Birth of a design

January 16, 2012

Birth of a design

No!!! I will not yield the right proportion. The pencil broke again with a squeak, and the paper with its black scratches kept rattling in the air, revealing zigzag maze of random lines. The architect was amazed. How is it possible? You must follow my command, he said and cluttered the already cluttered desk in search of a sharpener. Sharpener was red, with blunt blade, and kept breaking his pencil until his fingers gave up revolving that pencil into the sharpeners cave. He was frustrated, and finally in a murderous instinct picked up a blade. The pencil finally gave up, he chiseled and chiseled deeper into the pencil, sharpening it into a chisel edge. The paper fluttered again surrendering to the expected impact. Black marks stained the paper again, a pattern appeared and with impact of every darkening line, the mish-mash started clearing up. The pattern spoke to him something, his eyes sparkled. He turned the page of the sketching book, murderous instincts returned, and the fate of the next page was fixed.

His dreams started shaping and clearing the cluttered lines every next day. The pattern grew with every changing page, started getting enriched with his thoughts. Details were added with every new line. A wall appeared, then a door, then a window, a pool, a tree and then a seat. He kept drawing many more lines, adjusting proportions with every new stroke. The pattern laughed a naughty smile, refused to take any more details and came to a standstill. I need some more space, the architect pleaded. I need just one more room there, a wall here and a courtyard there. The pattern nodded but refused to get modified. He erased and kept drawing it again. The paper was almost dead, wrinkled and defaced. The pattern refused to take any more changes and died a silent death. The architect was frustrated, felt lost and tired. His hands were black with carbon and ink, the clock struck twelve, the night slowly started casting its spell.

He woke up to the new reality, with his hand on the page sketched few days back. It was a page in the journey of that pattern, and an idea that refused to die out in transition. He quickly woke up the pencil too, lifted her with tender fingers and discovered a piece of tracing sheet. Slowly and steadily he traced the bulk of lines on it. Fresh sunlight of the day illuminated the room and the tracing film seemed like a glittering mirror, and pencil strokes like heaps of gold dust. Slowly, courtyard took its place with a pillared corridor. Staircase started growing from the center of the room, hanging from the ceiling. The window looked out with a water pool beneath. Slowly and steadily, lines became more disciplined, enriching the graphic. The wall got a texture, a sculpture was placed connecting inside with the outside. The house emblem got embedded at every place. The roof folded to make way for collecting rain water, and make it fall like a waterfall. A door here and a window there, lines paved way for minute details. Bookshelves started appearing from walls, blank walls diminished, and opened up the margins to view walls of changing texture.

He thought of many gardens, paved and with lawns, leveled terraces for many more views. Sections, elevations, further more sections and new elevations, every time changing and improving the plan. The day ended, the house became a reality and started living on the paper. He smiled at his creation, closed the sketch book, put the pencil in a pencil stand. The pattern which was left incomplete cried at its fate, left closeted ready to peek again into the Architects dream. That day the Architect slept a silent night, filled with many other dreams, of thoughts unexplored and spaces undefined. The night slowly took away all the light from the room, the completed design pinned up on his desk felt proud, waiting to be born in the real world. A design was born, and a quest had started.