“That’s it”. Mrinmoy banged his fist on the table. “I am
selling this house and that’s final!”
“Okay, let’s just calm down for a minute!” Rishabh tried to
wave the topic away.
“Do not try to calm me! I am not calm and will not be, until
this goddamned debris of a house is completely disowned by me!”
“Will you just sit down? Come on!” Rishabh was getting tired
of Mrinmoy’s periodic complaints.
The house is old. Very old actually, built around 1850
probably. It was not always a reason for frustration for its owners. It
actually had that beautiful Victorian look for quite a long time. But few years
after the country got rid of the British, people started becoming more outward.
Mrinmoy’s grandfather and his brother left the country for good. England showed
more future somehow.
Mrinmoy’s grandfather came back in his 50’s, after his wife
died. Your country is like your spinal cord, if you bend over too much for too long,
it will hurt. Sooner or later, you will have to lean back. The house had
already lost its glaze by then. A caretaker was hired in his absence, but he
didn’t take much of a care after all. Like any other old house in Kolkata, it
started looking like a haunted house.
His health started breaking down in couple of years.
Mrinmoy’s father had to come back in 1981 to take care of him. Though he
thought of leaving the country soon, he couldn’t escape the biggest trap ever –
marriage. Once married, he stopped thinking about migrating again. In a few
years, Mrinmoy was born, the only heir of the Dutta’s. His grandfather’s
brother didn’t have any kids.
The house started getting a little bit cleaner due to the
presence of a woman.
When Mrinmoy was 4 years old, his grandfather died. His
parents couldn’t stand living in the house anymore and moved to Mumbai with
their business within a year. The house stood ignored and neglected, in the mid
of all these family crisis. Again a “caretaker” was hired.
Life was all swell for Mrinmoy, until he wanted to opt out
from father’s clothing business and switch to his dream – photographer. A big
family drama ran for a whole year and ended in Mrinmoy’s leaving Mumbai. The
house again had its heir.
Mrinmoy’s father made him the owner of the house officially
and asked him not to show his face again.
For a year, the house was the best thing Mrinmoy could want.
It was broken, full of ghastly weeds, metal parts tainted and it was the
perfect subject of photography for him. But how long?
Slowly he became the target of colony people’s smart jokes
and taunts. It was in no condition to mend, only to be rebuilt if willed. Of
course, Mrinmoy was too much of a lazy to undertake such a huge amount of
body-work for the house.
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