Some buildings stand out of real time and space. It is so easy to believe that they are shrouded in mystery, and that their magic casements and enchanted portals could lead us astray into a realm where our imagination will run wild. Such a house was the derelict Bedi Bhavan that stood for years wedged between the Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture, Golpark, and Southern Avenue. Rumours, whispers and hearsay had swathed the building in a House-of-Ushers aura, though there was nothing remotely romantic about its origin or about the people who lived in it pre- or post-World War II.

But it certainly had a presence, an element that it would not be an exaggeration to call gothic. This indefinable quality stood the test of broad daylight and the crowds milling around Golpark. It was in recognition of this element that in 1992 a French artist of international repute had chosen Bedi Bhavan as the site of an enchanting and ephemeral project.

Although the Calcutta Municipal Corporation’s records never acknowledged its existence, Bedi Bhavan’s mailing address was 5 Southend Park. The road has of late been diverted, and it bulldozes through the building itself.

Before it was “liberated” it was practically inaccessible. Now it is walled in. A pillar abuts on the pavement facing the new annexe of the Ramakrishna Mission under construction. The fragment of an arch grows out of the pillar. Recently bricked-in Moorish arches surrounding the emptiness that was once a room are still the picture of grace. A Neem toothpaste signboard hangs from the ceiling.

A hasty attempt has been made at turning the grounds facing Southern Avenue into a garden. Behind it is a wilderness, a perfect setting for the house of cards that Bedi Bhavan has turned into.

The three wings of the house are there and airy bridges span them. But the walls have become transparent. The sky filters through them. Flights of stairs lead into nothingness. The Atlas on the terrace is gone. Do the stucco nymphs still wait for the breath of life, and do crouching marble lions still keep guard inside? Or have vandals removed them too?

The story that Bedi Bhavan has to tell is disappointingly prosaic. Before they were evicted on October 25, 1998, and Mamata Banerjee and her cohorts came to their rescue, squatters had built shanties around it. They were refugees who had poured into Calcutta after the Partition. They moved into the vacant mansion and stripped it bare of its valuable marble flooring and banisters. With time, however, they prospered and if one had the temerity to sneak in, one could catch a glimpse of cooking ranges behind bamboo tatties. They enjoyed the luxuries of electricity and tap water, too, though officially no connection existed.

One heard the occupants were employed. But one also heard that the house was a den of vice where anything from drugs, hooch and women were available. It was absolutely true that outsiders were debarred from entering what many thought was an ill-fated palace. About 14 years ago, when I went to take some photographs, I was chased out.

At that time, elderly neighbours used to say that Bedi Bhavan was constructed in the Thirties after its owners got a windfall in a sweepstake. Handsome chargers cantered around the grounds. During Diwali, bouquets and posies of fireflowers would light up the sky. Films were occasionally shot there.

Artist Paritosh Sen remembers Southern Avenue in the Forties. Houses were few and far between. The ones that were there were south-facing low-rises with gardens that belonged to Bengalis. Then World War II happened and Calcutta became the headquarters of the Allied forces in the East. Eighty thousand Allied forces descended on the city.

The black soldiers drove mammoth trucks that carried tanks to Barrackpore or Dum Dum. Occasionally the trucks would run over pedestrians and Bengali mobs would set fire to the trucks along with their driver. The soldiers went to fight in the Burmese border and the convalescents were sent to Calcutta to recuperate. Large tiled cottages were built along the lake where they were treated. When they left, refugees occupied them. It is only of late that they have been removed.

Then the other day I read an article which mentioned the fact that the Bedis used to live at 12 Mandeville Gardens. That happened to be the house of Supriya Banerjee of Galerie 88 fame. A few phone calls later, I was able to track down Tejinder Kaur, who was born in Bedi Bhavan in 1938, and her husband, Jogindar Singh Bedi. Their grandfathers were brothers.

Most of the supposed half-truths were actually facts, the Bedis confirmed. Tejinder’s grandfather, Ladha Singh Bedi, had constructed his folly in 1934. He was in the construction business and he started it only after winning Rs 16 lakh in the Derby in 1925. He had three sons, of whom Tejinder’s father was the youngest. They were a musical family. The eldest son was into Rabindrasangeet and swadeshi, while the youngest took lessons from Pankaj Mallik. K.L. Saigal was a family friend.

Tejinder Kaur says: “My grandfather loved the good life. He made millions and blew up millions in his lifetime.” Pointing out a jardiniere in their off-white living room, she says without regret: “This is all we have from there.”

In the early Forties, after the progenitor died, the Calcutta Improvement Trust (CIT) demanded a wing of Bedi Bhavan and acquired it. World War II broke out. So CIT could not take it over. Refugees from East Bengal occupied the vacuum. The Bedis moved into 12 Mandeville Gardens in 1943. Thereby hangs a tale.

But Bedi Bhavan exists in another dimension too. In 1992 French artist Georges Rousse had brought to light the secret life of Bedi Bhavan. Google helped me find out that Rousse is “Known for his interventions made in empty warehouses and abandoned buildings…Rousse alters interior spaces through dramatic geometric forms and structures made by drawing, painting and cutting through walls.”

He had done the same in Bedi Bhavan. Like Giovanni Battista Piranesi, the 18th century architect and engraver who was fascinated by Roman ruins, Rousse used the clean lines of the staircase and the papered opening of the terrace to carve out his sculpture of light.

Rousse cleaned and whitewashed the massive stairwell. All sources of light were sealed save an opening on top to focus and diffuse natural light. The entire surface was painted with laundering blue to represent night. The top half that was papered was painted a glowing yellow.

The sharp angles of the golden polygon and blue stairs created an illusion of volume with something as insubstantial as light. The effect was so theatrical one could hear an aria being sung. But the illusion existed only for Rousse to photograph it. Like all spells, it was broken soon after. Perhaps Bedi Bhavan will only exist in Rousse’s work.