Long ago, when his country had foreigners walking over it and the East India Company's flag on it, a man named Aakash Choudhury had been born in the same mansion that Alfred had bought nearly two, three centuries later.
Aakash's mother died at birth and his father trained him to become the perfect zamindar-in-waiting, ready to take over when the elder Choudhury died.
Aakash would have been Parambrata Choudhury's pride and joy if he'd been a little more interested in the nuances of politics and what the villagers thought and less enthusiastic about literature and emotions.
So, he grew up to be a gentle young man, sensible and a little self-loathing, because he couldn't be what his father wanted him to be. He did what was asked of him and read the Bhagavad Gita in the morning; he learned to fire a musket; he did everything he could to please people. He married a young woman named Parvati to continue the bloodline.
Then, he met an Englishman whom he fell in love with.
He tossed everything to the wind; he snuck out at night to meet him; he spent days with him, discussing everything under the sun. He learned what it was like to touch someone so that they'd writhe in ecstasy and to ask for more. Aakash was intoxicated with him, his white skin and his accent.
His wife knew and said nothing. What could she say? She could not bring shame and dishonor to her husband and his family.
It soon became a pattern, a weave that was familiar and to be followed. Aakash was happy with this, even as a drought killed the harvest and the growing noises of discontent reached the zamindar's abode.
But, like all patterns, it came to an end, when, one morning, his British lover told him that it was over and he was going back to England. That he had found a wife and would settle down, happily ever after. He couldn't comprehend why this was happening.
They fought and at last, when Aakash found he couldn't win, he threatened to reveal all of his secrets.
His lover pulled out a pistol and shot at him.
Even as he lay bleeding on the marble floor, he couldn't help but think dizzily that this was what love was supposed to be like.
He became a ghost.
Aakash stayed there for a long time, watching the burning of his body with disinterest. He couldn't help but notice that his wife, Parvati, did not cry.
She was now a widow.
Even cloistered in her tiny room, she still ran the house, the servants carrying out her orders. By the time the Revolt of 1857 came, she had gray streaks in her hair and a will of iron.
He'd always known that Parvati had a backbone of steel.
She died too, eventually and soon, the house was nothing but him and his dusty memories.
He watched India learn of industrialization, watched her grow and become a force to be reckoned with. He saw the Lord Mountbatten and his wife at the ceremony that gifted his country her independence, at long last.
All through this, he still believed in love.
And now, he watched the foreigner and his friend chatter and walk through the overgrown trees and shrubs and followed them.
He had been alone so long with the old caretaker, he couldn't help but be interested in their conversation.
Imagine his surprise and shock when he learnt that the blonde man-his name was Alfred- would soon live there. It was immediately followed by anger-this was his house- and fear when he brushed too close to the man and he raised his blue, blue eyes and looked at him.
He fled.