They Touched It Wrong
A mosaic was laid on the bed. It was multi-coloured, deeply shaded by light tones. Colours of love at the centre, enthusiasm along the borders. A tint of joy and belief on one side, with a patch of yellow reflecting happiness running throughout.
The mosaic was blurred, but still complete in its own world. It was beautiful and irresistible at once, with all the glass pieces quietly adhered.
They saw it. They tried to touch it. They thought they’d make it more beautiful. Or maybe they just presumed its beauty totally wrong, since it was completely contradictory to their own definition.
But the moment they did so, they ruined it. It was scratched upon the change. The scratches were so deep that, had it happened on a human’s skin, it would have bled and stained the whole floor.
The blurriness remained the same. The scratches were just added onto it. I touched the mosaic, completely heartbroken. I was disheartened. Maybe at first, I was more disturbed by the thought of why they did so than by what had happened to the mosaic.
But with a little time, those scratches were hidden. Or maybe I became used to that version of the mosaic.
After some time, they all saw the mosaic again. They were amused to see my love for it — still, even now.
So, surprisingly, they again took it in their hands and tried to observe it. Or maybe study it and find what was unique in it still. But as before, they again ruined it. This time, they dropped it.
Thud! A sound was heard that almost took my life. The shards were scattered all around the floor, ruining its beauty.
The mosaic that earlier reflected a complete life now itself seemed to be lifeless. I no longer wanted to touch it back. Maybe this time, I was also reluctant to think of any possibility for its use. But still, I chose to keep it in a carton in the storeroom and forgot about it afterwards.
To be honest, the hurt I felt at the moment, when I wasn’t able to accept the mosaic in its new form, was indescribable. After all, what was the fault of the mosaic — and what even was my fault? I didn’t discard it. I just kept it out of sight because every look at it made me feel the grief of its loss.
After a few years, when I went to the storeroom, I saw it once again. The pieces of glass were reflecting the light in that dark room very beautifully. The rays of light were making a pattern too unique. It also showed the dispersion of that single beam into the colours of the rainbow.
It’s really amazing — the mosaic which lost its own colours was now generating colours. I again began to love it.
Maybe that’s how we all are as humans; we forget something when it’s a little deteriorated and want to get it back when it gets better somehow.
I took the mosaic and again decorated my room with it. I placed it in such a place that I saw the band of dispersed colours daily.
This time, when they saw the mosaic, they became angry. I was surprised. I wondered why they would react so. But before I could analyse anything, they just took the mosaic and slammed it on the floor. The mosaic was broken into fragments, but no more shards came out. They remained adhered as they were.
I touched the fragments... this time totally heartbroken. I kept caressing the broken fragments lying on the floor. Their edges seemed to be glinting under the light. I wanted to turn back the moment. I wanted to reverse whatever had just happened.
The fragments surrounded me at the centre of the floor. Some were dazzling, some jagged, some too small to be recognised, while some were crushed to the extent that they couldn’t be picked.
I didn’t know this time how not to discard them — how to keep them again to regain a new beauty.
My mind was urging me to sweep them away. I wanted to pretend that they were never altogether. That the mosaic never existed as it was.
I was even afraid to touch those fragments. They were too sharp — too sharp to cut my fingers and my heart with their memories. I regretted letting others even touch it. Even dare to harm it. I regretted not being able to protect it.
But maybe… maybe it was too late. I couldn’t change even a bit. Now, the mosaic was harmed thrice. I wondered if the mosaic’s soul itself now wanted to come back. Wouldn’t it be more comforting to just be over? Wouldn’t that be easier? After all, it would stop the self-hurt and disappointment — for both: the one who cared, and the ones who didn’t. It would have been easy.
With a heart drowning, I started picking up the pieces. They pierced my skin, bleeding again — all over the room. I could see my hand, glittering with crimson red. I was feeling the pain, but still held on to see the beauty of those ruined hands. I was crying and adoring its previous version in my mind. I collected all of them and went to throw it in the dustbin. I knew it was over.
The moment they were falling into the dustbin, they reflected something.
Me.
My own version of disheartened.
I stared, long and deep.
And something shifted.
I chose to accept them as they were. I took them out, arranged them in a hardener, and poured epoxy resin. Heated it, Waited.
And when I took it out…
It was no longer a mosaic with planned colours or borders.
It was now a mixture of colours scattered here and there — a chaos with no boundary, no perfect location for a colour — as if all colours of emotions decided to live together.
It was beautiful.
And this time… I accepted it as it was.
Maybe all I needed was acceptance.
I chose to hide it from the world.
From those who couldn't understand beauty outside of symmetry.
From those who always tried to fix what wasn’t broken in the first place.
I placed it in my drawer.
Kept it just for myself.
No one else needed to see it.
It was mine.
And only I needed to know it existed.
Maybe, this time…
I finally touched it the right way.
~ Adisi...
Comments