Kasturi Sinha
There once was a delicate porcelain vase that stood proudly on the mantelpiece in the house of the Devraj family. It had been passed down through generations, a symbol of heritage and history, surviving wars, moves, and time itself. Its pale blue surface was adorned with intricate gold patterns, its smooth texture gleaming whenever sunlight touched it. To the Devraj family, this vase wasn’t just an home decor; it was a testament to their resilience, love, and shared memories.
And one day...
A heavy silence followed... mixture of shock, pain, and sadness. It wasn’t just the loss of an object. It felt like the breaking of something far deeper.
Once, it stood, so delicate and whole,
Cradling flowers, dreams, and the soul.
Each petal that leaned on its fragile rim,
A promise of beauty not lost in the dim.
A heart once whole, now torn in two,
The past it clings, though skies are blue.
Invisible scars, yet
loud they scream,
In waking life and
restless dream.
It wears a mask,
this pain concealed,
A smile that hides
What won’t be healed.
In the dark, when none can see,
The weight of sorrow breaks the sea.
There in the night,
I stood in quiet grace,
A vase untouched,
In perfect place.
But life, with all its weight and sound,
Came crashing in, and I was found—
In shattered pieces, strewn apart,
Each fragment, sharp, a wounded heart.
The cracks run deep, no mending found,
Each piece a scream without a sound.
The jagged edges cut like glass,
A fragile beauty, lost in the past.
Its porcelain smooth, the light so still.
It held the flowers of yesterday’s bloom,
Now shattered, scattered across the room.
The trauma came, unkind, unseen,
Like storms that strip the forest clean.
My edges jagged,
Chipped with pain,
I thought I'd never stand again.
Here I lie, though torn and scarred,
Each crack a tale, each wound, a shard.
Trauma is the weight that breaks,
An unseen hand that twists and takes.
It doesn’t shatter with a roar,
But crumbles slow, forever more.
And then... an old woman with wise, gentle hands, refused to discard it. With great care, she gathered the fragments and began to piece them together, not with invisible glue, but with golden lacquer. Each crack was mended, every break emphasized with gleaming veins of gold. Slowly, the vase was made whole again—but it was forever changed.
They tried to mend me, make me new,
But scars remained, a deeper hue.
Though glued together, I still feel
The fractures time can never heal.
But in the cracks, where light gets through,
I find a strength I never knew.
For I am not what I once was—
A perfect form without a cause.
I carry now the weight I’ve known,
And in my brokenness, I’ve grown.
May the world see who I am—
A vase that holds, though once it ran
Through fire, through ruin, through despair—
A broken vase, still standing there.
The vase was no longer admired for its perfection, but for the journey it had endured, and for the grace with which it embraced its imperfections. In its brokenness, it found a new elegance, standing tall and proud, more beautiful than it had ever been before.
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Editorial