A cold winter dawn lay across the St. Paul’s Cathedral grounds, in the heart of Kolkata, like a thin veil of grey. Faint mists curled between ancient tombstones and evergreen shrubs, and the air tasted of damp earth and the distant tang of dew. On one side of a narrow pathway, under the skeletal arms of a tall and ancient ashoka, an archaic gardener crouched, his spine bent, his face half in shadow. His hands, knotted, leathery, sculpted by time, gently caressing a fragile bloom lying on the fresh soil. His fingers did not touch the plant but stroked the air around it.
A young man, advancing quietly on that frost-whisper morning, raised his camera. It was his old faithful, a Praktica MTL film camera, heavy in his hands, all brass and mechanics. He pressed the shutter. Clink. The sound cracked the stillness, followed by the tactile rasp of winding the reel, metal teeth catching film, a long sound that only a manual camera knew how to sing.
The gardener looked up, startled, then smiled thinly. His eyes were dim but kind. “You like that one?” he asked, looking back at the fragile bloom, his voice soft, a rasp like dry leaves. Sayan hesitated. “Yes, sir… It’s beautiful.” He stepped closer. “May I… photograph you, too?” The old man shook his head gently, raising a hand as if to shield himself. “No, no. Not me. Flowers, yes. Stones, yes. But not me.” His refusal was firm, though not unkind, but slyly Sayan did capture him in the frame as well. Clink… whirr…
The gardener rose up with surprising agility. In the dim morning light, his form looked hazy and ancient, like an oak from another century. “I am Bonomali,” he said. “I tend the ground here.” His voice had a hint of echo. “You are?”
“Sayan. Sayan Bhowmick. Final year, MA History, Calcutta University. I’m doing a photographic project on old architecture, and I have a long fascination for St. Paul’s Cathedral.” He swallowed, feeling the mist settle on his skin. “I arrived early to catch the dawn.”
Bonomali nodded. “Good. The Cathedral is silent now. In full light, many come. But at this early hour, there is magic.” They fell silent together for a minute. The mist curled, moist and secretive, and dew droplets shook on petals and blades of grass. The fragrance was cool: half earth, half moss, half something old and holy. “Walk with me,” Bonomali said, beckoning. “Let me show you the stones and the stories.”
Sayan followed him along a curved path, past tombs whose names he could not read in the gloom. Bonomali’s gait was slow but steady. He stopped before a simple white plaque embedded in a red brick wall, half hidden by creeping ivy. “This wall,” Bonomali said, hunching forward, “is older than many think. Before the Cathedral stood, this land was forest, wild. Tigers roamed.” His voice fell to a whisper, as if the trees themselves held their breath. Sayan’s pulse quickened. “Tigers?”
“Yes. In the eighteenth century, this area was remote and forested. The European settlement had not yet expanded south of the Maidan. The idea of building a grand church here was first floated by Bishop Thomas Middleton in the early 1820s. But many thought it too far, too wild.” Bonomali’s fingers traced the air above the ivy tendrils. “Still, the vision remained.”
They entered the Cathedral through a heavy wooden door. It was already half open. The interior greeted them with the smell of old wood, polished pews, incense echoes, and faint must of age. The nave stretched before them: 247 feet long, 81 feet wide, skeletal arches supporting vaults overhead.
The young man’s breath caught. The pointed Gothic arches reached up into the gloom. Light filtered through tall windows; some panes were clear, others stained glass, colouring the floor in faint shards of ruby and emerald. Bonomali paused at a column, moving his hands over the cold stone, but not touching the surface.
Sayan instinctively lifted his camera. He wanted to capture Bonomali’s figure against the column, but again the old man raised his palm. “No, not me. The arches, the windows, yes. Take them.” Sayan focused on the stained glass instead, the satisfying clink filling the air, then the winding of the reel, each turn gritty with precision. But he could not help slyly capturing Bonomali in the frame as well.
“This Cathedral was built in the Gothic Revival style, Indo-Gothic, actually, adapted for our tropical monsoon climate. The principal designer was Major William Nairn Forbes, assisted by C. K. Robinson. They modelled the tower and spire on Norwich Cathedral. The foundation stone was laid on 8 October 1839, and eight years later, on 8 October 1847, the Cathedral was consecrated. The original cost was rupees 4,35,669. Queen Victoria even sent ten silver-gilt plates for the ceremony.”
The old man turned, his voice echoing. “They used Chunar stone for ashlars, special light bricks, lime mortar mixed with surki (brick dust). The vault spans 21 metres across, length nearly 71 metres. Progressive buttresses support the walls. Over time, a steel truss and corrugated roofing were inserted for extra protection. The external stucco is lime plaster, fine chunam, inside and out.” Sayan whispered, “It’s magnificent.”
They walked further, pausing before a fresco and reredos beyond the altar. On the liturgical east end stood carved panels depicting scenes from the life of St. Paul: the Annunciation, Adoration of the Magi, and Flight into Egypt. The reredos, dated to around 1879, was by Sir Arthur Blomfield. To the south flank of the altar sat the episcopal throne; to the east, the decorative reredos wall.
Bonomali’s voice trembled. “In 1897, a strong earthquake struck, and the upper parts of the steeple were damaged. Later, in 1934, a larger quake collapsed the spire entirely. The tower was then rebuilt on the lines of the central Bell Harry tower of Canterbury Cathedral. The new tower features five giant clocks. The spire height was reduced, from 201 feet originally to about 145 after damage.”
Everywhere Sayan turned, history lived in marble and glass. He clicked, wound, clicked, wound. Each sound seemed to join the echoes of bells long past. And each time, Bonomali stood aside, refusing to be in the photo, while Sayan slyly captured him in the frame.
They moved past delicate stained-glass windows. On the western wall was the West Window by Morris & Co., designed from a pattern by Sir Edward Burne-Jones. On the east, the original stained glass had been destroyed in a cyclone in 1964 and replaced in 1968. Sayan wondered, how did an old gardener know so much?
Bonomali led Sayan to the library, above the western porch: a lofty chamber, 61 ft × something with a height of 35 ft. He said, “Bishop Wilson, who championed the project, donated 8,000 books to form the library’s nucleus.”
Walking through memorial plaques and tablets, Bonomali paused before a statue: Bishop Heber, 2nd Bishop of Calcutta, sculpted by Francis Leggatt Chantrey in 1835. The marble font in front of it shows Heber kneeling. He gestured to a plaque reading John Paxton Norman, a chief justice assassinated in 1871. They lingered near a charred wooden cross, made of burned beams collected by Canon Subir Biswas during the 1971 Bangladesh war, displayed quietly in one corner. Bonomali’s voice hushed: “Much sorrow lies here, unspoken.”
Sayan felt a chill. He whispered, “This place carries so many stories, stone, fire, human grief.” They exited into the garden. The morning light had grown stronger. The dew shone on petals, like jewels. Bonomali led him to benches shadowed by frangipani trees. The scent of blossoms floated faintly, soft and sweet. In the distance, bells chimed somewhere, remote, as if from a dream.
They spoke quietly. Sayan asked, “Why were earlier Bishops slow to push the idea?” Bonomali shook his head. “After Middleton died in 1822, his successors had short tenures. Reginald Heber, Thomas James, and John Turner all died early. It was only under Bishop Daniel Wilson in 1832 that the project truly revived. They acquired seven acres of land and set up the Cathedral Committee. Forbes designed, Robinson assisted.”
Bonomali’s voice dropped into a reflective hush. “You must also know, the Diocese of Calcutta itself was born in 1813, when Thomas Middleton was appointed its first bishop. The Church of England stretched its arm into this land through him. Later, under Daniel Wilson, the sixth bishop, Calcutta rose in stature, became the Metropolitan See in 1835, when Madras and Bombay became dioceses too. Through decades, the Diocese grew and shifted, becoming part of the Church of India, Burma, Ceylon, and later uniting with other Protestant traditions in 1970 to form the Church of North India. These stones,” he gestured around, “have seen that long tide of faith and change wash over them.”
Sayan’s mind raced over these dates. He asked, “When they rebuilt after 1934, did they preserve all earlier elements?” Bonomali frowned. “They tried. But strength had to prevail. The tower was reimagined, and clocks added. Some original glass, carvings, and woodwork remained. But fractures show. Cracks on the walls inside, patched plaster. A tablet by the entrance mentions damage in 1897 and 1934, and that the present tower was erected in 1938. And in 1992–94, restoration was done using funds from worshippers and visitors.”
They wandered again, stepping over slabs. Bonomali touched epitaphs, reading names in fading letters. His eyes glistened. By the time they reached the outer gate, the winter sun had lifted slightly, painting the mist gold. The garden smelled of frangipani, blossoms shedding pale yellow stars onto the grass.
“Thank you,” Sayan said, bowing slightly. “You’ve given me more than photographs.” Bonomali’s lips curved. “Remember the stones. They outlast us all.” They stood a moment longer. Then Sayan, almost shyly, asked, “Why do you stay here, sir, don’t you want to retire?” Bonomali’s lips curved. “I was here ages ago, I stayed even when I was supposed to go, for the love of this soil, these stones, these voices. I watch, I tend. I have known too many winters to really go.”
The ancient gardener smiled faintly, then turned and walked back into the mist-framed garden. Sayan watched until the old man’s figure disappeared among the trees. He raised his camera once more, but the lens found only empty paths.
That evening, in his small room lined with black curtains, the air heavy with the metallic tang of developer and fixer, Sayan hung strips of film to dry. His hands, stained faintly with chemicals, trembled with excitement. One by one, the photographs emerged from the red glow of the lamp: the dew-soaked flower, the arches of the nave, the stained-glass blaze of Morris & Co., the charred wooden cross, the marble plaques. Each developed brilliantly, crisp detail etched into silver halide. But then he realised there was something horribly wrong with the photographs.
Where Bonomali should have stood, beside a pillar, near the reredos, at the memorials, there was only space. Empty light. Carved stone. Blossoms. Shadows. Not once had the film caught him. Not even a flicker. Sayan lowered the wet photograph, his hands cold despite the heat of the chemicals. His chest thudded.
The sound of the morning echoed in his head, the rasp of the reel, the clink of the shutter, the old man’s voice whispering of tigers and jungle. And in that dim red darkroom, with photographs dripping silent tears of developer into trays below, Sayan finally understood. Some guardians lived not in flesh, nor in photographs, but only in memory and mist.
Copyright © 2025 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
fantastic as always friend.
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Thank you so much William for being the first to comment on this story. So happy that you liked the tale.
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my pleasure friend, loved it.
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Amid the fog, every stone seemed to breathe with memory — and Bonomali was the pulse behind it, a whisper of devotion outlasting even time itself.
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Thank you Livora, you have highlighted one of my most favourite lines in the story.
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It truly stood out to me — simple, yet it lingers long after reading. I can see why it’s one of your favourites. ✨
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yes indeed really good.
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Thank you William.
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Thank you Ned for promoting my story in your blog. Always a pleasure to receive your support.
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Clever story twist.
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Thank you so much. So glad that you liked the twist.
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A wonderful post. I loved the story but then I have loved every story of yours I have read. 🙏🏽
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That is such a beautiful thing to hear in the morning – an appreciation for my short stories. Thank you so much dear friend.
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You are very welcome, Trishikh!! My pleasure!
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This reminded me about a short video with the Title :
The Alien”. that I had posted some days ago.
I was wondering how your storyline coincided with mine where I had narrated how I tried to make a video recording of a beautiful girl singing as much a beautiful song, she was absent from the video when I played the video to watch her and to listen to the song sung by her.
Yes, maybe a happy coincidence!
What do you think?
Happy Dussera!!
Happy Puja celebrations!!
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Dear Vinay, I have always believed that great minds think alike. It is certainly a coincidence. Happy Dussera/ Durga Puja to you and your family too.
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कुञ्ज-निकुञ्जे,
कमलिनी कञ्जे,
वसति वने वनमाली!!
रञ्जन रञ्जे,
कालिन्दी-मज्जे
चपल तरङ्गे
वसति वने वनमाली!!
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Dear Vinay, somehow this Sanskrit comment of your landed in my spam box. So the late approval and reply. Thank you for such deep thoughts.
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What a spellbinding narrative! 🌫️ The prose is richly atmospheric—every detail of mist, stone, and silence builds a mood that lingers long after the last line. The character of Bonomali is drawn with such mystery and tenderness that he feels both deeply human and otherworldly, a guardian woven from memory and time. The seamless blend of architectural history, sensory imagery, and spectral revelation transforms St. Paul’s Cathedral into more than a monument—it becomes a living, breathing soul of Kolkata.
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Dear Verma’ji, as always, your thoughtful comment adds to the charm of my story. It’s such a treat to share a story with a thoughtful and appreciative reader like you. I am so glad that you enjoyed this story so thoroughly. As you rightly say, the story “becomes a living, breathing soul of Kolkata.”
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🙏
Aum Shanti
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May the peace of the universe fill your being too.
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Engaging
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Thank you so much. Always a pleasure to receive your appreciation.
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Thank you, Trishikh, for a beautifully written and fascinating ghost story. As always, your words bring the story of the Cathedral to life from the very beginning of the forest, with roaming tigers, to the idea of building the church, its complex creation, and the grounds with ancient stones and intoxicating blooms of flowers. The excitement of the young, likeable student at having such an erudite tour of the Cathedral is moving, as is the protagonist, Bonomali’s devotion to the place he regards as his own.
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, as always, reading your comment brings me great joy. So happy that you liked my latest tale from the city of Kolkata. I was getting a bit worried that this story was too heavy on history, however I think it’s okay as of now.
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It is not only OK, it is perfect, Trishikh!
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, thank you so much.
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Hello 👋. How do you reach 50+ likes the way you do. Also, Rate my blog 1️⃣ – 5️⃣: https://thumbihouse.wordpress.com/2025/10/03/maslow-ladder-for-slow-climbers/. And what have yuh learnt 👌. Then subscribe, share, like, comment.
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I have been writing my short stories from 2022 onwards, in between for 1 year I did not write. All my growth, likes, and comments are organic. I focus on writing a great story, something which my readers would love, and that’s how they have gradually come to regularly visit my blog and read my stories. I publish one story every weekend, nowadays on Friday’s, so my fans know when to expect my stories. If your content is good, it need not be viral, but good or great for a certain group of audience, then your fans (likes and comments) would automatically come. You also need to read, like, and comment on other’s posts as well, then they will come to know about your existence and content as well.
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🧡💛💚
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🙂🙏
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Yet another lovely tale.. I suspected the caretaker would not show up in the films.. caretaker for eternity.. thank you.. ❤️
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Dear Fiona, thank you for loving my story. Ah! You read the subtle hints in the story and cracked it before the end. Glad that this story gave you so much literary joy.
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Enjoyed the history and story woven beautifully..
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Thank you so much Savitha, so glad that you liked the way I amalgamated the history and the story.
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Wow… such incredible rich imagery and feelings & sound ( as usual ! ). The ending gave me goosebumps ! 🙏 How do you come up with these stories ??? Haha
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It is a divine blessing. God has blessed me with the talent to write these stories to bring a smile on someone’s face, and for the future generations to know about their ancestors. I am so happy that you liked the story, especially the ending.
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Dear Trishikh
I always admire you for this post.
Thanks for liking my post, Defeat 🌹❤️🌹❤️
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Dear Raj, thank you so much. So happy that you liked this story of mine. It’s my pleasure to like your post as well.
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Your stories are always haunting. I love both the historic connection and the compassion.
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Dear Anna, thank you so much for always being such an ardent fan of my stories. So happy that you liked the latest one, especially the historic connection and compassion with the haunting twist.
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Bonomali, the old simple gardener, gives life to his Cathedral in Kalkota, where he has spent most of his life, and without him the most precious stones, the stained glass windows or all the history which lies behind it would be dead without his presence. I think your story, Trishikh, shows us that often time it’s the human being that makes the difference and not the material things! Many thank:)
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Dear Martina, this is a very beautiful thought that you have brought forward “often times it’s the human being that makes the difference and not material things.” I did not think about this while writing the story, thank you for bringing in this revelation.
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Dear Trishikh, I thank you very much for accepting my thought, which, maybe isn’t very modern!
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Your thought resonates well with me.
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:):)
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I do enjoy your posts, so full of atmosphere, detail. Thank you for posting them.
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Dear Michael, thank you for always being there to appreciate and encourage. I treasure your response.
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This story has the sound of a personal experience to it?
You are fittingly address how we moderns observe our environment and how we form our opinions on the basis of how truthful we judge experiences; we have come to apply a scientific perspective to everything we perceive as real, leaving out the magical and beautiful that is residing under the surface of our observation.
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You are very right with your analysis. We humans only tend to believe what on the surface, and seldom do we dare to dive deep. Yes the story is personal, you are right.
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Wonderful. A lot of history. Somehow I could guess that the ancient figure of Bonomali was a remnant of the past.
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So you guessed it early in the story, I had left certain subtle hints to suggest this. Great that you identified them. Thank you for loving my story. Always a pleasure to receive your appreciation.
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Thanks brother
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You are most welcome.
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Fantastic story with lots of history.
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Thank you so much Indrajit, so glad that you liked the story so much.
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Beautiful story of Bonomali. At last Sayan realised everything not for photography! Well shared 💐
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Yes Priti, very true, Sayan did have a great revelation at the end. So glad that you liked the story. I am so thankful to you for your constant support.
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😊🙏🏼Suvo Bijoya 🙏🏼
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Subho Bijoya, to you and your family too.
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🙏🏼
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Awesome! Thanks for lots of history and twist at the end.l
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You are most welcome Anamika. So glad that you liked the story.
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Such a beautiful story! I had a feeling that Bonomali’s spirit had always been there since the cathedral was built and would be there for all time. Sayan was blessed with a valuable experience.
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I am so happy that you liked this story. It really makes my day when someone enjoys one of my stories. I had placed subtle clues about Bonomali, so glad that you were able to pick them up.
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I can vividly imagine that misty, mystical morning. How lucky the young man was to meet Bonomali. I had a feeling that he might not show in the photos. 😉 Thank you for another wonderful story, written in exquisite language. Poetry in prose …
There is only one other writer about whose writing I have this feeling, and that is the late Jean Giono, a writer from France (Provence).
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Dear Stella, your comment has made my day. If my work can even reflect a bit of the great writers of the past, then that is a great achievement for me. You have raised an interest in me, now I would like to read some of Late Jean Giono’s work.
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I would recommend “Jean le bleu”, it is autobiographic. One of his books has even been made into a movie several times (L’hussard sur le toit).
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I will certainly read it. I love autobiography.
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But it is a poetry in prose biography. 🙂
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Okay, that sounds good too.
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I just would like to clarify something. When I say that I have a similar experience when reading you or Giono, it does not mean that you are writing in a similar style, you don’t, Giono is a dreamer, and you are not (not like him). I mean it in the sense that your style is of the same quality, although different.
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Dear Stella, now I understand, that’s great to hear. I will certainly read Giono for myself and find out. I am sure that I would enjoy.
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It should have read in my comment:
“… one OTHER writer … “
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Got it, I have made the change as per your request.
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What a gorgeous piece! You’ve transformed history and architecture into a genuine gothic mystery.
It turns out the original purpose of the Praktica MTL wasn’t just to capture light, but to audibly announce the presence of an earnest history student to the resident ghost/guardian. The satisfying clink-whirr sound is the physical world’s equivalent of a velvet curtain being pulled back, granting Sayan access to history the living usually miss.
Thank you for crafting such a resonant and atmospheric story. It truly captures the feeling that some places are so old, their history walks among us.
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Dear Aparna, your thoughts about the Praktica MTL camera are so exciting. I did not think that the sound seemed like a curtain raiser. I see that you have really enjoyed the story, and that is most satisfying for me. I have nearly finished writing my next one, and will release it on Friday as usual. Do keep your radars sharp, I am sure that you enjoy my next tale too.
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Done deal!!! ✌️♡
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Highly visual. You have a unique gift.
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Thank you so much. So happy that you like the visuals that I paint through my short stories.
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Wow! Another lovely story 👏👏
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Thank you so much Daisy. Always a pleasure to share a good story. So happy that you liked this one.
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Beautifully written. Great work 💯Fascinating story ❤️
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Thank you so much. So glad that you find my story so fantastic. Always treasure your appreciation.
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This story of Bonomali and Sayan takes an intriguing turn. What begins as a simple tale of a curious student gradually unfolds into a mystery. Bonomali’s deep connection with the cathedral draws his spirit back, yet, as we know, no spirit can ever be captured by a camera. Thank you, Trishikh, for sharing yet another captivating story. Much appreciated.
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Dear KK, so happy that this story resonated with you so well. I really liked the way you explained the flow – “simple tale to a curious student gradually unfolds into a mystery.” It’s a thought and a line, that I will now associate with this story forever.
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So nice of you to say so, Trishikh! You’re a master storyteller and it’s always a pleasure to go through them. Thank you!
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Dear KK, you are most welcome.
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There is so mush in this story. Hooked till the last word. It would be wonderful to have a story about Victoria Memorial. A splendid work of architecture. Especially what lies beneath the wonderful monument.
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Yes, I must confess, I have been thinking about it. Let’s see when I get the perfect inspiration.
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Dear Sumita, as per your request, I wrote a story on the Victoria Memorial Hall. You can read it now: https://storynookonline.com/2025/10/31/taj-of-the-raj/
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Indeed, this is a seamless blend of architectural history, sensory imagery, and fiction that creates a very interesting story. A ghost story. I am excited to learn more about Calcutta and its historical background from your beautiful writings, Ji 👍👍👏
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That is so nice of you to say. I am so happy that my stories peak your interest in the city of Calcutta.
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I love Calcutta for many reasons. I hope Kolkata /Calcutta will always be the city of my joy.
This is my link to my blog post. This isn’t a deep analysis, but rather a personal journey into why I love it.
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That is so nice to hear. It is my pleasure to visit and like your blog posts too.
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Thank you so much for reading 🙏🙏
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