The Unfinished Portrait

I am twenty-three now, and this is the only time I’ve ever felt that cold, suffocating presence that people whisper about in the dark. I grew up in Pune, a city of hills and old bungalows, but my roots were in a small town in Gujarat, where my grandmother lived in a house that had been in our family for over a century. I had visited her every summer since I was a baby, but I never truly knew the house until I was twelve.

The summer of 2008, my aunt was getting married in that town, and my family made the long drive down. I was excited, not just for the wedding, but to see the old house again. It was a sprawling, four-story structure with peeling paint, creaking wooden stairs, and a vast terrace that overlooked the river. But what fascinated me most was the portrait in the main hallway. It was of my great-great-grandmother, a stern-faced woman with piercing eyes, painted when she was young. The artist had never finished it. One corner of the canvas was blank, and the eyes were oddly half-faded, as if the painter had been interrupted.

My cousin, a seven-year-old girl named Meera, was also visiting with her parents. On the third day, during the afternoon siesta, Meera and I were playing hide-and-seek in the house. I hid in the study, behind a heavy curtain. The room was filled with old books and the smell of dust. As I stood there, I heard a faint sound—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like a paintbrush against a canvas. I peeked out, but the room was empty. I thought it was just the house settling.

That evening, I passed the portrait in the hallway. The eyes seemed to follow me, and I could have sworn they had been clearer than before. I mentioned it to my mother, who laughed and said, ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just a painting.’ But I couldn’t shake the feeling.

Two days later, Meera disappeared for nearly an hour. We searched everywhere, panic rising, until my grandmother remembered the attic. The attic was a place we were forbidden to enter, but we had no choice. We climbed the narrow, rickety stairs. At the top, we found Meera sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor, staring at a large, moldy canvas. It was a copy of the portrait, but in this one, the eyes were fully painted, dark and alive. Meera looked up and said, ‘She’s almost done.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the wind. Then I heard the tapping again, coming from the hallway. I crept out and saw a silhouette, a woman in a white sari, standing before the portrait. She was holding a brush, painting the blank corner. As I watched, she turned her head slowly and looked at me with those same piercing eyes. She smiled and faded, leaving the portrait finished.

The next morning, we all gathered to look at the portrait. The blank corner was no longer blank. It showed a girl, perhaps twelve, with my face, but her eyes were empty. My mother gasped. My grandmother whispered, ‘She was always trying to finish this painting.’ I never saw the woman again, but that finished portrait hung in the hall for years, until the house was sold after my grandmother passed away.

I have never forgotten the cold air in that hallway, or the way the paint seemed to ripple in the moonlight. I never went back to that town, and I never told anyone else the whole truth: that when I looked at the girl in the portrait, I felt a pull, as if I was meant to join her. And sometimes, late at night, I still hear that tapping, and I wonder if she’s still waiting for me to come back and finish what I started.