He watched in silent admiration as a few rays of the dwindling sun managed to sneak in through the cloudy and heavy atmosphere and from his open window, fell on the glistening golden object in front of him. The skies had just had their fill, pouring their hearts out on the quiet earth below and the rainy day was about to give way to a cold, stark night. He checked his watch. It was 8:20 pm. The night would usually be wearing a shining black cloak by this time back in his home city, but here, in Europe and in the middle of June, there was still enough light for him to bask in the golden glory of the object he was looking at without any lights, and with just one window in his bedroom left open.
He leaned closer to the bed, where she lay carefully wrapped in a veil of golden threads. It was a beautifully architected chrysalis that he’d built for her, using a million strands of the finest golden weaving threads he could find. Each thread was a about a meter in length, and was made of 22 carat gold. It had taken him his entire life’s savings, 2 ½ years of preparation, 6 ½ months of weaving each thread with his own hands and the complete, unflinching dedication of the one woman who loved him to eternity to build the golden shrine where she would rest for the remainder of her first life. As he looked at her inconsistent breathing puffing up the chrysalis every now and then near her bosom, the red LCD light of the countdown timer by the bedside table caught his attention.
‘Time Elapsed: 3 yrs, 2 months, 23 days, 5 hours, 33 minutes and 15 seconds’, it read,
He made a note of it in his black diary.
“It will be worth the wait”, he thought to himself as he bit into a piece of dry bread, not bothering to use the stale butter that lay in the breadbox, drank from a glass of wine that had been there since 3 days and pulled up his bedcovers in anticipation of the night.
And what better way to spend it than beside his golden chrysalis.
***************************************************************************
He didn’t understand what it was about wings that had fascinated him so much. He was a bit of an artist in his adulthood and when he reached the age of 30 and was sitting in a mundane office meeting one day, his hands had involuntarily reached into his pocket, had drawn out his felt pen and had begun drawing on the notepad he had had in front of him. It was only after he had opened his notepad for another meeting the next day, that he’d noticed the most beautiful pair of wings he’d ever seen; drawn with an elegant precision and an amazingly lifelike quality on the page in front of him. It had sent down a surreal warmth down his spine. He had felt strangely aroused by the sight of those angelic wings.
It was from that day on that he’d began drawing pictures of angels and demons and gods and goddesses and fairies and dragons and other magnificently magical beings on any piece of blank paper he could find, from restaurant napkins to toilet papers, from pages embossed in gold to the canvases made from dead animal skin.
He leaned closer to the bed, where she lay carefully wrapped in a veil of golden threads. It was a beautifully architected chrysalis that he’d built for her, using a million strands of the finest golden weaving threads he could find. Each thread was a about a meter in length, and was made of 22 carat gold. It had taken him his entire life’s savings, 2 ½ years of preparation, 6 ½ months of weaving each thread with his own hands and the complete, unflinching dedication of the one woman who loved him to eternity to build the golden shrine where she would rest for the remainder of her first life. As he looked at her inconsistent breathing puffing up the chrysalis every now and then near her bosom, the red LCD light of the countdown timer by the bedside table caught his attention.
‘Time Elapsed: 3 yrs, 2 months, 23 days, 5 hours, 33 minutes and 15 seconds’, it read,
He made a note of it in his black diary.
“It will be worth the wait”, he thought to himself as he bit into a piece of dry bread, not bothering to use the stale butter that lay in the breadbox, drank from a glass of wine that had been there since 3 days and pulled up his bedcovers in anticipation of the night.
And what better way to spend it than beside his golden chrysalis.
***************************************************************************
He didn’t understand what it was about wings that had fascinated him so much. He was a bit of an artist in his adulthood and when he reached the age of 30 and was sitting in a mundane office meeting one day, his hands had involuntarily reached into his pocket, had drawn out his felt pen and had begun drawing on the notepad he had had in front of him. It was only after he had opened his notepad for another meeting the next day, that he’d noticed the most beautiful pair of wings he’d ever seen; drawn with an elegant precision and an amazingly lifelike quality on the page in front of him. It had sent down a surreal warmth down his spine. He had felt strangely aroused by the sight of those angelic wings.
It was from that day on that he’d began drawing pictures of angels and demons and gods and goddesses and fairies and dragons and other magnificently magical beings on any piece of blank paper he could find, from restaurant napkins to toilet papers, from pages embossed in gold to the canvases made from dead animal skin.
He often used just a plain piece of charcoal to draw his sketches but sometimes allowed himself the luxury and injected himself with a dose of patience to use oil on canvas, and the results were extremely fulfilling, creatively and monetarily. He’d bumped into a museum curator and a part time art collector at one of his official parties who’d shown acute interest in his work and soon enough, he was up and running with exhibitions in prominent galleries across town. It hadn’t taken him long to give up his usual day job and manage to make a decent living as a full time artist.
'The Master and Commander of Wings’, the connoisseurs crowned him.
It was in the autumn of 2002 that he had been invited by Elise Goldman, a pretty and persuasive woman in her early twenties to the Reine Sofia museum in Madrid, where she said she could arrange a special galleria for him in the contemporary artists’ section.
'The Master and Commander of Wings’, the connoisseurs crowned him.
It was in the autumn of 2002 that he had been invited by Elise Goldman, a pretty and persuasive woman in her early twenties to the Reine Sofia museum in Madrid, where she said she could arrange a special galleria for him in the contemporary artists’ section.
The trip to Madrid, made after much deliberation, had proved to be a turning point in his life.
A trip that had lead him to the love of his life and the golden chrysalis that he slept beside now.
****************************************************************************
It was the middle of June, somewhere in a year that lay between 2006 and the middle of the next decade. He had stopped keeping track of time ever since she had entered the golden chrysalis. It was on one of the days when years seemed to have turned into months and months into minutes and minutes into hours and time felt like it had shrunk, that he had decided to push the button on the stopwatch.
He could tell what month it was by looking at how long the shadows crept up on the street across his bedroom window. Stout and quickly disappearing ones told him that the year hadn’t found summer yet. Long and sustaining shadows meant the sun was finding its piece of sky amongst the constant layers of restless black clouds.
He looked out of the window as the house in front of him crept up with its restless, dark, shadow onto the middle of the street. Afternoon.
It was his usual time to treat himself to a cup of hot green tea. He felt it helped him keep his focus.
As the green tea leaves quietly simmered in the water kept on a low flame, he watched the colors and the flavors dissolve into the liquid with an amazing grace.
“The wings will fuse into her body just as gracefully”, he smiled at his own thought.
They had always had their afternoon tea together. Even if it meant that he had to take a break from his paintings and she had to drive a couple of miles down from work daily. It was worth it. To spend an undisturbed, untouched few minutes with each other, talk about nothing and yet manage to convey everything. Their eyes spoke, their lips touched and everything was perfect.
******
It was at one of her usual ‘inspections’ that the topic of how frequently he drew wings came up. It was their monthly ritual, where after making sweet, leisurely love, they’d stay awake the whole night and he’d show her his last month’s art works and she’d scrutinize and interpret every little detail in it. Both of them loved the ritual and thought it was the best part of their relationship and that only made every subsequent month more memorable and fruitful than the previous one.
That night, as he fondly caressed her black tresses, and she snuggled close to his warm body, they hadn’t realized when the conversation had veered into his obsession with wings.
“What is it about them that excites you, my love?”
It wasn’t the first time that he had to think about it, but being asked by someone so close to him made him introspect himself even more and for the first time in many years, he found himself struggling for words.
”I…I really don’t know Elise… I think for me it’s the symbol of evolution, of freedom, of transition, of transgressing the laws to have a chance at another life.”
She looked at him with a rare curiosity, her eyes searching for more.
“I think what I love the most about them is that to me, they are surreal. The image of an angel with wings is beyond reality, isn’t it? Maybe that’s what excites my mind and gives it a license to imagine and create”.
She looked at him lovingly and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Did you know that caterpillars, when passing through the process of evolution, develop a chrysalis around them and as time passes, the cocoon breaks and a beautiful butterfly emerges out of the shell. I guess life does have its own ways of transcending reality, doesn’t it? Isn’t the butterfly an angel to its species?”
He had spent the whole night thinking about that one line she’d said and in the morning, as they’d woken up cuddled in each others’ arms, he’d asked her the question which had changed their lives forever.
“Will you be my angel, Elise?”
****************************************************************************
They knew it was irrational. But sometimes faith and belief warranted no reason. Was it the correct thing to do? To give up everything in a happy and sufficient life and invest the rest of their lives in trying to achieve the impossible? But sometimes with love, came unexplained desires.
They knew they had to trust each other completely through this. It could take months and years and nothing might actually happen and things could actually take a turn for the worse, but what if the strength in their beliefs could transcend the boundaries of science and logic and rationality? What if love could achieve what no science could?
Elise looked at the man in front of her. She loved him so completely. She remembered the first time he’d walked down her office at the Reine Sofia museum, and had patiently watched and listened as he gave her an introduction to his work and his art pieces. He was in his early thirties then, an unassuming man with a brooding presence. She noticed that he liked to keep to himself, that he wasn’t fully forthcoming on all his thoughts and that he had a magnetic appeal about him that made her search for more every time he spoke. She had searched in his eyes , in his soul and by the time she had found her answers, she’d discovered new questions.
Was she attracted to this man? Was she drawn towards his thoughts, his artistic leanings? Was she in love? Four months later, it had turned out that the answers to all those questions had been a big yes and that a year down the line, she’d eventually marry him.
Her work as a museum curator greatly helped in exhibiting his work and his work as a thinker and an artist made her gain more insights as an art collector herself. She loved listening to stories about the old masters from him, about the renaissance era when art went through major transitions, about modern artists who introduced new perspectives into the art of impressionism.
And about his favorite topic of how magical beings with wings and horns and half-human half-animal forms and other mystical creations came to be introduced in art.
“Magic”, he’d often say, “was the reality of the eras gone by. And a time will come, when all of it becomes real again. In fact, it is around us right now. All I have to do is close my eyes and picture you with a pair of beautiful, dazzling , silver wings. And just like that, within a flicker, “ he’d say, blinking his eyes to prove his point, “You’re my angel”
Those words came back to her now as she looked at the beautiful peace of art in front of her, a golden chrysalis built with the finest of care and the deepest of intimacy. She now had a chance to manifest the words that he had always believed in into a physical, relatable entity. An undisputed reality. And she wasn’t going to let that chance go.
She looked for one last time into her husband’s watery eyes.
“I don’t know if it’s the right thing, Elise. May be I am just plain crazy”.
It was the middle of June, somewhere in a year that lay between 2006 and the middle of the next decade. He had stopped keeping track of time ever since she had entered the golden chrysalis. It was on one of the days when years seemed to have turned into months and months into minutes and minutes into hours and time felt like it had shrunk, that he had decided to push the button on the stopwatch.
He could tell what month it was by looking at how long the shadows crept up on the street across his bedroom window. Stout and quickly disappearing ones told him that the year hadn’t found summer yet. Long and sustaining shadows meant the sun was finding its piece of sky amongst the constant layers of restless black clouds.
He looked out of the window as the house in front of him crept up with its restless, dark, shadow onto the middle of the street. Afternoon.
It was his usual time to treat himself to a cup of hot green tea. He felt it helped him keep his focus.
As the green tea leaves quietly simmered in the water kept on a low flame, he watched the colors and the flavors dissolve into the liquid with an amazing grace.
“The wings will fuse into her body just as gracefully”, he smiled at his own thought.
They had always had their afternoon tea together. Even if it meant that he had to take a break from his paintings and she had to drive a couple of miles down from work daily. It was worth it. To spend an undisturbed, untouched few minutes with each other, talk about nothing and yet manage to convey everything. Their eyes spoke, their lips touched and everything was perfect.
******
It was at one of her usual ‘inspections’ that the topic of how frequently he drew wings came up. It was their monthly ritual, where after making sweet, leisurely love, they’d stay awake the whole night and he’d show her his last month’s art works and she’d scrutinize and interpret every little detail in it. Both of them loved the ritual and thought it was the best part of their relationship and that only made every subsequent month more memorable and fruitful than the previous one.
That night, as he fondly caressed her black tresses, and she snuggled close to his warm body, they hadn’t realized when the conversation had veered into his obsession with wings.
“What is it about them that excites you, my love?”
It wasn’t the first time that he had to think about it, but being asked by someone so close to him made him introspect himself even more and for the first time in many years, he found himself struggling for words.
”I…I really don’t know Elise… I think for me it’s the symbol of evolution, of freedom, of transition, of transgressing the laws to have a chance at another life.”
She looked at him with a rare curiosity, her eyes searching for more.
“I think what I love the most about them is that to me, they are surreal. The image of an angel with wings is beyond reality, isn’t it? Maybe that’s what excites my mind and gives it a license to imagine and create”.
She looked at him lovingly and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Did you know that caterpillars, when passing through the process of evolution, develop a chrysalis around them and as time passes, the cocoon breaks and a beautiful butterfly emerges out of the shell. I guess life does have its own ways of transcending reality, doesn’t it? Isn’t the butterfly an angel to its species?”
He had spent the whole night thinking about that one line she’d said and in the morning, as they’d woken up cuddled in each others’ arms, he’d asked her the question which had changed their lives forever.
“Will you be my angel, Elise?”
****************************************************************************
They knew it was irrational. But sometimes faith and belief warranted no reason. Was it the correct thing to do? To give up everything in a happy and sufficient life and invest the rest of their lives in trying to achieve the impossible? But sometimes with love, came unexplained desires.
They knew they had to trust each other completely through this. It could take months and years and nothing might actually happen and things could actually take a turn for the worse, but what if the strength in their beliefs could transcend the boundaries of science and logic and rationality? What if love could achieve what no science could?
Elise looked at the man in front of her. She loved him so completely. She remembered the first time he’d walked down her office at the Reine Sofia museum, and had patiently watched and listened as he gave her an introduction to his work and his art pieces. He was in his early thirties then, an unassuming man with a brooding presence. She noticed that he liked to keep to himself, that he wasn’t fully forthcoming on all his thoughts and that he had a magnetic appeal about him that made her search for more every time he spoke. She had searched in his eyes , in his soul and by the time she had found her answers, she’d discovered new questions.
Was she attracted to this man? Was she drawn towards his thoughts, his artistic leanings? Was she in love? Four months later, it had turned out that the answers to all those questions had been a big yes and that a year down the line, she’d eventually marry him.
Her work as a museum curator greatly helped in exhibiting his work and his work as a thinker and an artist made her gain more insights as an art collector herself. She loved listening to stories about the old masters from him, about the renaissance era when art went through major transitions, about modern artists who introduced new perspectives into the art of impressionism.
And about his favorite topic of how magical beings with wings and horns and half-human half-animal forms and other mystical creations came to be introduced in art.
“Magic”, he’d often say, “was the reality of the eras gone by. And a time will come, when all of it becomes real again. In fact, it is around us right now. All I have to do is close my eyes and picture you with a pair of beautiful, dazzling , silver wings. And just like that, within a flicker, “ he’d say, blinking his eyes to prove his point, “You’re my angel”
Those words came back to her now as she looked at the beautiful peace of art in front of her, a golden chrysalis built with the finest of care and the deepest of intimacy. She now had a chance to manifest the words that he had always believed in into a physical, relatable entity. An undisputed reality. And she wasn’t going to let that chance go.
She looked for one last time into her husband’s watery eyes.
“I don’t know if it’s the right thing, Elise. May be I am just plain crazy”.
She kissed him lightly on his lips, and took his chin onto her cupped palm as she brought him closer to her and whispered quietly in his ears,
“Don’t doubt yourself, my love. Don’t you want to see your angel soon?”
He looked at her with expectant but sad eyes, and in a mix of emotions that he couldn’t quite handle, all he managed to say was,
“When you come out of that chrysalis, fly straight into my arms, baby”.
"I will."
******************************************************************************
He looked at her with expectant but sad eyes, and in a mix of emotions that he couldn’t quite handle, all he managed to say was,
“When you come out of that chrysalis, fly straight into my arms, baby”.
"I will."
******************************************************************************
As time lost track of the moments that had gone by and life floundered with its remembrance of the state of things around the house, Elise’s body remained in the golden chrysalis, flouting every rational law and continuing to breathe, without food, without water.
He spent his days eating stale bread from that one pack that was delivered weekly to the house and tracking the shadows across the street that kept him company through the long, unending afternoons and evenings.
He’d speak to her through the chrysalis every night, recounting the numerous stories he told her about art and its old and contemporary masters, reminding himself how much she enjoyed them.
And then one day, he woke up to wondrous sight of his angel perched quietly on his bed, beside him. She had snuggled out of her golden chrysalis and was sitting silently, her distant eyes fixed on the open window through which the sun came in and fell on her every day.
Today, the golden rays shone on her radiant body and as she turned ever so slightly to peer deeper into the sunlight, his eyes caught a glimpse of the most beautiful sight he’d ever witnessed.
Infused so very gracefully into the curve of her beautiful back, were a pair of dazzling silver wings, beating with a life of their own, as if each had its own heart. Waiting and wanting to unravel.
He watched astounded as they opened to the sounds of tinkling windchimes and in a moment that seemed to last for an eternity, she rose like a weightless petal in a soft breeze.
Into the thin air, she rose and her delicate wings propelled her towards the open window. He watched, confused and unable to emote, as her eyes gave him a distant, forlorn look, like that of a stranger in an unknown town and vanished slowly into the thin stream of golden stardust that seemed to be scattered in a beam all the way from his window into the blinding sun.
He looked at the broken, crumpled chrysalis that lay across his bed, with golden strands strewn all over the room and then looked at the sun into which his angel had disappeared.
“From one golden shrine to another. Have a beauitful journey, my love.”, he whispered to himself as he shut the only window that had been open for many years and retired quietly onto the bed, hugged the remains of his golden chrysalis and went into a beautiful , peaceful sleep.
He spent his days eating stale bread from that one pack that was delivered weekly to the house and tracking the shadows across the street that kept him company through the long, unending afternoons and evenings.
He’d speak to her through the chrysalis every night, recounting the numerous stories he told her about art and its old and contemporary masters, reminding himself how much she enjoyed them.
And then one day, he woke up to wondrous sight of his angel perched quietly on his bed, beside him. She had snuggled out of her golden chrysalis and was sitting silently, her distant eyes fixed on the open window through which the sun came in and fell on her every day.
Today, the golden rays shone on her radiant body and as she turned ever so slightly to peer deeper into the sunlight, his eyes caught a glimpse of the most beautiful sight he’d ever witnessed.
Infused so very gracefully into the curve of her beautiful back, were a pair of dazzling silver wings, beating with a life of their own, as if each had its own heart. Waiting and wanting to unravel.
He watched astounded as they opened to the sounds of tinkling windchimes and in a moment that seemed to last for an eternity, she rose like a weightless petal in a soft breeze.
Into the thin air, she rose and her delicate wings propelled her towards the open window. He watched, confused and unable to emote, as her eyes gave him a distant, forlorn look, like that of a stranger in an unknown town and vanished slowly into the thin stream of golden stardust that seemed to be scattered in a beam all the way from his window into the blinding sun.
He looked at the broken, crumpled chrysalis that lay across his bed, with golden strands strewn all over the room and then looked at the sun into which his angel had disappeared.
“From one golden shrine to another. Have a beauitful journey, my love.”, he whispered to himself as he shut the only window that had been open for many years and retired quietly onto the bed, hugged the remains of his golden chrysalis and went into a beautiful , peaceful sleep.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Poetry
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I had a beautiful dream
Of a girl who turned into a beautiful angel
Of a girl who turned into a beautiful angel
And rose from her golden chrysalis
To the quiet sound of a cold, rainy morning.
She lay still and resting, since a moment in time I don't remember
Silent and at peace, in her shrine of golden threads
A million of them wrapped in an elegant ambush
One by one, woven by my hands with a delicate intricacy.
Oh, she loved me more than anyone
And gave herself up to me with complete dedication
And stepped into the dazzling cocoon with a smile on her face
A tear in her eye and with a surreal grace.
The years passed by as I patiently watched
By the beside, as time and life ticked away
I had lost count of the hours and the days and the years
But my faith and belief remained austere.
I was no scientist, nor a man with great desire
Just a simple man with a simple life
And an unexplained attraction to the sight of majestic wings
I knew time would take its own course
And from my golden chrysalis, make my love like rise an angel.
And then I woke up, to a quiet rainy, morning
To the sight of my love perched on the bed
I watched
As she rose from her golden shell, her magical wings fused into her back
Waiting to unravel
And then it happened, as the clouds gave way to a waiting sun
And then it happened, as the clouds gave way to a waiting sun
I watched, as the golden sunlight dazzled onto the silver wings
And they opened slowly to the sounds of tinkling windchimes
And she rose like a weightless petal in a soft breeze
And looked thoughtfully at the open window..
And looked thoughtfully at the open window..
Her eyes gave me a distant look
Like those of a stranger who'd entered an unknown nook
She fought her way out of the restraining threads
And flapped her wings in a quiet despair
And then she looked at me one last time
Before disappearing into the golden sunshine..
