Short Story
Forgotten Stories
A labyrinthine mansion’s haunting past
“Ma, will you please stop hoarding? There is no space to walk in your room,” Kaya burst out in frustration as she bumped her pinkie on a piece of wood her mother was saving for some unexplained future use. She almost spilled her cup of tea.
“Everything here is necessary. I have already discarded a lot of things. I can’t get rid of any more stuff,” her mom replied like a true hoarder.
“Well, do you need idols of all the thirty-three crore gods in your room?” Kaya asked, looking at the huge puja station her mom had set up, which was ever-sprawling. “Can’t you just bring it down to two or three gods? Even one can grant all your wishes, you know,” she added.
“You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” her mom said with a grave expression. Kaya, defeated, stepped out onto the balcony to soak up some sunlight.
This was a recurring conversation between Kaya and her mom that never reached a conclusion. Neither Jaya, Kaya’s mom, nor Kaya ever thought that maybe this discussion was pointless. Promod, Kaya’s father, had given up long ago. He understood that some things don’t change. But he greatly enjoyed Kaya’s attempts.
As she was sipping her tea under the mellow morning sun, she realised this house was not working out for them anymore. Yes, it’d be great if Jaya were not a hoarder; everything would be more organised, and there’d be breathing space. But then she wouldn’t be Kaya’s mom, would she?
Besides, even if she managed to throw away all the junk, it wouldn’t solve the basic problem of space. This was a two-BHK.
With Kaya occupying one room, her parents (along with Jaya’s prized possessions) occupying another, and a tiny kitchen, it was less than ideal. But that’s all Kaya’s modest earnings as a painter could afford in the heart of a metropolitan city.
She was only starting to make her way in the world. Kaya’s work was all-consuming. All day, she would work on client orders. At night, she would manage her small online shop. The only rest she got was a few breaks during the day and sleep at night.
All their lives, Kaya and her family had lived on rent. They moved into this house a few years ago after Kaya started earning. And now it was time to find a larger home.
The search took an unexpectedly short while. It hadn’t even been a week since she contacted the broker when he rang her back with a unique offer. The kind of spacious house she was looking for was hardly available in the city.
People here were used to living in overpriced matchboxes. Any two-bathroom, four-BHK flat would cost so much to rent that it wasn’t just out of her budget; it was out of the question.
But as luck would have it, the broker recently discovered an old property on the outskirts of the city. The owners, an old couple in their seventies, were empty nesters. Their children, a son and a daughter, were both settled in some foreign country, never to return home.
The parents refused to let go of their old zamindari estate — a huge mansion with over forty rooms, five courtyards, and a massive garden. They lived in the south wing, along with some servant families scattered here and there on the property.
The couple were not wanting for money. But the north wing had been empty for years after their last tenant left. Recently, they found some squatters hiding in there.
That gave them the jolt they needed to rent out that part of their estate again. With some inhabitants, they thought, at least the miscreants would steer clear, as would the critters and crawlers.
When the broker relayed this story to Kaya, she was intrigued but hesitant.
Her only concern was the location. It was a little farther away from the conveniences of the city — instant food and grocery delivery, services at the touch of a button, and cafes and restaurants nearby. Not that Kaya used any of these regularly, but having the option taken away seemed scary.
She could really work from anywhere. The rent was the same as she was paying now, and the kind of space they were getting for it was more than justified. The owners were offering five spacious rooms with three attached bathrooms and a separate living room, dining space, and kitchen.
This offer was simply too good to pass up. She decided to visit the place once.
“It’s a labyrinth, really”, Kaya concluded after taking only a brisk walk around the property.
“Mansion” would be the wrong word to describe it, Kaya thought. The place was more like a bunch of old houses joined together via hallways and alleys. There were even some bridge-like skywalks joining the terraces of buildings together.
It seemed like an astonishing marvel of architecture. The broker could not tell how old the building was, but from the looks, it was no younger than three centuries at least.
“How did they make buildings like these back then?” Kaya asked out loud, visibly lost in the queer beauty of the place.
The broker instantly replied, “I don’t know, madam. People used to have a lot of leisure back then.”
All this architectural knowledge, and yet humans live in neat rectangles today. Are we so hard-pressed for leisure?
“Would you like to see the other side?” the broker interrupted her reverie.
“Yes, let’s go,” Kaya agreed.
As they went over to the north villa, which was up for rent, Kaya felt a chill run down her spine. The air was thick with history; the faded grandeur of the villa enveloped her.
Cracked walls adorned with peeling wallpaper hinted at tales of past opulence. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light filtering through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the remnants of a bygone era.
The once-grand hallways echoed with silence, each step revealing more of the villa’s secrets. It was as if she had stepped into a living museum, where the ghosts of kings and courtesans lingered in the shadows; their stories etched into the very fabric of the place.
For some unknown reason, Kaya’s eyes moistened. She didn’t understand why. Something within her soul didn’t want to leave the place anymore. She wanted to stay here forever.
She wiped her eyes, turned to the broker and said, “I’ll take it.”
The day of moving and a few weeks thereafter were a blur. Jaya, Promod, and Kaya were too exhausted from setting up their new home to really notice the place. All they realised was that they had too little furniture to fill their six rooms. What seemed like a hoarding issue in the last house now only looked like a case of disorganisation.
Jaya was overjoyed about the space. Now she wouldn’t have to discard any more stuff. In fact, she got a separate puja room for all her gods and their paraphernalia. Promod, on the other hand, started to look more spaced out than usual. He would go on short walks within the property and return with a distant, almost morose look.
A mansion this enormous, left almost empty by everyone who once lived there, is sad indeed. But surely, Baba would get used to the place, Kaya thought.
She often sat in the open courtyard to paint, lost in her work for hours on end without a care in the world. One such day, she had been at it for over three hours when her back started to ache. She got up, stretched, grabbed her bottle, and started walking for a change of pace.
As she looked around, she noticed the vibrant colours of the flowers blooming in the garden, petals glistening in the sunlight. Lavender, pink, red, orange — so many colours. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, casting playful shadows on the ground. The cool breeze seemed to touch Kaya’s soul itself.
She had never felt such serenity in the city. Honking cars, people with long, sullen faces, pollution in the air — she was relieved to be away from all that. It was the first time in her life she felt truly at home.
After strolling for a while, she reached an abandoned part of the property, with many broken, battered structures and some queer buildings. A strange wall adorned with multiple windows of varying sizes caught her eye. The frame looked like a painting or a cinematic movie shot.
Something magnetic about this building pulled Kaya in. As she approached, she realised it was an old, dusty dance studio. She could tell some regal performances were hosted in the space by the remnants of grandeur she could still spot. A low wooden stage was situated at one end of the large hall inside. Its proscenium arch still bore the faint, peeling remnants of gold leaf. At both ends of the stage were dusty, heavy velvet curtains, faded to a bruised plum. These were surely once a brilliant crimson, Kaya thought.
Underfoot, the grand herringbone-patterned hardwood floor was warped and buckled from years of dampness. In the centre, the wood was worn smooth and pale — the unmistakable footprint of thousands of stops left by dancers long gone. A massive crystal chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, stripped of half its teardrops. It caught the geometric beams of light from the strange windows and scattered dim, prismatic rainbows across the floor.
Every piece of furniture here was covered with a fine layer of dust. Kaya was careful not to touch anything. A massive, continuous mirror spanned the entire length of the main wall. Now tarnished with age, it created a ghostly, fragmented mosaic of the room, with Kaya standing in the centre. The image jarred her.
After standing still for nearly ten minutes, she suddenly broke out of her reverie and turned around to leave. As she hurried through the massive, ornate door, her dress brushed against it, covered in old, flaky paint and a thick layer of dust.
Amazing! Now I have to take a shower and wash my clothes too, Kaya said to herself.
Hurrying back towards the north wing, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that the roofs of the buildings all around, both high and low, created an interesting skyline; some were newly painted blue in places, contrasting with the weathered textures of the others. Most parts of the property appeared entirely abandoned, as if the walls held stories waiting to be uncovered.
As she turned the corner, she came across two men mixing concrete to repair a broken wall. Not expecting workers in the afternoon, Kaya went up to them to ask what was up.
“Hi. I’m the new tenant. It’s been a few weeks since I moved here with my family. What are you guys up to?” Kaya started a conversation.
One of the men, or rather a boy, seemed rather shy. He turned around to continue working on the broken wall. The other man, who looked a little older, said hesitantly, “We work here. We repair the broken walls.”
Kaya thought to herself, but what use is repairing the wall of an entirely broken building?
“So the landowners have appointed you? Are they going to repair this part of the wing?” Kaya asked.
After a moment of silence, they replied in unison, “We are here to work.”
Sensing their awkwardness, Kaya decided it was best to step away. They clearly weren’t willing to speak to her. So she went back to the courtyard where she had left her painting on the easel.
“Oh, my God!” Kaya freaked out. Someone had splattered black paint all over hours of her hard work.
She was painting a reimagined version of the mansion.
Kaya immediately raised a ruckus. She called out to Promod and Jaya, who came running into the courtyard.
“What’s going on, Kaya? Why are you screaming?” Promod asked in anticipation.
Kaya cried, “Someone has ruined my painting. I was working on it for over a week.”
“Oh my,” Jaya gasped in shock. “Who would do such a thing?”
Promod immediately went around the courtyard and checked the area for miscreants. When he returned, he said, “I can’t find anyone. When you left your painting here, did you see any children nearby?”
“There are no children on this property, as far as the broker and landowners informed me,” Kaya said. “But I saw some workers around the corner repairing a wall. Let’s ask them.”
When the three of them turned the corner into the area where Kaya had just spoken to the workers half an hour ago, they found no one. There was no concrete anywhere; the wall was as cracked and weathered as it had always been.
“Is this where you saw the men?” Promod asked.
Kaya went silent. After taking a deep breath, she said, “Leave it, baba. I will go inside, take a shower, and lie down. I’m tired. Can you please put my easel and painting supplies back in my room?”
For the next week, Kaya ran a high fever, unlike any she had ever had. The first two days were a complete blur. The next two were comparatively better; she could rise from bed for meals. Eventually, her condition improved enough to go outside and sit in the garden, amongst the flowers and trees she loved so much.
While resting with a cup of coffee, Kaya wondered what the sudden fever was for. Was it the late afternoon shower? Maybe the dust in the dance studio? Or maybe grief and shock at having her painting ruined? Or maybe all three?
She was still too weak to work. So she idled away her days reading art magazines, watching movies, and strolling in the courtyard and garden. On the sixth day after the incident, as Kaya was strolling on the terrace, one of the many who joined each other via skywalks, someone patted her shoulder.
She turned around to see a rather old lady in a distressed, worn-out saree, bent forward with age. Kaya had never seen her before. Assuming she was one of the servants who lived there, she smiled bleakly, still weak from fever.
“Yes? Can I help you?” Kaya said politely.
“I can’t believe my eyes,” the old lady implored. “You are back, little girl? After all these years, you have come back to your house? You haven’t forgotten Gita amma, have you?” She said with tears in her eyes.
Taken aback by this sudden outburst of emotion from a strange old lady, Kaya didn’t know what to say.
As Gita amma proceeded to hug and squeeze her, Kaya said in protest, “Amma, I’m not who you think I am.”
Gita amma paused and stepped back. She took another look at Kaya and said, “What are you saying, Preeti baby? Can’t you recognise your amma?”
Kaya was even more confused. It seemed the woman in front of her didn’t want to believe her words. She was confusing her with someone called Preeti. But why?
“Amma, I’m Kaya, the new tenant, not Preeti. Who is this Preeti anyway?” Kaya asked.
“What are you saying, Preeti, baby? Why would you be a tenant? This is your house. This mansion belongs to you.” The woman was clearly delirious.
Kaya thought it was useless to argue. She doesn’t seem to have a grasp on reality. So she said instead, “Amma, where do you stay? Let me take you back to your room.”
Before the old lady could say anything, a middle-aged man came running towards them. “Amma, where have you been? I have been looking for you all over.”
“Prakash, see who I found out here on the terrace. Sahab didn’t inform us that Preeti baby was back,” Gita amma said, ecstatic with joy.
The man came closer; on seeing the confused look on Kaya’s face, he immediately apologised, “You’re the new tenant, right? I’m so sorry for my mother’s behaviour. She has dementia. She can’t remember people very well. She often confuses faces.”
“It’s alright. I thought something was off since she keeps insisting I’m someone called Preeti,” Kaya said.
“Amma adores Preeti baby. She practically raised her, you see. Preeti baby is the landowner’s daughter. But she left for Europe once she turned twenty-two. Ever since then, amma has not been able to forget her,” the man explained.
“I see. Please take care of her.” Kaya was intrigued. She knew the landowners’ kids were settled abroad, but to see someone they left behind still pining for them forty years later suggested there was more to the story.
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As Kaya walked away from the mother and son still quarrelling about who she was, she thought she would visit the landowner’s quarters in the south wing once. There is more history to the mansion than meets the eye, Kaya thought.
An opportunity presented itself a few days after Kaya’s fever subsided. It was Janmashtami. With a heavy prasad thali in her hands, Kaya crossed the threshold into the south wing.
Unlike the rest of the mansion, the landowner’s quarters were meticulously preserved. A long veranda lined with towering, dark teak pillars stretched ahead. The floor, polished to a mirror-like black marble finish, reflected the dim light perfectly. Walking here feels like stepping over an abyss, Kaya thought.
Despite the regality of the surroundings, she felt a heavy, suffocating silence all around. Like this part of the property was abandoned as well. As she moved down the corridor, larger-than-life oil portraits of the estate’s lineage stared down from high, whitewashed walls. Encased in heavy, gilded frames darkened with age, the painted eyes of long-dead ancestors seemed to follow her steps.
She passed an inner courtyard where a private shrine stood. For Janmashtami, a small silver idol of the infant Krishna was placed in an ornate brass cradle. A single clay diya burned before it. Kaya stared at its perfect upright flame. How is there not even a breath of wind here, she wondered.
At the end of the wing lay the main quarters. The room was vast; heavy, ancient furniture draped in white dust covers was present all around. They looked like shrouded ghosts. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. In a corner of the living room sat the aged landowners, Mr and Mrs Roy. They were dressed in spotless puja attire for the holy day.
“Hello. I’m Kaya, your new tenant. I moved here about two months ago with my parents. We haven’t formally met before. But I’ve heard all about you. We celebrate Janmashtami; my mother is especially keen about pujas. She has sent over some prasad for you,” Kaya explained in one breath. She felt afraid she’d be kicked out without a proper explanation.
After a few seconds of pause, almost as if breaking out of a reverie, Mr and Mrs Roy smiled softly.
“Come here, Darling. We have also heard about you and your family via the broker,” Mrs Roy said.
“Oh, really?” Kaya finally felt at ease as she laid down the prasad on the coffee table and took a seat across from the aged couple.
Mrs Roy replied, “Yes, indeed. When we heard a family wanted to stay here, we were overjoyed. As you can see, this place is quite empty…”
“And what do you do, Miss Kaya?” Mr Roy interrupted his wife.
“I’m a painter, actually. I sell my prints and artwork online,” Kaya explained.
“Oh, how wonderful! You know, one of our ancestors was a painter too. Vivek’s great-granduncle, Mr Jatin Mohan Roy. He was renowned for his oil paintings.” Mrs Roy said, ecstatic at uncovering a hidden link between Kaya and them.
“Wow, that’s why I see so many paintings around here. I suppose the portraits in the hallway were all painted by him?” Kaya asked.
“Almost all of them. He painted most of our family portraits,” Mr Roy said.
“I suppose there is a lot of appreciation for art in this family. Just curious, did you appoint some workers to fix the broken walls in the north wing?” Kaya couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“Workers? No. Why have you seen someone? You must inform us. We are pestered with squatters. They cause all sorts of trouble.” Mr Roy said in agitation.
“Actually, I did see two workers. Well, at the time, that’s what they looked like. And a while later, I went to the courtyard and found my painting ruined. It really broke my heart.” Kaya recounted the incident.
“Oh my,” Mrs Roy sighed.
Mr Roy almost burst into anger, “They’re back at it again. Even with tenants living there now.” He got up to make a phone call.
After he left the room, Mrs Roy said, “We are really troubled, my dear. Vivek thinks it’s squatters, but I don’t agree. How can squatters vanish into thin air? You can never catch them red-handed.”
Kaya paused for a moment. Although she had experienced something similar, she didn’t know what to make of it.
She said hesitantly, “Old buildings can have all sorts of problems. By the way, I came across someone called Gita amma the other day. She was confusing me for your daughter, Preeti.”
Mrs Roy’s face turned ashen. After a moment of silence, she said, “Yes, Gita loved Preeti very much. It’s a tragedy what happened to Gita after Preeti left for Europe. She almost lost her mind.”
“Was it just the grief of separation?” Kaya probed.
“No, it was much more…” Before Mrs Roy could finish her sentence, Mr Roy barged into the room, and she went quiet.
Mr Roy blurted as he walked towards them, “I have tightened up the security around here, Kaya. You don’t need to be worried about your work being ruined. I’ve informed Prakash, our driver. Should you need anything, just inform him.”
“I’ve met Prakash, actually…” Kaya was about to relay the story when Mrs Roy cut in, “It’s quite late in the evening now, Kaya. You should hurry back.”
Kaya caught the drift. She politely nodded her head and took their leave.
On the way back, Kaya decided she would learn from Prakash what Mrs Roy had just held back.
There was a tiny problem in Kaya’s plan — she didn’t know where Prakash, the driver, lived. She didn’t have his phone number yet, so ringing him up was out of the question. Restless for answers, the next day, she went on a long morning walk around the property, hoping to find the servants’ quarters. This time she took a different, unexplored route toward the east wing.
The more she ventured in that direction, the more she realised how dilapidated and empty it was. The path deteriorated rapidly. A dense, untamed green swallowed the trail Kaya was walking along. Before long, she found herself standing amidst a sprawling row of abandoned structures.
What seemed like once an elegant villa had been claimed by nature. Massive, blackened brick walls, charred by time and dampness, stood exposed. Their original plaster was peeling away to reveal crumbling brown brick skeletons beneath. Massive banyan aerial roots slithered down the brickwork like snakes. They almost bound the cracking stone together.
The contrast was eerie yet beautiful. Nestled within the broken window frames and collapsed roofs was greenery. Bright green fern fronds and fresh velvet moss sprouted from the black, rotted lintels. Wild flowering bushes pushed their way through the fractured floorboards. Young leaves caught the dappled sunlight and glowed like scattered emeralds against the dark ruins.
The atmosphere was thick with an unsettling mix of decay and desire for life. Though no human foot had trodden here for decades, the space did not feel dead. The low, rhythmic rustle of wind through the thick foliage sounded like a steady breath. Creepers twined so tightly around the columns that they seemed to be holding the dying architecture upright.
Standing in the silence, surrounded by the sweet scent of wild leaves and damp soil, Kaya felt a prickle of goosebumps on her skin. The house had been left for dead, abandoned to crumble in solitude, yet it looked alive.
For a while, Kaya was so lost in thought that she walked deeper into the east wing. Suddenly, a bird flew close by her ear and broke her out of the reverie. She realised the servants’ quarters couldn’t possibly be in this part of the estate. That only left the west wing.
While walking towards the west wing, Kaya couldn’t get the haunting image of the ruins out of her head. There was something so painful about the state of the property. Almost as if it wanted to scream its secrets, but no one ever cared to listen.
An estate this huge must once have been inhabited by many people. Almost a village. And now it lay in decay and despair.
It’s also so easy to get lost unless you know your way around. Because Kaya had been living there for a few months, she slowly got to know the place. An outsider would easily get lost in this labyrinth. It was almost as if the mansion and its stories were reserved for its inhabitants.
Before long, Kaya spotted what clearly looked like the servants’ quarters. Only there were not many servants around.
The low-slung block of structures in front of her was a jarring shift from the grand architecture of the rest of the mansion. The building was a single-story row of small, repetitive rooms, constructed with plain, whitewashed lime-plaster walls. This area was meticulously swept and cared for. The beaten-earth yard in front was free of leaves and weeds. The cleanliness felt clinical.
The doors were simple, unpainted wooden planks fastened with cheap iron latches. Hand-stitched cotton curtains fluttered softly in the barred windows.
Outside a door, on the concrete step, sat a small pair of worn, thin-soled rubber slippers. Right next to metal water pots. Stainless steel utensils sat draining upside down on a wooden crate in the sun. A long, thin coir rope stretched between two pillars. It served as a clothesline, holding a few faded sarees and coarse towels.
It felt like a different world altogether, where people worked hard and kept their heads down. They existed in the cold shadow of a grand estate.
Kaya spotted Prakash sitting in the shade of a banyan tree, sipping his morning tea.
“We meet again.” Kaya greeted Prakash with a smile.
“Ahh. Good morning, madam.” Prakash seemed a little surprised.
“I was out for a morning walk today. Thought I’d get to know this estate a little better. It’s the first time I have come to the west wing since we moved here.” Kaya explained.
“Oh, that’s amazing, madam. There is indeed a lot to explore in this mansion, but you must be careful,” Prakash warned her.
“And why is that?” Kaya asked.
“Oh, you see, it’s a really large property. Most of it is abandoned. And we have an ongoing problem of squatters. Besides, it gets quite eerie after dark, even for me. And I’ve been here all my life,” Prakash elaborated.
“Yeah, I get that. By the way, how is Gita amma?” Kaya asked casually.
The light in Prakash’s eyes dimmed. A heaviness seemed to encroach upon his mind.
“She’s as well as an old woman with dementia can be…I really want to apologise for how she behaved the other day. I try to keep her within our quarters, but sometimes she walks out by herself.” Prakash seemed weary of the situation.
“Oh, please don’t apologise. I wasn’t bothered at all, just surprised to find other people in this lonely place. Gita amma seemed to dote on Preeti, the landowner’s daughter.” Kaya decided to probe into the story.
“Yeah, she was Preeti baby’s constant companion since birth. And her dance teacher, too. My mother used to teach her Kathak. She obsessed over Preeti baby’s progress in dance and delighted herself in her performances,” Prakash recounted. “I think she loved her more than she ever loved me.” He expressed a sudden sadness.
“And why did Preeti leave for Europe?” Kaya asked.
“The usual, you know. Rich people send their kids to foreign countries for higher education. Then they get jobs there. Eventually, they get married and have kids, and soon the foreign land becomes their home,” Prakash stated matter-of-factly. “In Preeti baby’s case, she had a falling out with her father a few years after moving abroad. She hasn’t come home since,” he added.
“That’s tragic. And all of this must’ve affected Gita amma immensely, Kaya commented.
“Yes, of course. She always wanted Preeti baby to become a dancer. She trained her for it all her life. And Preeti baby had the skill and interest for it too. You see, Preeti baby’s great-aunt, Priyadarshini ji, was a renowned dancer. This estate was known as Priyadarshini’s mansion only fifty years ago. She personally trained my mother. She wanted her skill to be passed on. But Preeti baby’s father, Mr Roy, didn’t like any of it. He wanted a better life for his daughter. So he sent her off against her will.” Prakash delved into the story.
“I see,” Kaya began to glimpse the full picture now.
“After Preeti baby left, amma kept saying she had failed her teacher, Priyadarshini ji. She poured all she had into Preeti baby, but it didn’t amount to anything. Once Preeti baby left and never came back, my mother felt like her entire life was a lie. Slowly, she started to lose her mind. Now it’s almost like she lives in the past and present at the same time,” Prakash clearly needed to get this off his chest.
“…I don’t know what to say, Prakash. The more I learn about Gita amma, the more amazed I am. I could never guess that she is a dancer.” Kaya said after a few moments of silence.
“Well, she hasn’t danced in decades. But back when she did, I remember watching in awe as a child. It was mesmerising.” Prakash replied.
“I can only imagine. I’ve seen the abandoned dance studio near the north villa.” Kaya confessed.
“Oh, you’ve been there? The place is in ruins now. Full of dust.” Prakash expressed his dejection.
“When I saw the grandeur of the studio, I instantly knew there must’ve been some phenomenal dancers in this family,” Kaya added.
“It’s not just dancers, you know. The Roy family was full of artists of all kinds. Chefs, painters, singers, sculptors — you name it. When they didn’t have to worry about money, people pursued art freely.
But in the last few decades, as the treasury slowly dried up, everyone started to leave this grand mansion. Some left for jobs in other states, some to set up new lives altogether in other countries. It’s the way of the world now.” Prakash fleshed out the rest of the story.
“But that isn’t necessarily true. I’m a painter too. And yes, I’m not the richest, but I’m living well on what I manage to make. Isn’t that enough?” Kaya countered his point.
“Then you are different, madam. Not everyone, especially people who’ve grown up in luxury, can be satisfied with just enough,” Prakash argued.
“Maybe. I wouldn’t know. Painting is the one thing I’ve loved since childhood. To pursue it, I would pay any price. To leave it would be death.” Kaya felt emotional.
Prakash grinned after a long time.
“Then there is still hope for this mansion as long as you live here,” Prakash concluded.
Kaya smiled.
The sun was beginning to shine a little too brightly. After sitting under the shade of the banyan tree for a while in complete silence, she took her leave from Prakash and went homeward.
It was a chilly December morning. Some months had passed since Kaya’s chat with Prakash. Today she was sitting in the courtyard and painting the mansion, once again. This time, instead of reimagining the estate, she wanted to paint it as it was. With the addition of her family in it.
She began with the north wing where they lived. With her easel adjusted, Kaya laid down the initial wash — a soft ochre for the weathered brickwork of the north wing. It allowed the sunlit plaster to bleed into the damp winter shadows. The architecture was still old and worn, but under her brush, it no longer looked abandoned.
At the centre of her composition sat Jaya and Promod. On the canvas, Jaya was rendered in vibrant strokes of crimson and mustard. Her posture was mid-gesture as she held a steaming steel cup, exasperatedly lecturing Promod about losing his woollen muffler for the fifth time that month.
Promod, painted in softer greys and warm creams, sat wrapped in his faded shawl. His eyebrows furrowed in annoyance as he tried to read his morning newspaper despite the barrage.
Kaya dipped her fine brush into sap green to add the potted marigolds her mother had insisted on placing along the veranda. Wet clothes hung on the line above them. She blended oranges and yellows around her parents, capturing the exact moment a sunbeam hit the porch. The clink of a teacup, the rustle of newsprint, and the sharp, affectionate bickering echoing off the tall columns came alive in the frame.
As Jaya’s voice rose over whether the tea was too sweet, Kaya smiled. She applied a tiny, brilliant speck of white paint to catch the twinkle in her father’s eye behind his spectacles.
As years passed, Kaya created many of these paintings. Some in the west wing with Prakash and Gita amma in the frame, carrying out their daily chores. Some in the south wing with Mrs Roy knitting and Mr Roy on the phone. Some in the east wing, where she had planted a vegetable garden along with some flowering plants.
And some in the old dance studio, which she had cleaned up with Prakash’s help. She convinced Gita amma to practise her dance and teach Kaya a few steps. On some weekends, Kaya and Gita amma held performances there. Jaya, Promod, and Prakash always cheered them on. Sometimes Mr and Mrs Roy came to watch as well.
The squatters stopped coming. No one had seen or heard of them in a long time. And Kaya’s paintings, hung in the hallways of the mansion, remained spotless.
Turns out if you really listen and try to understand their pain, even ghosts can feel lighter and eventually move on, Kaya often thought to herself.
Love my work? You can buy me a coffee to show your support. Because there’s nothing a writer loves more than coffee 😉
