The Unfinished Portrait

In the summer of 1963, Ravi had just turned seventeen. He lived with his family in the old part of Jaipur, in a haveli that had been in their family for generations. The haveli was a labyrinth of courtyards and corridors, its walls adorned with fading frescoes and its rooms filled with antique furniture and the musty smell of old books. Ravi’s father, a respected physician, had inherited the haveli from his own father, who had been a renowned painter. The haveli was his father’s pride, but to Ravi, it was a place of secrets and shadows, especially after the incident with the portrait.

It began with a commission. A wealthy merchant, Mr. Sharma, had approached Ravi’s father, Dr. Mehta, with a request. He wanted a portrait of his late wife, who had died under mysterious circumstances. Mr. Sharma spoke of his wife’s beauty and the need to preserve her memory. Dr. Mehta, though a physician, dabbled in painting as a hobby, and he reluctantly agreed. He set up his easel in the northern wing of the haveli, in a room that had once been his father’s studio. The room was large, with high ceilings and tall windows that let in a peculiar quality of light. It was said that the studio had been sealed ever since his father’s death, and no one had dared to enter it until now.

Ravi, curious about the sealed room, often peeked through the partially open door while his father worked. He saw his father meticulously sketching the portrait from an old photograph, his brow furrowed in concentration. But as days passed, Ravi noticed something strange. The portrait, although unfinished, seemed to be watching him. When he stood at a certain angle, the eyes in the portrait seemed to follow him. He dismissed it as his imagination, but a growing unease settled in his stomach. One evening, he entered the studio alone. The room was lit by a single oil lamp, casting long, dancing shadows. The portrait stood on the easel, covered by a cloth. Ravi felt an irresistible urge to uncover it. As he pulled the cloth away, he gasped. The face in the portrait was not that of Mr. Sharma’s wife, but his own face, twisted into an expression of terror.

Ravi stumbled back, knocking over a jar of paintbrushes. The clatter echoed through the empty room. When he regained his composure, he looked again, and the portrait had changed back to the woman’s face. But the eyes now seemed to hold a mocking glint. He tried to tell his father, but Dr. Mehta dismissed his fears, attributing them to the stress of exams. However, Ravi could not shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. He began to have nightmares, dreams of a woman in white standing at the foot of his bed, her face obscured. In the dreams, she would whisper, ‘He left me unfinished, and now I will finish him.’

One night, Ravi was jolted awake by the sound of his father’s anguished cry. He rushed to the studio and found his father slumped over the easel, staring at the portrait. The portrait was now complete, but the woman’s face had changed, becoming gaunt and twisted with rage. Dr. Mehta looked up at Ravi with hollow eyes and said, ‘I’ve finished her, but she doesn’t want to be finished. She wants to be forgotten.’

The next morning, Dr. Mehta was gone. His bed was undisturbed, and his car was still in the garage. Ravi searched the haveli frantically, but there was no trace. The portrait, however, was no longer on the easel; it was gone, leaving behind a blank canvas and a single brushstroke of black paint. Ravi never saw his father again. The haveli was sold, and Ravi moved to Mumbai, but he could never forget the horror of that summer. Years later, while cleaning out an old trunk of his father’s belongings, Ravi found a sketchbook. It contained dozens of drawings of the same woman, each one more distorted than the last. On the final page, there was a note in his father’s handwriting: ‘She was not the victim; I was. But you, Ravi, will carry my unfinished work.’

Ravi closed the sketchbook, his hands trembling. He felt a cold presence behind him, and the air grew thick with the scent of oil paint. He turned slowly, but there was nothing there. Yet, he knew that the unfinished portrait would follow him, waiting to be completed, waiting to claim him as its next subject. And in the quiet of the night, he often heard a woman’s voice, soft and mocking, whispering, ‘Finish me, Ravi. Finish me.’