“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.