I wondered that day - if I was ever in a situation to take that carriage, would I be able to see the Thestrals that drew them? Or would that part of my innocence will still be preserved and I would believe in the magic of self-drawn carriages?
It was a day like any other. The weather was pleasant, as many would probably call it. On such an uneventful yet pleasant evening, I went out with my mother.
I was at top of my spirits as I usually am whenever I accompany her. There's a very carefree and vivacious feel whenever she has a set of chores to take care of; I just need to be there with nary a dust to worry about. On occasions when neither of us have a set plan in place, that brings a different kind of sprightly vibe and happiness. This time it was the former case - she had a task list.
Among the couple of places we were supposed to visit that day, the last one was a jewelry shop. This also happened to be the place where I would later witness that event.
Except for appreciating the craftsmanship and creativity, a jewelry store doesn't have anything else to offer to me. So, mostly I wander around and see the works of art (jewelry pieces carved by artisans in this case), very much like we do in any art gallery or museum. That evening was no different.
For a few minutes, I did help in deciding among the few designs my mother had shortlisted. While I was doing that, one of the two salespeople (who were assisting us), informed us that she needs to assist another customer who had some jewelry-mending work. I had never seen that and as was probably expected, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked my mother about it - how it is done, if she has ever seen it, and similar questions. The salesperson heard me and she was kind enough to offer me to accompany her. I asked my mother if that was ok, and upon affirmation from her I went along with the salesperson to witness how jewelry pieces are mended.
The workshop section (/jewelry-mending section for me) was on another floor. I was brimming with excitement as we were stepping towards that section. We went through a couple of doors. The final door that led us into the workshop gave the impression of that stage curtain that demarcates the shiny, bright stage from the backstage area- chaotic yet with a certain silence that may feel eerie sometimes.
There were a few other customers, probably for mending work, I assumed. There were different sections, and I stood near the section that was closest to the door. An unassuming desk divided the craftsperson from us, the customers/witnesses. There were a few tools, a flame, a bowl of water, and some powdery substances... all of which didn't give a clue as to what brilliance they were creating (or mending). Origins are often not as glamorous as the creations are. And I somehow felt thankful for that.
Origins are often not as glamorous as the creations are.
The craftsperson asked the next customer about their requirement. The customer announced that they want to melt their jewelry pieces. I was a tad confused... may be, but still didn't know what was going to happen exactly. That is when it happened.
The person sitting across the desk took all the jewelry pieces, cast them in a container that had a handle, and without a blinking second exposed that to the hissing flame. The flame, immolating, impartial, and breathing, melted every inch of those beautiful pieces. Along with them vanished hours, perhaps days, of hard work, immeasurable aspirations, thoughts that birthed the designs, dreams that led the creativity, and affection of the heart and hands that birthed those pieces.
I was witnessing a pyre... of a creation that was deemed to have lived the life it was meant to live. The final moments were deemed upon it. Did it's maker know?... Apparently not. Would they have imagined this moment while they were creating it? I couldn't even imagine it. It was loud in and around, but I could still hear my heartbeats. It felt ironical, the heartbeats enthusiastically showing off the presence of a life infront of a pyre. My mind, however, was dead silent. It was trying to grasp what my eyes were witnessing. But how do you wrap your head around it?
It didn't even take much time, but it felt like ages passed by in a short breath. Once what was a beautiful, glorious piece of jewelry now looked like a lumpy gravel immersed in the water that lay in that bowl on the desk. It had a remnant shine, but the years of life in it was no more. The indiscriminating water helped it hold a random shape, a shape that had no more stories to tell, no more experiences to elaborate.
As I stood still, the salesperson came back and asked me to return with her. By this time, my mother had completed all the purchasing formalities. I realized it was less than 10 minutes. But those few minutes... they changed something; I didn't know if that was something permanent in me.
It made me wonder though. It made me wonder if I will be a different person. I wondered that day - if I was ever in a situation to take that carriage, would I be able to see the Thestrals that drew them? Or would that part of my innocence will still be preserved and I would believe in the magic of self-drawn carriages?
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