’s part of being brave.”

Later that week, a traveler stopped by the workshop. He was from Karachi, passing through on his way to Lahore. He bought two water jugs and paused at Sunbal’s painted platter.

“This is different,” he said. “Who’s the woman?”

“My neighbor,” Sunbal replied. “She survived a flood. Lost her home.”

The traveler nodded. “It shows.”

He bought the platter and asked for Sunbal’s name. “I write for a blog,” he said. “Might mention you.”

After he left, Sunbal sat by the wheel, her fingers itching to shape something new. She didn’t know if Clay & Co would reply. She didn’t know if the traveler’s blog would reach anyone. But something had shifted.

Her pots were no longer just pots. They were being seen.

She began a new piece — a tall vase with a wide belly. She painted her mother’s hands on it, stitching thread into cloth. Beneath it, she wrote:

“She stitched sorrow into beauty.”