She was not afraid of breaking anymore. After all, even a doll that shatters leaves behind a thousand pieces of light.
Malli laughed—a sound like tiny bells wrapped in silk. “I’m not a doll. I have cracks.” Butta Bomma
And back in Nagalapuram, Malli sat by the river, her feet in the water, humming the old tune that the village women sang while kneading clay: “Butta bomma, butta bomma—break me, and I’ll still bloom.” She was not afraid of breaking anymore
She stood up and walked to the potter’s wheel. With one finger, she smudged the rim of an unfired vase. “This is me,” she said, pointing to the crooked mark. “And this,” she touched a small crack in the handle, “is me too. You cannot have the jasmine without the thorn.” “I’m not a doll