When she had first seen it; that flush of light from the sky had excited her so. That very shaft of vertical space which balanced the deep horizontal space experienced upon entrance; and held all the other spaces together like a pivot. The space she had envisioned would fill her house with a loud gush of water. She could almost hear it washing off all her stress when she entered the house, or even as she lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. She could hear the water hitting the water inducing a noisy peace, replacing her silent disturbance. She expected so much of it, amplifying our laughter, calling everyone to dinner, bringing the mausam inside, and as her architectural lingo said, being the focal point or feature in the house.
Yet, it didn’t. That, which had impressed her so intensely, was now her biggest woe. That surge of love had changed its face, but not the force with which it hit her. The space, for which her preferred name was barsaati,was now a repulsive object for her. All it did was amplify the screaming, echo the shouting so much it was injected straight to her brain. Causing, what it could have erased – her silent disturbed-ness. Becoming the increase in the noise. Being hated for exactly what it was loved for; being the connection. Being the means to connect, yet, being the dissection of the same connection.
She saw through it the full moon, fell in love with it all over again; whilst the hatred crept in, warning her of the impermanence of this fleeting moment of joy. Whispering to her what each day she heard through it, all that noise! which she couldn’t paint white, no matter how she tried. All that news, all those reprimands for doing the needful; and for what was her fault and what wasn’t.
She was sure the barsaati hated itself too. She felt its pain, its want to have its identity back. The plea to be home to the fountain, amplify the music borne of it. Let the glass sculpture hang from itself, illuminating it gold with the sun, and silver with the moon. Be the canvas for the mural in her dream; connect the colours of their lives to one another. Be the feature that it wanted to be. Become the marvel it had been conceived for.
Each day as she walked up beside it, she felt the same emotions flood her rushing upwards and down simultaneously; the love for what she hated, and the hate for what she loved. That marvel. That feature. That nuisance.
