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At the Met, there’s a beautifully preserved Syrian reception room, literally flown in piece by piece by someone who could afford it. It’s a wondrous room, with a tiny fountain, carpets and intricately decorated wood panels.
My ten year old wondered why someone would want to transplant a room, of all things, anywhere. I said it’s because rooms like these don’t exist any more, because Syria- ancient, civilised, lovely Syria- has been reduced to rubble. The havelis and their baithaks are gone.
I’m thinking of that little room today, with Notre Dame half ruined. It’s a tragedy because beauty and art touch us all, and this fire could have perhaps been avoided. But the libraries of Baghdad were destroyed on purpose.The Bamiyan Buddhas, deliberately. Syrian museums, same.
Accidents are terrible and sad. But what are the appropriate words for centuries of art, knowledge and beauty being obliterated knowing full well their value to the world? How does one grieve a culture lost to the malice of humans?
And closer to home, the waterworks at Shalimar Gardens are also ruined- the fountains will never sing again. The foundations of Chauburji are irreparably shaken- all thanks to the Orange Line. Lahore is probably older than Paris.
