The Cracked Tea Cup

Toward the inside room, I saw a tattered sofa,

Lying alongside the wall, and a tea cup on the table,

With a prominent crack on body, it sat alone, visible all,

It looked old, or has been made old, there was dust,

Inside, it bore the marks of time, when it was regal,

As I watched the cup, myriad chapters unfolded,

It spoke to me of those times, the alive blissful times,


I saw all with my eyes closed and the films rolled,

The curtains were lifted, a stage of life came alive,

The actors’ faces I couldn’t see, they wore a veil,

 Yet, they touched a strange chord of my heart, and it,

Rung and rung in my ears the music so familiar,

The melodies long lost some were in space,

The dialouges started coming out of my mouth,


Like I was the character and it was my life play,

The proscenium stage of my life drama and I,

Changed myriad makeovers with time and tide,

As I was the puppet on the stage such wide,

And the strings attached with something that,

Made me dance, laugh, cry, love and romance,

Or! Perhaps by someone, who made my gestures and all,


Though never I saw the puppeteer, but he was always there,

 And the play ended, I opened my eyes saw the same cup,

Sitting on the same table cracked and covered in dust,

It has lost its shine, newness , but it still exists,

The play in which it was used no longer amazes,

The crowd of those many faces who came to watch,

The show, all is now dust and dead, curtains rises no more,


Only the mystic smell of oldness has spread all over,

The costumes once used by me are hanging so long,

The colorful life drama is over, and my heart holds many,

Stories which I want to enact, but still on this dead stage,

The puppeteer’s laugh I hear, he still remains hidden,

Still the srtings are with him, so long they shall be,

The mightiest will make me move on his will, and so be it,


I for the last time gazed at the cracked tea cup,

The cracks are the mark of much history left behind,

But still making its way into the present, perhaps,

In future too it will leave its impression for those,

And I stole some time from the moment, saw my face,

On the cracks realizing I exist too in the present,

And it wasn’t the story of the cracked tea cup at all,

It is of those faces, that reflects on the cups now and again………………………….


*Monalisa Joshi*




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