If anyone were to look at the proceedings of the Manor, they’d assume that everything was fine. The lazy, slow ways of life were going on in circular fashion, and the humans were acting their redundant selves. Only, outsiders can’t hear the very alive crockery.
The crockery of the house was in numb shock. They lived each day in doubt, waiting for news. The possibility that perhaps only in this Manor did the crockery talk, and all their kind elsewhere was blatantly and helplessly mute, was something they could not digest.
That is when Alexander, an old english bowl, broke. He had gone fragile as the years passed by. As his body lay there in shards till a human would come see it, he let out a peculiar purple liquid. The rest of the crockery had not noticed anyone’s dying so keenly. Besides, the crockery were very carefully added, and anything hardly ever broke.
It seemed like a safe time to go investigate, with no humans around. Couple of the young, mystery fan jars got down carefully and prodded the pieces around, and tried to find out something about the liquid, that was soon disappearing.
They wondered whether the Manor and its inmates were enchanted, or it was simply old Alexander’s last body fluid‘s that they were handling.
The wise ones decided that the only way to get to the bottom of this was by method of elimination. They concluded that there were two possibilities – either only they could talk, or that other crockery all around the world did talk but maybe in a different language.
They lived in a state of anxiety, wanting to confirm either of the possibilities, when at last, the yearly cleaning days came. All the crockery and other stuff in each room of the manor would be bought down, and cleaned. This was an opportunity to ask the old ones in the far off rooms, if they had any idea of what was the source of their linguistic abilities.
Among the stuff in the attic they found a carved scripture, which was also a show piece. Since it was not part of the crockery, none ever interacted with it. They didn’t even know if it spoke like they did. But now they were desperate and needed information. They prodded the circular, plate-like object. It seemed to be in a deep sleep.
When it was finally roused, he spoke in a deep, wheezing voice, and coughed every few minutes.
He said that he had been made by one of the oldest crockery makers, and that everything was enchanted earlier, not because the makers wanted it to be, but because the pureness of their hearts flowed in to their crafts through their hands. These days, there was mass production by machines, and the maker’s hearts, empty and bothered by the concerns of a plastic life. Thus, the enchantments were fading. The manor at the crockery was lucky, that so many of the enchanted ones were together in the same place. He knew of houses where only one piece of crockery could talk, and no one to understand it. Driven to desperation, the piece of crockery would finally be too lonely, and break itself with an intentional fall.
With a deep sigh he ended his narrative, saying that this was the reason why he preferred to sleep. It took him to better times.
- Crockery Conversations – Part 2! (a co-authored post) (whizwoman.wordpress.com)
- Crockery Conversations! Part 1 (whizwoman.wordpress.com)