The Manor we had along the country side was my favourite place to spend holidays, since my childhood days. Particularly the sculptures, bought and collected by my ancestors, around the entire house were my principal attractions. I used to play with those as a child. As a successor of such wealth and heritage, I have created a catalogue of those, as much as I could gather from my family journals and ledgers.
Out of all those, one piece of a little boy was the one I loved the most. That was my best friend when I was of that age. As I grew up, I became fanatical about that statue. But, surprisingly, nothing could be found about that statue in the documented history of our family or otherwise, until I met the man on my way to manor on a rainy night. As he couldn’t find any place, I offered him the night’s stay in my house, which he accepted promptly.
As the car was moving towards the portico through the driveway, he asked me with a stare of disbelief whether I was the owner of the manor, to which I positively replied. Then when he asked me about that statue, neither could I believe my ears nor I could find any word. To cast the last nail on the coffin of my astonishment, he offered the history of the statue. His only condition was that we needed to have our seats in front of the statue. Like a mesmerised one I decided to attend him after dinner in the grand drawing room, where the statue was.
I was in for a shock; even in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined that a work of art so beautiful could be associated to such a horrific story. Great great grandfather of my great grandfather was impotent, and this was not known to many. But his wife had given birth to two sons, as she had a pre-marital and extra-marital affair with an obscure sculptor. They had sent the elder son to the city for studies when he was about of twelve, three years older than the younger one. During a harvest festival, to the utmost misfortune of the lovers, my ancestor came to know about their relationship. The sculptor was asked to leave the place, which he did not agree to only desire was to be close to his son. My ancestor’s wife confided in him telling him that due to his impotency he couldn’t have been the father of the boys. A rich, resourceful man as he was could not bear such an insult. He killed his wife and the little boy. He made the sculptor to build the statue around the dead body of the boy. As the sculptor was ordered not to show himself anywhere near the compound of premises he had do the work in his own studio under continuous surveillance. They day the statue was complete he killed himself.

As daylight broke the darkness of the room, my mind was in turmoil and not quite ready to accept such a tale. When asked about the authenticity of it, the man answered with a deep sigh,” I was longing to meet my boy. But I was not allowed to come in the premise. Don’t you understand, I am the obscure Sculptor?”
Having said that, the man – the sculptor dissolved in the air along with his beloved and long-lost boy.