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 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.” Butta Bomma

The exhibition was called Fragile, Therefore Real . And back in Nagalapuram, Malli sat by the

Arjun blinked. “I edited them out. For the exhibition. I wanted you to be… perfect.” And back in Nagalapuram