Mended Cup

In one of those shops where they sell normal stuff with no or little historical value, disguised as relics, I used to sit in the remotest corner. Over a dusty table which no one had looked upon for ages, I had my abode. My body, etched and carved with some colors, had worn out and faded along with my memory. But time and again, I heard the shopkeeper describing my rich and ancient history to would be customers. It was susceptible to changes based on the interest of the customer, or may be I forget. My memory was not what it used to be, but you already know that.

It was just another day, I don’t know which. I had stopped keeping count, it didn’t interest me anymore. I heard the faintest tinkle from the bell hanging above the door. Would be business as usual, I thought and turned my gaze away. It was the same routine all over again. The new person in the shop was making way through the narrow shelves and make-believe corridors, while the shopkeeper tried to utilize every opportunity to push something on to the customer. Few minutes would have passed, when this new person crossed my table. She walked so softly, so light on her feet that one would assume she was afraid of hurting the ground beneath her feet.

She had almost passed me when our eyes met. I was a cheap, worthless piece of  junk. But she chose me. The shopkeeper advised against it, he told her that I was shabby and deplorable and she could do much better, for he had so many nicer antiquities to offer. She wasn’t listening. She wasn’t looking at the side visible to a normal observer, she was looking through me, on the other side. The side where the cracks were, and the broken edge was. She saw inside me and found the rift hidden deep under my hollow self, without ever touching me. I could hear whispers. Whispers laughing at her decision, whispers deriding her for the choice, whispers stoical that she didn’t choose them. But she was above all that. Not paying any heed to them, oblivious to what they said, she chose me.

She was an artist, a handy-woman who took pride in her choice and took me home. She placed me in her shelf, higher than all her past glories. I felt a weird sensation. Was it pride or was it gratification? I could not have known, for this was the first I had ever felt it. After all, who prefers a broken cup for tea, let alone placing it among high honors. Time passed, and I grew acquainted to her. She fixed things. She cried for everything broken and prayed for everyone around. All that was worthy of praise got their due, and all that deserved care got some more.

She was in love with the entire universe, yet she was at war with it. She would snatch something from it to give it new life, to mend its broken leg or just to caress it and express the perennial love she had plenty of. Then she would return it back to where it belonged, for she could not bear the pain of moving something indigenous. She took me out one day and ran her hands through my heart, she read my entire story and wept. Her tears were not because she pitied me but because she shared the pain. She brought some gold and filled some of my cracks.

After she was finished with my cracks, I was resting, still healing. She was sitting in her chair, lost in some thoughts. Maybe the irony of fixing everything else while having no one to fix her was getting to her. Or maybe she was indulging in some friendly banter with God. It was hard to imagine, it was hard to fathom, even for breathing mortals . I was just a cup waiting to heal on a shelf. But my scars weren’t scars anymore, they were something which made me more important. I learnt how to carry scars from her.

Months have passed and I have fully healed. Now I smile where broken edges were present before and I shine from the same places where fissures used to run. Sometimes you don’t need a chisel to smooth the edges, she taught me. Sometimes we need to fill those edges with precious things. Making me precious, she doesn’t keep me at a pedestal any more. She made me realize my purpose in life. I have become an instrument of my own desire. She serves tea in me, and I feel fulfilled. But I can’t handle heat very well. The fissures that were present on surface have crept a lot deeper. I am afraid, one day while she would be holding me in her hands, I would break. I am not scared of the tea, I am scared that I might burn her hands.

Nothing is perfect, I agree. Any cup can break, I understand. But sitting on the edge of the shelf, I have a decision to make. Shall I be the reason she burns herself, or shall I let her pick small pieces of me. Pieces so small that she can’t make me again. Maybe she’ll realize that she deserves a better cup. Maybe these are the kind of things she argues to god about.