A Vase

A flower vase I am; and a very fragile one. “You I create,” said the potter, “with patience galore so you will patiently bear all that comes your way.”

But why me? What is it that I have to endure? You couldn’t have created me to tell me this.

And he placed me on the shelf, among infinite other vases, all for sale. I shrivelled up as I looked around. Each urn was an epitome of beauty and strength, made from the best clay and least susceptible to any harm. I was so envious; I swelled up in hatred towards the potter.

Let me see you all before I am taken away.  

I tiptoed to the edge of my stand where I was put on display and bent over. Jealousy had already crept in and anger tugged me hard. But I looked at each of my neighbours with admiration filling my bosom at the insane beauty all around me. It was so claustrophobic and I felt stifled and belittled by the unjust hands of my creator. I strove to break free from this strangulation and cursed out loud throwing myself down, on the bare stone floor of the potter’s hut.

From the other end of his wheel, he smiled at me.

I see the smirk, potter. You knew I would do myself harm. You saw me edging towards it and you never got up to hold me as I fell. Now take your sympathies away. I have provided you the sadistic pleasure that you had sought to derive by creating me.

I felt my end hovering above. I closed my eyes; I knew I must have been in a million pieces. Potter picked me up in his arms and carried me to what seemed like the place where I was going to be laid to rest. But he was caressing me and I passed out. When I opened my eyes, I was there again – on the same shelf.

“I created you to be different and you never understood that. You forgot that I am here, always looking over you.”

But I pain all over, potter.

“I know you are in pain but you are not in pieces. All you have is a deep crack which I have sealed. But it shall remain, cutting across your chest and into your heart, till one day your true master shall take you away and heal your pain. Now smile my dear vase and lie in wait of that day.”

Who will he be? How will I know if he is the one? Don’t walk away potter, tell me when…how long…

He got me home. I was so scared. Everything was so new for me; I had never been out of the potter’s hut. And here was I, surrounded no more by vases but by people who filed in to see me. I saw them irking behind the multitudinous veils of compliments that they showered on me. Each tried to stuff me with a stem and no one noticed I could take no more. I was a pretty vase, filled up with pretty flowers.

My master came by. He placed me on the window sill where all could see me from afar but only he could touch. The chilly wind blew and rattled my crack to the core.

Please shut the window, master. Please place me someplace else. You know how deeply I am cracked; I will fall apart.

“I will keep you safe. You are now possessed by me,” my master said.

But take away the flowers that fill me up please. They scrape my skin.

“This I cannot help. Ask something else and it shall be yours.”

Each passing day my master admired how well I pleased all but he never said a word to me. Each day he came to me and adorned me with another pretty red rose, its thorns slicing through my veins. I cried out to him but he said he loved me so. He believed in me; that I would suffer everything for him. How could I refuse him?

The wind was very strong that day. They spread out their petals and romanced every gust that came in. I pleaded with them to stay still. My crack widening with every movement they made, now for all to see but not seen.

They wouldn’t listen; they did not care. I called out to my master; I called out to my potter. I cried out loud. I heard a slap across my face. Was it the gutsy wind or my master? I will never know. And I was in pieces. Wide awake this time and feeling every bit of me grazing the marble floor of my master’s home.

He cupped my wounds and he held me tight. He was a stranger and shall always remain thus.

When I woke to darkness and death, he was there kneeling beside me and picking up my shattered remains. He wrapped me up in the shirt he wore and carried me home. He glued me back but I was too hurt. He never asked why; he never asked who. He looked at me and told me he knew.

“If I ever hurt you, let me be cursed. Step out with me, and I wish I can show you a different world.”

Promises?

He did not move; he held me tight in his palms. I knew he would wait till he was sure I do not break again. He knew not but he had touched the deep crack in me and it no more was.

The scar will stay but I know you can take it away. Claim me once and I shall be yours.

But he couldn’t stay; he had to go. He had a life to lead and promises to keep.

I am just a vase to him; a broken vase that he had unknowingly healed. Just one of the many vases that he picks up; some he loves and some he keeps. But I am not one of those for I choose to walk away. This I will do for him for this is the only thing he asked in return. I have to go back to my potter and there I shall stay, till I find not my master this time but till I turn to rubble and am cast away.