Chipped Mug

It was pure chance that Arun was with them when they came across the chipped mug.

To the casual bystander, a chipped mug isn't a memento, nor is it a trophy. To the Harjivan family, it was both. They had been cleaning out the loft, taking down every carton dumped up there, every handbag, empty or stuffed with papers, when the doorbell rang.

"We're in our old clothes," Devika apologised, as soon as she opened the door and saw her eighty-six year old uncle there. "We are cleaning out the loft."

"That's fine," Arun replied. "I was on my way back from a senior-citizen meeting and needed to use the bathroom. Your home was nearest, so I got my chauffeur to drive me here."

His urgent need being met, Arun was now on the rocking chair, sipping a mug of hot chocolate and watching the family at their spring-cleaning. He enjoyed this family feeling - the chore going on, the joking and instructing, the hustle and bustle.

The chipped mug was in a cardboard box, labelled 'GRANDMA PANNI'S'. Someone had encased it in bubble-wrap before putting it in to the box, so it hadn't shattered totally.

"Oh, I remember this one!" Devika's 23-year-old daughter Amrita darted forward and took the mug tenderly in her hands. "Grandma used to drink her almond-milk in this,and she'd give me a sip. It was forbidden, to sip from someone else's cup, you could get germs, but she and I shared the milk. She'd say - my germs are healthy, Amrita, you'll be healthy if you get them."

She stood there, holding the mug, reminiscent tears welling up in her eyes. It had been 20 years since she had last seen it. Grandma had used it a bit even after it had gotten chipped, and then someone had declared this unsafe (what if it breaks in her mouth?). Grandma hadn't allowed it to be disposed of, so it had been kept. And now, it was re-discovered.

Arun's eyes were bright. "This was Panni's mug?" he asked. "Panni's?"

"Yes," they replied.

"Here take this and give me that," he commanded.

They took his mug of hot chocolate and put Grandma Panni's mug in his hands. He clasped it, running all his fingers over it. Like Amrita, he had tears in his eyes. The mug seemed to hold some strange nostalgia, some hidden secret, that only touching it could unleash.

People in their eighties don't like to ask about long-lost friends. The answer, too often, is that the friend has gone home to God. Holding the mug, Arun seemed to get the courage to bring the question to his lips.

"Where is Panni now?"

"She lives at Urvashi Apartments. It's a five-minute drive from here."

"Get my chauffeur. No, I don't want to finish my hot chocolate. And I want to borrow this grand-niece of mine." He put a hand on Amrita's shoulder.

It thus came about that Arun and Panni were re-united seventy-nine years after they had last met. Amrita at his side, Arun rang his first girlfriend's doorbell.

They told Amrita their story.

"We lived in neighbouring apartment houses. We often met, walking in the park or flying kites on the open ground. He even borrowed my tricycle sometimes. There was so much less traffic then, we kids were allowed on the street."

"It was the tricycle that did it," Arun admitted, his eyes twinkling. "I was all of four years old, and I remember thinking that if I married you, your tricycle would be mine."

"So you proposed ..."

Amrita burst out laughing. "Well, what happened? Why did you break up?"

"He wanted to ride the tricycle the WHOLE time. I couldn't marry a man who'd domniate me like that."

"But the mug - it was the mug that made me remember. All the mugs of milk we drank together."

"Oh yes," she said. "You were so sensitive then, I remember. You always drank your milk quickly and my mother praised you. I was much slower. You understood. You were only four, but you understood. You drank slower from then on, so we finished our milk together."

"I still remember your phone number, then," Arun said, suddenly blushing. "It was 35528."

"My goodness, I believe it was! You still remember ..."

"I rang it often enough."

"You two really were in love, weren't you?" Amrita twinkled. "Now shall I record this conversation on my mobile phone, and rat to grandpa that you're two-timing him with your first boyfriend?"

"Yeah, sure, record this," Panni replied. "Then we can put the video on a pen drive in the mug, and store it another twenty years, to remember ..."
.

Author's Note ▼

My Dad remembers his first girlfriend's phone number, and he remembers slowing down on drinking milk. I've woven this story around these memories.