Since the time I was born, I have been hearing how old our house is. It is, in fact, really old. According to what my grandmother told me, the house is nearly 200 years old, nestled in the heart of Kolkata.

Living in such a house must be fascinating – that’s what I’ve heard from most friends or acquaintances who have heard about it. I’ve always smiled and nodded. After the initial reaction there arrives the very predictable second question – is it haunted?

In reality, no. Ghosts don’t exist, and that’s the answer that I give anyone who asks me. However, it is haunted.

Wait, no, don’t just scoff. A ghost does not look like Freddie Krueger, Candyman, Jason Voorhees, the demons in Conjuring, or any of the other popular figures that we are familiar with. Yes, I know ghosts don’t exist – not as they are shown in movies, nor as they are written about in books.

But, that does not mean that old houses are not haunted.

Instead of a spectral figure, my house is haunted by memories. As are most such houses that have existed for so long.

But, I’m not here to talk about other old houses, many of which litter the neighbourhoods of Kolkata, still present, but slowly disappearing from the landscape.

My house remembers. It remembers the laughter that it saw within these walls. It remembers the fights. It remembers the celebration of gold medals achieved by some of those who reside in it. It has seen many of its members pass with time. When I was born, the house was home for eleven people. The number has slowly dwindled. Of those original eleven, only four remain over the passage of 26 years.

Growing up, I loved my house. More than the family members, all of whom I naturally loved, the house held a strange fascination for me. There were always small nooks and crannies to explore. I remember, there was one spot that young me really loved. It was on the landing between the first floor and the second floor. As with any old house, renovations had been done to this one, and there was no plan that made any sense. Hence, that landing was where the bathroom was located. However, to the left of the bathroom, there was a small cranny. That was where the laundry bucket was kept. Next to it was a window, that looked out on the terrace of the first floor.

The sunlight poured in, filtered somewhat by a net made to keep bugs out. I spent many an afternoon sitting in that nook, after having removed the bucket, with a book in my hand. Many were the days, that after having been scolded by my parents, I would retreat to that nook. In this whole, enormous house, that one little nook seemed mine. No one else really sat there. No one else seemed to notice. But on those days, with the sun making patterns on my young hands and legs, I would spend hours, fascinated, and lost in my own imagination, chasing dragons, making friends with giants, and flying to far-off places.

The house remembers those days when I would sit there. For once, so do I.

Over time, renovations had to be made to the house again and again. Age complicates. That has always been the truth. After the passing of certain elders of the family, our joint family decided to break apart. Thanks to the callous and carelessness of one of my forefathers, it had been written in the will, that the house would be split down the middle.

When I was little and heard of the plan, I could not imagine what they meant. How could they split the house in two? Later, I would learn about the British, and realise everything can be split apart with minimal effort if the one doing the dividing does not care enough.

Growing up, I was always waiting for the day that the house would be split apart. The more I grew, the more I understood that it was not going to be a one-day process. It would take years. We continued to live in the house with the prospect of division hovering over our heads. The plans were complicated and everyone had to come to an understanding that would make it possible. The process is still not complete.

The house, however, was split apart. It was divided right down the middle. Some formalities still remain, but in effect, it’s done.

On the day of the division, when the walls went up over doorways and windows that I had known my whole life, it felt surreal. I could not process what I was seeing. In many ways, I still have not processed it. Sitting here, writing about it now, I think I am finally processing it.

I remember, watching my mother sit on our first floor, on our sofa. She was staring at one place, and one place only – the terrace, as the door to it from our room was slowly sealed up. The bricks were placed one by one, and the sunlight that was sneaking across the room slowly started to lessen.

The moment is photographed in my memory. The last brick remained. One small corner. That small fleck of sunlight on my mother’s cheek, reflecting on the tear, as she silently watched a part of her existence in our house disappear forever. My father stood there as well, watching. My brother feigning indifference, sat reading a book on his mobile, with his eye on that last brick. I stood there, taking it all in, not sure what I was seeing, but knowing that I would want to remember this forever. I was not the only one. That night, when I touched the bricks that separated us from what felt like my childhood – the terrace that I had played on for so long – I felt a deep sadness radiate through my body. In my mind, I fancied that it was the house telling me that it was sad as well.

But it was not until 2 months later, after that day, that it hit me.

I was climbing up the steps to go to the bathroom, and there, next to it, I saw my old nook. Given the schedule I had, and with construction, I had never really stopped to look here. But when I did, I realised something. The nook, that window, had been walled off as well.

I had not sat in that nook since maybe the time I was 14 years old.

But seeing that walled off, hit me like a gut punch. Everything had a fresh coat of paint for the first time in 20 years by this time. Everything looked amazing. But the nook, where I sat and ready about The Boy Who Lived, where I read about four children and their dog going on adventures, where I discovered how the Belgian detective would use his little grey cells – that nook was gone. I remember, that day I sat down there, and broke down. I was an adult now. Why was I breaking down in that way?

And when I sat there, weeping and mourning something that I had always taken for granted, I didn’t feel alone. Even though the window was gone, the wall where I had leaned my back was still there, providing that same support. The small stones which glinted when the sunlight had lit them up were still there, under my fingers, only dark now.

And then I realised, the house was mourning with me.

I live in an old house. The walls have damp. Parts of it need almost annual maintenance. The flooring is cracked and imperfect. There are no ghosts in the house.

My house is haunted by memories.