The lights were switched off after the kitchen was cleared of its dinner contents, and the owners of the house retired to their respective bedrooms, some for reflection, some for rest. That is when other beings came to life. Those beings, which weren’t spared, much thought by anyone, as they were silent spectators throughout the day, to everything that was happening, secretly or otherwise. It’s as if they were a part of the background and had melted into the walls. They say walls have ears. What they do not say is that crockery has ears too, and mouths. They do not say it, primarily, because they don’t know themselves. Crockery, as beings, are, secretive, to say the least.
As the clock chimed twelve and got down from its stand to have a chat with the newly bought wristwatch, the crockery assumed it as a safe time for conversation. Mrs. Pott, quite naturally the biggest teapot around, who showered motherly affection over the rest, as well as bossed them a little, sat for a round of gossip.
“Do you remember what happened this day, about 50 years ago?”
One of the plates said, “We were bought to this mansion then, is it not?”
“Yes, quite a lot of us have been withered and recycled now, serving other households. Yet, compared to the kind of crockery made these days, we are much more durable”, she said, slyly glancing at the China plate who was sitting at some distance.
Mrs Pott wasn’t much interested in Politics. She only knew that Communism, China, and other words beginning with the letter C were unfavourable. And having lived with such a mind set for about 50 years, now, was like expecting a frog to sing in a concert. (My request is that this comparison be taken in an old fashioned sense, as frogs do sing these days, and get away with a lot of money. JB and RB are good examples)
Mrs. Pott was of good English make, and although not very happy about being in Indian household, she soon realized that this wasn’t any Indian household. It was a royal one. She soon made piece (err, peace) with other Indian crockery, all except the paan-daan, or where they made the betel leaf refreshment. She hated the hideous red pigment and the stain it left. And rightly, so, she thought, as it was later found that tobacco had with it caused cancer.
But, anyway, getting back to the current topic of conversation, a new lad, by the name of Snoop Mugg, had entered the tea and coffee section. The younger cups were very enthusiastic about this new entry, as that meant a lot of chatter from where he came from, and of the people it had served before. Mrs. Pott, however, did not approve of him. First of all, it was shaped like a dog, and she knew what the place of dogs should be. Definitely not in the kitchen.
She irked at how people and crockery mixed so freely these days. The new daughter-in-law of the household, for example, was a Muslim. How could they just blatantly inter-marry like this? She was firmly sure, that if the ancestors of this Manor were still alive, who had a good sense of where each person’s place was (much like the British, she nodded approvingly) they would never let this happen, never pollute the pure blood like this.
At the mention of the words “pure blood” a coffee mug that was a favourite of one of the book loving teenagers of the house, said “Pure blood, as in out of the Harry Potter books that Priya reads while she sips coffee?”
“Who is this blasted Harry Potter now?”, asked Mrs. Pott, irritated at being interrupted.
The mother of that mug quieted him, rightly, for a fight would have ensued, and Mrs. Pott would have dominated. A sudden noise startled them, and they realized the cook had come to heat the water that Maalkin had first thing in the morning. They had lost all idea of time in their gossip. Or maybe the Clock forgot to chime because of its chatting. We shall know what exactly happened, in the next little sneak peek into this queer household..