Parul Sharma is an artist. Her medium, to the best of her knowledge, is photography, but I see art in varied aspects of her life — for instance, in the way she has organised her space. Sitting in her living quarters, I get the impression she's in control.

Art, objects, furniture — wood, metal — interspersed into a symphony playing her quintessential tune. The contrast of distinct objects, some with bold colours and textures, blends beautifully in the space. Table, chair, a set of armchairs, a candle burning for its aroma on a table in front of a glass window, daylight filtering in through the bamboo chick. The mirrored wall opposite the glass wall that overlooks the dense foliage makes the big room look bigger, and gives it a kind of reflective quality. I like the way Parul rests picture frames on the floor against the wall. She likes to showcase works by her friends, fellow artists.

Procured from all over the world, these objects, books, seem to be in conversation in her space. Her set of experiences — growing up in Delhi, living in Germany for five years, her time with  Tony Jesudasan, who described her as "the only woman he loved" inscribed by him in the copy of Poems for Love lying on her  desk— and now, the post-Tony phase, are all there in the space, like layers of bark on a tree. Aesthetics is a way of life in her space. 

After a prolonged period of grief — it manifests differently in different people — the shaping of tomorrow is happening. Parul is mother to an independent daughter, Preetika, her sounding board, her support system.

The decluttering is an indication of her approach to life — an eye for detail, yet an eye still on the larger picture. A certain clarity in dealing with objects is indicative of not getting consumed by foggy emotions. Sitting in her space with her, on a wooden armchair that belonged to her mother, soaking things in, sipping coffee, listening to music playing in the background, illumination from a pedestal lamp that looks like a fishing rod — it gives me a sense of getting to know her better, and of getting to know myself better too. Artists are a mystery unfolding to themselves in a conducive space.

We talked about so many things — loss and the inheritance of loss, the privilege laced in pain, music, anecdotes, over a floppy omelette and avocado salad. The shaping of tomorrow still carries so much of Tony; his absence has a profound presence, and it's empowering, inalienable. There's a gratitude in the air that he lived in this space. Loss and grief have a silver lining — they can be empowering.

The best way out of any situation is through it. There are no shortcuts in life, and shortcuts only convolute the path ahead. Tomorrow is hers to make. She abhors sympathy, let alone false sympathy — the kind that hides a motive, that stems from the belief that she's fragile. She's empowered by her vulnerability, and that makes people uncomfortable, particularly erstwhile friends. The change shows in her new friendships, ones not intoxicated by the hangover of the past. And in the new studio she's building on the rooftop.

Parul took her time — she preserved the past as a living nostalgia, while shaping the future literally brick by brick. There's no break, only greater continuity. Death can only sever things on the physical plane; bonds grow stronger in absentia. She is not alone in that house.