Farah

It was on a very cold January morning that he passed away after a night of breathing difficulty that kept me by his bed-side. I went out for fresh air and informed Mrs. Smith, the matron. She went in to see him, and then took me aside, opened a drawer in the old man's study, pulled out a neatly written sheet of paper, and gave it to me - all in the manner of a person dutifully carrying out a responsibility assigned to her. It was a personal note addressed to me. I read it aloud.

"Dear Farah. Everything is yours now. Perhaps it has always been so, even before you came here. I have some very strong reasons to believe that I built it just for you. I know you will keep it beautiful as it has always been. You may give one cottage permanently to Mrs. Smith as a token of gratitude for looking after me for twenty years. And when you go to the basement, of which you are probably unaware, do not reprove me for keeping this secret from you. I had accepted you without knowing who you really were. Your eyes and face stirred memories and emotions of a distant past I have tried to forget all these years. Your album only confirmed my conjecture. It is ironical that I should leave you now, but I suppose the essential meaning of irony is in its acceptance. God bless you."

"Do you have an idea of what he has written about, Mrs. Smith?" I inquired with bated breath.

"I don't, Miss. But we may find out if we go down to the basement. No one has been there for a decade, though I think he had the place cleaned after he fell ill."

Mrs. Smith opened the door and both of us went down. As she switched on the light, I was surprised at the weird emptiness of the room. Then I spotted a gown hanging in a corner, and the label on its inside pocket read ‘Fitzwilliam College, Cambridge’. Then, turning around, I spotted a built-in, almost inconspicuous, cupboard. I opened it. It had a full-length curtain and no racks. I held the curtain aloft in both hands.

I stood transfixed for a long time, staring at it incredulously. It was an oil painting, a portrait of my mother. The inscription at the bottom said: Copied from the photograph of an Indian Lady - John Irving - London, 1932. A copy of the original was on the first sheet of my family photo album.