Prologue

Secrets can be buried, like seeds, but rarely do they grow into trees that are a source of strength. Instead, they are burdens that destroy the one who guards them.

And that is why I know my days are numbered. Each day I exist, this buried secret, this knowledge I am saddled with, encumbers me further. I may not have been a party to the extinguishing of lives, but I am guilty by association, after all.

The only hope I have of freedom from this deranged force that seeks to destroy the ones who inhabit me now is that I shall find the one with the courage to face the fates, past and present, making it a little bit easier to carry this burden.

Time sees and hears all things. It only discloses our secrets at its will.

And I fear time has decided to fracture now, as the three elder Sharma girls have found their feet. It should be the time to rejoice and repair the rifts that have not had enough time to heal. But this new renovation project that my Uma has undertaken, I fear, will reveal the slumbering sins of my past, lay bare the secrets I have hidden for generations.

The winter night is silent, except when it is interrupted by the scratch of the nib on paper, which rouses me from my grim thoughts as he struggles to match the pace of the voice in his head.

His numerous journals filled with old words hide under his bed in the small room, his face animated, his focus unwavering.

The fruition of his dreams close at hand.

With unknowing grace, his hand records whispers of the past that even he is unaware of.

More secrets. Secrets he is scared to share even with loved ones.

He is Dheeraj, the only son and reluctant heir of the large Sharma family that inhabits me now. I am the Haveli with a hundred doors named Anwar by one of the daughters of the family, Charu, my favourite, who named me after her protector, after she survived what no child should have to endure.

But these old eyes have witnessed humans hunger for more and still more, never satisfied with what they have, always looking at what another has and coveting it.

Dheeraj’s heart remains cracked. He had learnt to hide it with a quick smile or a daunting silence. Not always this reticent, he was once a boy filled with dreams and wishes, quiet like his father in his youth.

But the perceived responsibility of carrying the business forward as the heir to the saree shop lay heavily on his shoulders.

His heart lies in the poetry of spices, the hiss of hot oil and the bursting taste of the choicest of ingredients skilfully presented in a dish to ignite the senses.

I have watched over and guarded those who lived within my walls as best I could. The lacerations on my heart mirror those that exist in the hearts of everyone who crossed my threshold in the last hundred and fifty years.

I have grown weary having weathered the storms in this old colony of Naugraha. I have seen Old Delhi’s lanes grow narrower; the outcrops and illegal constructions almost choke the streets.

We used to be nine Havelis once. Soon, the loneliness, the ignominy of the lives that surrounded me, came to usurp me. The new era shook me to my very foundations and obliterated many of my counterparts. Slowly, the families moved away, but the nostalgia lingered, haunting the sprawling mansions, reminding us of the changing dynamics of time.

The grandeur faded, and so did we. The sepia hue took over every facet of our existence and, like the gauzy film of dust that lies unmoving, we watched silently as the world continued its rotation.

I wonder what would have become of me had the Sharma family not moved in. The head of the Sharma family, Arun, came as a young boy brimming with promise and ambition. His father’s heavy-handedness and Arun’s unfulfilled dreams made him into the man he is today—passive and resigned.

Arun’s wife, the devout Uma, who walks with a limp due to a past illness, joined this dysfunctional family. Full of gumption and emotional strength, she resolved to find a peaceful solution to the constant unpleasantness.

It was my Uma who shook away my malaise. Airing out my shuttered rooms, she let in the sun and restored my pride with a quick coat of paint. The glass panes shone again, and the lattice jaalis were scrubbed clean of cobwebs. The gardens flourished, the fountain gurgled, and I felt revived. . .rescued.

The children came within a few years of each other. Aruna, the eldest, then Bhavya and, finally, Charu, my sweet sunflower. I had thought they had given up having more children after Charu, but Uma had always wanted a son. Maybe it was to save her crumbling marriage that she decided to try one more time. This time, she was successful in bearing a male child, the heir. Dheeraj.

The children grew up together, loved and happy. The parents masked their personal struggles as best as possible and tried to present a united front.

After a few years, Arun mollified his panicked wife when they found out the cause of her morning sickness was not one child but three. Etti came first; a second later, Fanny; then Gina. And, so, the already big family became enormous.

But as the family grew, so did the weight of the lifetimes that I have hidden, the truth of the ugliness that I witness within these pristine walls. My foundations tremble; new rents appear threatening to unmask the abhorrent secret I hoard.

I fear the darkness that draws near, delights in my fall.

Will the one who holds the key to free me be able to gather the courage to fight, or will he leave me to fend for myself?

This is Dheeraj’s story. . .