Chapter 19
Day Two
Meera waited at the entrance of the residential wing.
Deep green today. She looked different. Her hair was twisted into a loose bun, a few strands slipping at her temples and brushing her neck. Her dupatta was knotted at her waist.
He took it in, the comfort in how she had dressed, a sign that she had begun to ease around him. His eyes softened.
She noticed. Let it pass. A small bow of her head in greeting, and she turned to lead the way. He fell into step beside her without a word.
“We’re going to the eastern wing today,” she began, slipping easily into the purpose of the day. “The restoration team is working on the wall paintings. I want you to see how it’s done.”
She lifted her hand as they passed under an arch. “This pattern. The lotus inside the geometric border. Every wall we restore follows this. Not approximately. Exactly.”
He followed her gesture, observing the lotus. Then… his attention slipped.
The loose strands at her nape moved with each step, brushing the curve of her neck. Morning light caught there, tracing a clean line from ear to shoulder.
He pulled his focus back to the wall.
“The motifs aren’t just decoration,” she continued, unaware. “Each one carries meaning. The lotus marks a spiritual significance. The border tells you the period of construction. If you can read it, the Haveli tells its own history.”
Her hand moved as she spoke. His hand, at his side, itched to close around hers. He shifted his focus to the wall on his left. And, very unhelpfully, his mind followed.
Turning her.
Her back against the stone.
Her breath catching.
Her words fading.
His mouth close to her neck.
Her head falling back.
He blinked.
Right.
Artisans. At the end of the corridor. Real people. With eyes.
He exhaled through his nose and looked at the ceiling like a man conducting a very serious architectural evaluation, as if that might distract him from the increasingly creative ideas his brain kept offering every time she came within arm’s reach.
This was becoming a problem.
A very specific, very persistent problem.
And it had a messy bun and absolutely no idea what it was doing to him.
“The eastern wing was the last major construction,” she went on, turning a little so she could look at him. “Around 1820. You can tell from the borders. More ornate. By then the craftsmen had begun to show off.”
Amusement touched her tone. He caught it, and smiled.
“Are you listening?” she asked, glancing back.
“Yes. The craftsmen were showing off.”
Her gaze met his for a second, then she faced forward again.
The workshop opened ahead, filled with the scent of lime, wet earth, and something older beneath it. The smell of the Haveli’s own body.
Abhinav paused at the threshold.
Six artisans worked within the space. One younger man at a table, hands moving through a shallow bowl of pigment and powder. Five at the wall, their movements precise, unhurried, as if time itself had agreed to match their pace.
One of them turned.
He was the oldest. His hands were rough, lined like old bark.
Meera stepped forward. “Govind Dada. Good morning. Hukum is here to see you.”
Govind looked at Abhinav, his expression easing. He straightened and folded his hands. “Thakur Sa.”
Abhinav returned the greeting, palms together, head inclined. Respect met with equal weight. He let the title pass without reaction.
Govind’s eyes warmed.
“His family has worked on Anand Mahal for five generations,” Meera added, pride woven into her voice. Her gaze moved to the younger artisan. “Six, if you count his grandson.”
Govind followed her glance. “He is learning the mixing. His hands are good.”
Abhinav took in the room piece by piece. Bowls of ground colour. Tools arranged with care. The wall where time was being undone and formed again.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“We are restoring the final plaster layer,” Govind replied. “Four hundred year old method. Same as the original.”
“The lime comes from limestone burned in traditional kilns,” Meera added from beside him. “The sand comes from specific riverbeds. Plant fibers bind it.”
She lifted a pinch of pale yellow clay, letting it fall through her fingers. “This comes from two regions only. We mix it with indigo to match the color from inner courtyard. The shade has never changed.”
Abhinav leaned closer, watching the younger artisan at work. No measuring cups. No scales. Proportions held entirely in the hands and the eye.
“Everything the Anand family has built, we have kept standing. My father. His father. His father before him. When something begins to fade, we return to the beginning. Never forward.”
The words stayed.
Abhinav didn’t respond immediately. His gaze moved from the wall to Govind, then to the trowel in his hand.
“Will you teach me?” The question came out of nowhere. It surprised him as much as anyone else.
Meera looked at him. The others slowed, not from the request, but because of how he had asked.
Govind studied him, then reached for a trowel. The handle had been worn smooth by years of use. He held it out.
Abhinav took it with both hands.
Govind led him to a section where the base layer was already in place. He demonstrated first. The trowel moved across the surface as if it responded to his hand.
“Smooth, even strokes. Keep it flat. Let the plaster guide you.”
Abhinav tried. The first attempt left a lumpy ridge.
“Again.” Govind adjusted his grip.
The second was better. The third better still.
Abhinav’s tongue found the corner of his mouth in concentration. The world narrowed to the wall, the trowel and the plaster.
Time slipped past.
Men worked around him, speaking little. When needed, Govind made a sound or nudged his elbow, guiding him without fuss.
Lime streaked across Abhinav’s shirt. His hands turned white, drying against his skin. He did not notice. Or chose not to.
He sensed her before he turned.
Meera stood where she had been for a while. She was watching him. Just… watching. As if she had found something unexpected and hadn’t yet decided what it meant.
He did not look away.
Her breath hitched. She turned her face aside, chin lifting slightly, drawing herself back into place.
“Your grandfather used to bring your father during restoration works,” Govind spoke.
Abhinav turned.
Govind kept his focus on the tools in his hands. “He would sit on that.” He gestured to a low wooden stool near the window. “Watch for hours.”
The trowel in Abhinav’s hand lowered.
Nothing in the room changed.
The light remained the same. The artisans kept working. The smell of lime stayed in the air. And yet… something shifted.
His father stood there in his mind. A boy, small enough that his feet did not reach the ground, watching with patience. Behind him, Abhinav’s grandfather.
The Anand line, he concurred, ran through these walls. From one hand to another. From wall to wall. From father to son.
Now, it had reached him.
He did not know how long he remained there until the silence around him deepened, the kind that forms when others step back from what does not belong to them.
“We should let you get back to your work. Thank you, Govind Dada.” Meera’s voice came softer now.
Abhinav set the trowel aside carefully and folded his hands.
Govind returned the gesture. Respect sat clear in his eyes for the Thakur of Anand Mahal.
Abhinav followed Meera out. The corridor felt different. Or perhaps he did.
Morning light had climbed higher, catching fine dust in the air, settling along his sleeves and hands. Lime had dried across his knuckles, thin cracks forming where his skin moved.
He left it as it was.
They walked without speaking.
His thoughts remained behind, on a wooden stool near a window, on a boy who had watched long enough to learn without being told.
“How often do they come?” he asked finally.
“Three months in a year,” Meera answered, stepping around a shallow puddle. “For major restoration. Smaller work when needed. Some stay close by. Others travel.”
He nodded.
“The contract with Govind Dada’s family is one hundred and twenty years old,” she added. “Before that, it passed through trust.” Her fingers brushed the wall as they walked. “It stays within the family. The knowledge. The craft.”
He glanced at her hand against the stone, then ahead.
They turned into the family courtyard.
Lunch waited under the neem tree. Sarita sat at the table with a book open. Naina rested in her chair, phone in hand, one leg folded under her.
Meera slowed.
“This is where we stop for today.” She turned to him.
He stopped. “Done for the day?”
“For today,” she nodded. “Tomorrow starts early.”
He watched her, waiting.
“Three-thirty.”
His brows rose. “Morning?”
“In the morning.” A small pause. “The kitchen.”
He stared at her.
“Will you come?” she asked, eyes wide, hopeful.
A breath left him, close to a laugh. He nodded. He would be an idiot to say no.
Her eyes lit up. She dipped her head. “Three-thirty, Hukum.”
She turned and walked away. His eyes followed her until she was gone.
Naina looked up just in time to see Meera go. Then her gaze shifted, slowly, deliberately, to her brother.
Abhinav walked into the courtyard.
His sister’s eyes dropped to his shirt, paused, then returned to his face. Her mouth opened.
“Don’t.”
She shut it. Opened it again.
“I said don’t.”
“I haven’t even said anything,” she replied, deeply offended.
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask how your morning was, Bhai.” Her lips pressed tight, holding back several thoughts that had nothing to do with his morning.
Sarita looked up then. She took in the lime-streaked shirt, the dust on his sleeves, the faint white at his knuckles… and something else. She said nothing. Just pulled out the chair beside her.
Abhinav did not sit. He glanced at his hands, flexed his fingers once, the dried lime stretching against his skin. “I’ll wash.”
“Of course,” Sarita replied.
Naina tracked him as he turned toward the corridor. “So,” she called, voice sweet, “lime plaster.”
He kept walking. “Yes.”
“On a shirt that costs more than my monthly allowance.”
“It was worth it.”
That… That made her sit upright.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”
He stopped. Turned. Walked back. Before she could react, his hand caught her ear and pulled, not harsh, just enough.
“Bhai!” she protested, swatting at him.
“Stop.”
“I am not doing anything!”
“You are doing the face.”
“I don’t have a face!”
“You have a face.” He released her. “Stop making it.”
She rubbed her ear, dignity restored with effort.
Then, very carefully… “Does Meera know you’re this terrible at plastering?”
He looked at her. Properly this time.
She froze.
“Wash your hands,” Sarita murmured, without looking at either of them.
Abhinav squinted at Naina, then turned and walked away.
Naina watched him disappear into the corridor. Then slowly, she turned to her mother. Sarita was also looking in the same direction. Her expression was… not neutral. Not even close.
Naina leaned forward. Their eyes met. That was enough. Their shoulders shook, lips pressed tight to hold the sound.
They didn’t say a word. Because some things… you don’t name them. You let them grow. Especially when they’ve just begun.