Broken Glasses
The sun rays touched the hardwood floor, making it shine so brightly that it looked almost golden. The light shimmered, casting long, warm streaks across the wooden planks. It was mesmerising, almost like the floor itself was glowing with life. As I sat there, surrounded by silence in my grandparents’ old house, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander. Memories of the past, of laughter and music, of love and warmth, filled my thoughts. This house had once been a place of joy, and this very room—now empty and forgotten—had been the heart of it all.
I remembered how much my grandparents adored this room. It was their favourite place in the house, a space they filled with love, art, and music. There used to be a grand old gramophone in the corner. A few wooden chairs were placed neatly around the room. Flower vases, always filled with fresh lilies or roses, stood proudly on small tables. And then, there were the walls—covered in beautiful, painted broken glass.
Yes, broken glasses. My grandmother had a deep love for crafting, and she had an extraordinary talent for turning discarded pieces into something magical. She collected shattered glass, the ones people threw away without a second thought, and transformed them into breathtaking works of art. Each piece was carefully painted, arranged, and framed in a way that made the entire room feel like a gallery of light and colour. My grandfather, a skilled builder, was her partner in this creation. He would help her arrange the glass, mounting it carefully onto the walls, making sure each piece was placed just right. It was a labour of love, a reflection of their bond.
I loved that room. It felt enchanted, as if fairies had left their magic in the glass, allowing the colours to dance across the walls whenever the sun touched them. My grandparents would play their favourite songs on the gramophone, and with a simple look exchanged between them, they would start to waltz. The way they moved together, so effortlessly, so in sync—it was like watching a scene from an old fairy tale. The sunlight, filtering through the glass paintings, would cast beautiful reflections on the floor, making it seem as if even the light itself was dancing with them.
It was a beautiful time. One day, the neighbourhood started to change. It became unsafe, the once lively streets growing quieter as families moved away. My grandparents, though reluctant, made the decision to leave as well. They came to live with us, and with them, they carried only their memories. The glass paintings were given away as gifts to the neighbours who were also leaving, a final reminder of the love and beauty.
Growing up, I saw love in many forms, but my grandparents’ love was the purest of them all. They didn’t just love each other—they loved everyone around them as if they were family. That room had been more than just a space; it had been a kingdom, a magical land where happiness lived, where love was woven into every corner. To me, my grandparents were royalty, and their room was nothing less than a castle where magic truly existed.
Now, as I sat there in the same room, everything felt different. The walls, once filled with colour and light, were bare. I reminisced about the old room and how the only broken glasses now are that of the windows.
By Christina K sangma
