My Daughter’s Face in the Wall / Chapter 7: Burning Memories
My Daughter’s Face in the Wall

My Daughter’s Face in the Wall

Author: Kavya Joshi

Chapter 7: Burning Memories

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When I got home that night, as soon as I walked in, my wife started complaining:

"Kahan chale gaye the phir? Kabir ko poora din nahi dekha?"

"Hamesha idhar-udhar ghoomte rehte ho—kuch kamai bhi hoti hai kya?"

"Ilaaj ka itna kharcha hai... Kya karenge hum..."

Her voice was weary, edged with frustration, yet behind it I could hear the trembling worry she never said aloud. The TV blared in the background, some serial aunty wailing, filling the house with noise.

I sat on the sofa, feeling a dull ache in my temples. I pressed my forehead, wishing for a moment of silence.

The more I thought about what the kabadiwala said, the more I felt it had something to do with Ananya. It gnawed at me, like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

If I don’t get to the bottom of this now, maybe I’ll never know the truth. I kept seeing Ananya’s eyes, her smile, the way she’d tug my shirt.

I thought for a while and said to my wife,

"Woh purana ghar jaldi girne wala hai. Aaj wapas gaya tha, kuch kaam nipatana hai, shayad kuch paise mil jayenge."

Her eyes instantly lit up,

"Sach? Bahut accha... bahut accha..."

Finally, she stopped nagging me. I could see a faint hope in her face, the kind that comes after long darkness.

Night fell, and I couldn’t sleep. In a daze, I dreamed of Ananya, of that long staircase, that peeling wall. I heard echoes—a child’s laughter, footsteps, a door creaking somewhere far away.

I walked up the stairs, searching for my daughter’s outline on the wall. But this time, her image never appeared.

Instead, half a human face bulged from the wood grain of the handrail. The face seemed to be crying, mouth twisted in silent pain.

I was startled, tried to call out Ananya’s name, but my voice wouldn’t come out, as if the house itself was holding its breath. I stepped back several steps, nearly falling down the stairs. The handrail was cold and sticky under my palm.

At the same time, a harsh sound of fingernails scratching echoed through the stairwell... It was so real, it made my teeth clench.

I woke up with a start. Sweat was trickling down my back, and the fan swung lazily overhead.

After calming down, I found my wife wasn’t in bed.

I got up and saw a light on the balcony.

My wife was squatting there, burning something in an iron basin.

I quietly walked over. The warm glow flickered on her face, highlighting the tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

I saw she was burning clothes.

They were the clothes I couldn’t bear to throw away—the ones Ananya had worn when she was alive. Her tiny frock, her cartoon socks, all turning to ash in the orange flames.

I didn’t disturb her, nor did I ask why.

Because I remembered something else—

When Ananya went downstairs alone, my wife was at home on the sixth floor.

My heart pounded. I stared at her back, trying to read her thoughts, but she didn’t turn.

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