Broken Plate : The Unglued Bond

- Ravi Ila Bhatt

In the semi-urban town of Shantipur, not far from the highway that connected nearby cities, stood an old two-storey ancestral house. The house had cemented walls, a tiled roof, and a small courtyard where a tall mango tree spread its branches generously. In the evenings, neighbors often passed by and saw Pandit Ram Swaroop Mishra, a retired schoolteacher, sitting on a woven cane chair under the tree, reading the newspaper and sipping tea.

Ram Swaroop Mishra lived with his three sons—Rakesh, Naresh, and Dinesh—and their families. Once, the house echoed with laughter, children’s voices, and shared meals. But as the town began to change, so did the people inside the house.

Rakesh managed a small hardware shop near the bus stand. Naresh looked after the family’s farmland on the outskirts of town, while Dinesh worked as a clerk in a private office in the nearby city. With changing lifestyles came rising expenses, opinions, and egos.

Small disagreements slowly turned into daily arguments.

There were complaints about grocery bills, disputes over crop income, and bitter exchanges between the daughters-in-law over household responsibilities. Advice from Ram Swaroop Mishra, once respected, was now often ignored.

Each evening, sitting under the mango tree, the old man silently watched his family drift apart.

One morning, during breakfast, Rakesh finally spoke up, “Baba, this joint family system doesn’t work anymore. There is tension every day. I think it’s better we divide everything and live separately.”

Naresh agreed, “Yes, Baba. Peace is more important than staying together.”

After a moment of silence, Dinesh added, “I didn’t say anything earlier because of your respect, but even I feel separation is the only solution.”

Ram Swaroop Mishra listened calmly. His face showed no anger, only deep thought. After a pause, he said softly,

“If this is truly what you all want, I will not stop you. But before that, will you fulfill one last wish of mine?”

The three brothers nodded.

Their father went into the kitchen and returned with three old brass plates, the kind once used during festivals and family functions. Placing them on the floor, he said,

“Break these plates.”

The brothers exchanged confused looks, then smiled.

“That’s simple, Baba,” Rakesh said.

Within seconds, the plates were smashed into pieces.

Ram Swaroop Mishra then said quietly,

“Now put them back together. Make them exactly the way they were.”

The brothers tried.

Naresh tied the pieces with thread, Dinesh tried sticking them with adhesive, but the plates were bent, cracked, and dull. Their original shine was gone.

Looking at them, Ram Swaroop Mishra said in a steady voice,

“A family is like this brass plate. As long as it remains whole, it has strength and value. Once it breaks, no matter how hard you try, it never becomes the same again. The marks of damage always remain.”

Tears welled up in the brothers’ eyes.

Rakesh folded his hands, “Baba, forgive us. In anger, we thought separation would bring peace. Now we understand that breaking apart only brings regret.”

Naresh and Dinesh nodded in silence.

From that day onwards, disagreements still happened in the Mishra household. Opinions differed, arguments arose—but no one talked about breaking the family again.

Every time tension grew, someone would glance at the old mango tree or remember the broken brass plates and whisper in their heart:

“May our family never break like that plate again.”

Moral

Relationships are like fine ceramic; once broken by ego and anger, they can be mended, but the cracks will always remain.