“The breach [koan]”

She had a teacher, once. A clear, enlightened man, who spoke about a tea ceremony he attended, conducted by a great master who deliberately used a broken bowl for the performance of the ritual. It was clear from the first presentation of the chawan to the participants, something unusual was taking place. 

He recollected perfectly the hairline fracture that ran in one unbroken arc from the lip of the cup to the base. All of them saw it. As soon as the tea master poured in the hot water the vessel began to leak, beading up along the seam of the long fissure. He scooped the correct measure of tea into the bowl, whisking the mixture into a fierce froth, and they all  watched the cup weep sea-green tears. When the bowl was passed from hand to hand, it left a smear of the warm tea like a wash of perspiration across their palms. But the ceremony proceeded otherwise just the way it was supposed to. 

So, which was it? he asked her once. None of us spoke. None of us even dared to mention something might be wrong. So who committed the breach of etiquette? The tea master, or the rest of us? The rules of this game have been passed down for hundreds of years without modification. Who broke them? Why did none of us speak? 

Why didn’t we speak?