I had to clean the cup a little bit. The cup that had served as an ash tray all these days. But after cleaning it it was as good as new. I took another look. Just a little stains of cigarette ash were sticking at the bottom. I ran my finger over it, holding it under the tap, and that too was gone. I needed it to be perfect though, with not a stain, to complete the analogy. At this stage I dreaded if it should fall to the ground. It would break into fragments and nothing would bring it back. So immediately I became tender in my handling of it. And I am happy to say that it is now as good as new. That no one can guess I had treated it so roughly all these days. If it had fallen to the ground and broken, I would simply have said, "It is no use," and dropped the matter then and there, too scared to go against the winds of fate.