In the lobby, I bristle. I search for a lingering something, a wisp, maybe a glimpse of a ghost, a sense that something’s off; but past the vibrant MF Hussain the reception looks just as busy, the engraved wall with the tree of life as serene, the buzz as intense- people watching people. All the rooms have new paint, fittings and furniture, loud carpets have replaced that fine tint, framed photos of the royals that once decked corridor walls have vanished, as if by magic. By the locked balcony one wonders, which of these roofs is Nariman House?
No, it never goes away.
Fine, sharp as an edge writing, it draws blood: