[This is a retelling of a story already shared here at Shail’s Nest some years back about L&M’s adventures with paint and brush. Recently, I painted —a different paint altogether—on a couple of chipped and cracked objects. The L&M was very appreciative of the results. Meanwhile I confessed that I was looking for more things to paint on, and joked that if he wasn’t careful, I’d be painting on him next. “That’s why I keep running off on the pretext of errands!” he quipped right back. This banter brought back memories of a time when the sight of a brush and paint can in his hand sent shivers down my spine. Want to know why? Read on.]

Years back, I sort of ‘inherited’ a wooden almirah that belonged to my maternal grandmother. Quite a solid thing weighing a ton, with doors fitted with square glass panels, and the two pull-out drawers at the bottom sporting ancient-looking rattling knobs.

We had no furniture of our own those days. The army provided us with furnished quarters. So making our own was postponed to a distant future when it would be time for the L&M to retire, or so we thought at the time. Anyway, no personal furniture meant so much less to lug around on our frequent moves.

Even so, I accepted the almirah. For one it had belonged to my maternal grandmother, and for another its antique look appealed to me. A coat of varnish and it would look grand in one corner of the dining room, I decided.

Accordingly, when I moved to Siliguri to join the L&M after my brief stay in my hometown, the almirah came along with the other paraphernalia of kitchen items, drawing room decorations, clothes and such.

I had already decided on the spot for it when we I saw the freshly painted, but old and crumbling quarters allotted to us. It went to the spot allocated for it as soon as it was unloaded by the helpers. I looked at it appreciatively, in my mind’s eye imagining how it would look after a lick of that badly needed varnish.

One Sunday, the L&M got the tinned varnish. Varnish coloured paint, he explained as he saw me checking the tin. There was a dab of colour at the bottom and it looked too close to yellow for varnish.

“It looks yellow, not the dark chocolate wood colour,” I said doubtfully.

The L&M scoffed. He insisted it was ‘wood colour’.

“But not the dark wood colour of the almirah!” I persisted.

“This IS the wood colour! You’ll know when it’s done!” he said with imperious flourish that had a ring of finality to it.

What do I know? May be he was right. Maybe it would look like dark wood when painted. So I kept quiet.

Being the Adjutant of his unit, the L&M mostly had some work or other to finish after dinner, and used to tell me not to wait up for him. One night, I woke up and seeing the light on in the dining area, decided to peep in on him before getting back to sleep. On reaching the doorway, I looked at the unfolding scene before me and stood in utter shock.

My beloved almirah was covered in ghastly yellow paint.

The first thought that came to mind, apart from the shock at seeing my ruined almirah, was a very practical one. ‘I’ll need to move it first thing in the morning to some inside corner where no eyes will ever fall on it’ Outwardly I asked the L&M, in reasonable tones—yes I am an expert when it comes to hiding my disappointments, shocks, anger, you name it—

“This is yellow!”

“No, it’s not,” the L&M said a little brusquely while continuing giving finishing touches with a flourish. I could see he was annoyed with my harping on the yellowness of the paint.

My heart sank. The deed was done. There was no going back ever now. The almirah would never look the same again. I didn’t want to escalate things any further because I knew nothing would change his stance.
I quietly withdrew. My sleep was gone. I was now busily trying to find a place for the disfigured (or dis-coloured?) almirah where no light would shine on it. But where was such a place? I fell asleep dreaming that all this had been but a dream.

The morning light revealed the reality in all its stark yellowness. The sahayak walked in with the saheb’s polished shoes and stood staring with his mouth open.

“Saab ne paint kiya?” he asked. (Did Sir paint it?)

I nodded. I was glad someone else could see the yellow that I was seeing.

There was one good thing about the morning light that day though. The L&M saw the yellow for what it was, not wood yellow or whatever the stupid salesman had convinced him it was, but plain and obvious bright yellow!

He had the unit carpenter (who had also stood with mouth agape and judiciously closing it before saheb could catch him) remove the paint with removers, and give it a once over with dark chocolate coloured paint. But the almirah had been effectively ruined. It no longer looked antique. From then on, it remained in ignominy in inside corners, or the kitchen, even the work area, till finally I bid adieu to it before moving to a new apartment where it was not needed.

For years the L&M had the habit of painting over whatever he fancied—overhead fans even!—once he had the paint can and brush in his hand till finally I cured him of the habit. You see, down the years, I had grown in size and stature, and learnt to decisively say “No!” The new rule laid out was that no painting of objects in the house could be done without my express permission. After all, what guarantee did I have that I would return from a trip and not find the entire house transformed into a monument to his artistic vision—green, blue, purple or, heaven forbid, bright yellow?!

©️ Shail Mohan 2026

Since I do not have a picture of the almirah in question in all its gory, sorry, glory, I give you instead the chipped bowl and a coffee mug that got makeovers from me.