As I opened the window, there was a rush of wind into the living room. I could almost see the wind move about the room, starting from the sound coming from the wind chimes controlled by a dusty figure of Mickey Mouse, to the ever so slight ruffling of the cushion covers and finally the relief in the eyes of my friend sitting across from the window as the breeze slowly caressed his hair and face to make its way onto the mantelpiece.

The china plate kept on the mantle shuddered under the influence of the wind and my heart almost jumped out. That plate had fallen 3 times before. Each time, there were more pieces than the last time, but I had managed to put them together. The last time the exercise of putting the plate together had made for a fun jigsaw puzzle. But each time it was put together, there was some part of the plate that would never make it back. There was a picture of village cottages in the center of the plate. Dad had brought the plate from Japan on his first visit there. He had gone to Japan 3 times after that and on each visit brought a different souvenir made of china, but I liked this plate the best. The serene countryside in this was way better than the dull blue and red floral patterns on the vase that was lying in the cupboard.

The first time it had broken the sun in the background of the house could not be put back on, so I had my sister color the sun in the region from where the piece had chipped off. The second time the house lost its chimney and there was nothing we could do about it. Coloring in a chimney with nuanced color shades to match the masterpiece was a little out of the capability of my 10 year old sister. So the white region in place of the chimney became a portal of entry into the earthly kingdom for the mighty Thor in the case of calamities. My sister liked that story. The last time it had fallen, by the time I got to repairing it, some of the little rim pieces had been swept away in a rush and so now it looked like a cookie that had been bitten off from one side by a hungry baby. But I was now running out of stories to convince the family about the beauty of a broken plate.

The plate left its stand and landed on the mantle with a gentle thud. There was splatter at the point of contact and some of the china crumbled to powder. I looked at the plate standing there, on its rim deciding where to tip, hoping that subsequent damage is not fatal. My friend looks back in the meanwhile and tries to to stop the plate from falling. His hand scraps the side of the mantle and I can feel the tremor that reverberates through the mantle as the plate decides to tip towards its doom. Its falling, I can see the little world inside the plate tumbling towards the floor. I imagine the little people living in that house holding onto their dear lives wondering from where a tornado make its way to a village in the outskirts of Japan. I follow the portal of Thor as the plate touches the ground. And then, in front of my eyes, the plate is reduced to a few pieces of broken china.

I have a feeling that this time I will not be able to fix it. I still try and pick up the pieces. One of the pieces gives me a cut on the index finger of my right hand and a bit of blood oozes out. Instinctively I put the finger in my mouth and look at the pieces of what once used to be a beautiful plate.

There won’t be Thor bailing me out of this one, his portal has been destroyed. The cute sun my sister painted has gone. I don’t think I can rebuild this back to its original glory, or any glory anymore.

This time, I do not pick up the pieces. Sometimes there are just too many. As if the plate was replicating life and teaching me, sometimes it’s best to let go especially when you know you have tried your best to give it a good fight.