By Christina K Sangma
I used to sit on the highest shelf of the kitchen cabinet, shining bright with purple flowers painted around my rim. Everyone called me “Laila.” I was proud of my delicate handle and the gentle clink I made when filled with warm tea.
For years, I watched birthdays, rainy afternoons, and cozy mornings pass by from the table. I held tea for Grandma while she would knit, cocoa for little Madhu on cold days, and sometimes even cookies when the plate was full. Those were my favourite days—full of warmth, chatter, and love.
But one day, while Madhu was twirling through the kitchen, pretending to be a ballerina, her arm knocked into me by accident, and down I fell—crack!
The world stopped for a second. I felt a sharp pain as I landed on the floor. My handle broke off, and a big crack ran down my side. I was no longer perfect. No longer whole.
Madhu’s eyes filled with tears as she picked me up. “Oh no, I’m so sorry, Laila,” she whispered. Her mother said gently, “We’ll have to throw it away, bacha. It’s broken.”
But I didn’t feel sad.
You see, I had done my job. I had held warmth and comfort in my tiny round belly for so long. I had been part of laughter and love. And now, even though I was cracked, I still felt full—not of tea, but of memories.
Luckily, Grandma had other ideas.
“She doesn’t need to be thrown away,” Grandma said, smiling. “She just needs a new purpose.”
And so, I became something new. Grandma placed a small bit of soil inside me and planted a tiny green sprout. I now sat on the balcony with the other plants, catching sunlight and watching the sprout grow each day.
Madhu visited me often. She named the sprout “Hope” and watered it with a tiny spoon. She even drew a picture of me in her notebook, crack and all.
I heard her tell her friends, “This used to be my teacup. She broke, but now she holds a plant. Isn’t she still beautiful?”
And I felt proud.
I wasn’t just a teacup anymore. I was a flower pot. A tiny garden. A piece of history. I had changed, but I still mattered.
Sometimes, things break. And that’s okay.
Being broken doesn’t mean I am useless. It just means I could be something different. Maybe even something better.
So now, I sit happily on the balcony, with sunshine on my crack and a plant growing inside me. I had a new purpose, and I was proud of myself.
The wind hums gentle songs through the leaves, and birds come to visit nearby. Life is peaceful. I watch the world change, season by season, just like I did on the kitchen table—but now, from a new home.
And every time Madhu smiled at me, I knew that broken things can still be loved. Broken things can still grow.