There was a rustling sound behind my back.

Me: “?!”

I whipped around, my heart skipping a beat.

Me: “…”

But… there was no one there.
Just my room—bathed in moonlight and swallowed in deep, unsettling darkness.

The curtains stirred ever so slightly in the breeze. Shadows danced across the floor.
And still… I felt something.

Me (thinking):
“That’s enough.”

🚪 I dashed for the door, yanked it open, and bolted out into the hallway.

It was no brighter out here—still dark, but different.
The hallway was long and quiet, cool air drifting in through the tall balcony doors left ajar at the far end.
Silver beams of moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting ghostly ribbons across the floor. 🌕🩶

Yet my skin was slick with sweat.
I stood there, frozen. Listening.

Creak.

Another step.
Right behind me.
Footsteps.

My breath hitched as I turned around, dread tightening around my chest.

Priyanka: “…”

The sudden appearance of my hostess startled me so much I nearly stumbled. She stood just a few feet away, draped in an elegant sari, her brows knit in confusion. Her eyes, wide and searching, landed on my face.

I must’ve looked completely unhinged.

Me (trying to steady my voice):
“Ah, Mrs. Chauhan… what’s going on?”

She gave me a calm, slightly puzzled smile.

Priyanka:
“Are you talking about the power outage?”
She waved her hand dismissively.
“It happens all the time in Calcutta, dear. We lose power nearly every week. It’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Her tone was reassuring, as if this was just a routine inconvenience.
But I shook my head.

Me:
“No… I—I heard strange noises in my room. Creaking. Rustling…”

👂 I strained to listen again. Nothing now. Just silence. But the echo of those sounds still pulsed in my mind.

Priyanka gave a small, knowing chuckle, the kind mothers give their frightened children.

Priyanka:
“Oh, that? That’s normal too. This house is very old—built during the colonial period.”

She spoke with a hint of pride.

“What you’re hearing is the house settling. The walls shift at night, the floors creak, the air moves. It’s always louder after midnight, especially when everything else is quiet.”

Me:
“…During the colonial period?”

Priyanka:
“Yes, yes—built back when India was under British rule. Over fifty years old. It’s never been renovated.”
She said it like a badge of honor.

🏚️ The mention of the house’s age only deepened the strange feeling inside me. How many stories, how many footsteps, had echoed through those very halls?

Then—📢 voices.
A man’s deep murmur echoed from the far end of the hallway. Heavy footsteps followed.

Priyanka’s smile vanished.
She straightened up suddenly, the friendly sparkle in her eyes replaced with something more serious.

Priyanka:
“Now, young lady—go back to your room.”

Her tone was firm—gentle, but unmistakably commanding.

“Aryan is about to get up, and you’re… underdressed.”

Only then did I realize I was still in my soft cotton nightgown, my hair loose around my shoulders, and slippers barely hanging on my feet. 😳

In contrast, Priyanka was immaculately dressed, her sari pleated to perfection, a thin gold chain glinting at her neck, bangles quietly chiming as she folded her arms.
Not a single wrinkle in her appearance. Not even at this hour.

That’s why she had looked so surprised when she saw me in the hall.
Indian modesty didn’t allow women to appear before men—even their own husbands—without proper clothing. And here I was, barefoot and sleeveless.

Me (thinking):
“Of course. That’s why she looked so shocked. I broke an unspoken rule.”

Me: “It’s just pajamas. I didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t see what’s wrong with it, though. I am fully clothed.”

Priyanka let out a soft sigh, her bangles clinking as she folded her arms tightly across her chest. The stern light in her eyes remained.

Priyanka: “I’m sorry, but we do things differently here.”

I nodded, but my tone didn’t soften.

Me: “I understand. However, if I have to pick between local conventions and my own comfort, I’ll go with the latter. After all, it would’ve been extremely difficult to change clothes in total darkness, don’t you think?”

There was a flicker of something in her expression—annoyance, perhaps. She averted her gaze and pursed her lips.

Priyanka: “Ah, young people…”

She exhaled and shook her head with a wry, almost amused smile.

Priyanka:
“As we say here, trying to persuade you is like sending a cow to pasture in a forest, or trying to dry rice that’s already in your mouth. A pointless exercise.”

Her words were gentle, but I heard the edge in them.

I didn’t argue further.

Me: “Maybe… may I please ask you for your candle?”

Priyanka raised an eyebrow, surprised.

Priyanka:
“Of course, you may take it. But do you really need it at night?”

Me (thinking):
“You can’t even imagine how much I need it.”

She reached behind her into a side cabinet and handed over a thick beeswax candle in a brass holder. The flame flickered low, casting an amber halo on the hallway wall. 🕯️

We exchanged quiet goodnights. I returned to my room and collapsed onto the bed, the candle beside me still glowing faintly.

☀️ Morning.

Sunlight poured through the carved wooden window shutters, painting golden stripes across the polished floor. The eerie stillness of the night before seemed ridiculous now—a fading dream from a half-forgotten world.

I stirred, blinking at the sudden light. On my nightstand sat the burned-out candle. The floor lamp was glowing softly now—its resurrection evidence of the power’s return.

Me (thinking):
“I guess it turned on when the power came back.”

Knock, knock.
A gentle knock broke through my thoughts. I pushed my hair away from my face and sat up quickly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Me: “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Priyanka stepped in, her sari immaculate as always, a sweet waft of sandalwood perfume following her.

Priyanka:
“Good morning, my dear. Sana is making breakfast. I came to bring you something… and to help you.”

I sat up straighter, puzzled.

Me: “Help me with what?”

That’s when I noticed the neatly folded stack of clothes in her arms—delicate, embroidered fabrics in hues of scarlet and emerald—and a small lacquered jewelry box on top. 💫👗

Priyanka:
“Allow me to help you get dressed and do your hair. It would give me such joy to see you in a sari! What a beauty you’d be.”
She beamed at me, her eyes warm and motherly.

“And if you’re dressed in Indian clothes, passers-by will be less interested in you. The British aren’t particularly well-liked here. I’m sure you understand.”

I paused, absorbing her words. They weren’t just about beauty. They were about safety. About blending in.

Priyanka (gently):
“It will be much easier for you if you look like a local. You’d also gain more respect. Besides, offending a foreign girl isn’t as serious as offending an upper-caste Indian woman.”

I hesitated a moment, then nodded.

Me:
“Well… sure. Why not? Give me a couple of minutes to wash up.”

Priyanka smiled, clearly pleased, and stepped back to give me space.

I picked a sari that instantly took my breath away—beige and maroon, its folds dusted in golden embroidery that shimmered like sunlight caught in silk. ✨

Me: “My goodness… it’s so beautiful.”

Priyanka:
Her eyes softened, lips curving into a wistful smile.
“When we were younger, Aryan got it for me from another state. But I never wore it… and by the time I wanted to, it no longer fit me.”

Her voice held a mix of nostalgia and quiet surrender.

Me: “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Priyanka:
“It’s my pleasure. Truly. I can’t help but admire you.”

She gestured toward the full-length mirror by the dresser. I stepped toward it, the sari’s fabric whispering with every move. The soft golden borders glinted in the morning light. I spun gently, watching the pleats flare and settle with grace.

Me (thinking):
“I can’t believe I’m in India… wearing a sari. You can’t really run from your roots, can you?”
I stared into my reflection, my image framed in maroon and gold.
“I wonder if I’ll ever feel like I truly belong here.”

Priyanka: “Come now. Sit down, beti. Let’s do your hair and find you the perfect jewellery.”

I sat on the cushioned stool in front of the mirror, the sari pooling elegantly around me. Priyanka moved behind me, combing and parting my hair with gentle fingers. The mirror reflected a simple, modest hairstyle, parted neatly, pinned gracefully.

I picked a pair of delicate gold earrings.

Priyanka:
“I hope this sari brings you a little joy. You told me you didn’t want to come to India. That made me sad. Maybe this—”
she adjusted my earrings with a smile,
“—will help a little.”

I met her gaze in the mirror and gave her a soft, genuine smile.
Me: “It already has. Thank you.”

I took one last look at myself—foreign, familiar, halfway between worlds.

Priyanka: “Now come down, breakfast is ready.”

Me: “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. I want to call my younger brother first.”

That stopped her. For a moment, her expression flickered—surprise, and something else… confusion?

Priyanka: “Younger brother?”

Her surprise felt… oddly personal, as if the concept itself struck her.

Me: “Yes. His name is Kiran. He’s back in London.”

Priyanka’s brows lifted.

Priyanka:
“Kiran… that means ‘ray of sunshine.’ What a lovely name.”

Me (smiling faintly): “Yes. Mum really wanted a son. He came late in her life, so he was her sunshine. She adored him.”

Priyanka:
Her voice was tender, almost reverent.
“Every child is the sun to their mother. Amala means ‘shining, crystal clear,’ doesn’t it? I imagine you were her sparkle—just as your brother was her light.”

And just like that, the words hit me like a gust of wind through a cracked window—sharp, sudden, cold.

A pang twisted deep in my chest. I turned away, my throat tightening.

Me: “The key word is ‘probably.’”

Me (thinking):
“If Priyanka’s right… then why did Mum leave us? If we meant so much, why did she walk away?”

But I didn’t let the questions surface. Not again. Not here.

She left two years ago. No explanation. No letter. Just vanished.

And I had to grow up overnight—running the family shop, watching over Kiran, keeping us afloat.
There was no time to cry. No room to break down. Just silence, and responsibility, and questions that still sat heavy behind my ribs.

I pushed those thoughts aside. Buried them again, as I always did.

Me (internally): “To be honest… I try not to think about it. I have far too many responsibilities and worries to allow myself to miss someone who doesn’t even care about us. I’m not going to waste my time on her.”

I tried to hold my expression steady, to suppress the ache building inside me.
I wasn’t going to cry. Not now. Not over her. Not again.

But when I looked up, I noticed Priyanka watching me—her eyes soft, searching. I quickly forced a smile, brushing the emotion off like dust on a shoulder.

Me: “My brother’s with a nanny right now, but… I still worry about him.”

Priyanka: (gently) “Of course. Families shouldn’t be apart.”

Me: “I’ll see him soon. When school holidays begin.”

Priyanka: “Here in Calcutta?”

Me: “Yes… I’ll have to find him a hotel or something. Somewhere safe.”

Priyanka: (tilting her head) “How old is the boy?”

Me: “Fourteen. He’s just a kid.”

At that, Priyanka’s face lit up. She beamed and clapped her hands together like I had told her Diwali had come early.

Priyanka: “Then he should come stay with us! No question about it! You won’t have to worry—and the more, the merrier! 🏡”

Me: (eyes wide, stunned) “Really? He can stay here?”

Priyanka: “Of course, my girl! We’ve got more space than we know what to do with. And it would be lovely to have young energy in this house again.”

I felt a lump rise in my throat—this time not from sadness, but from unexpected relief.
Me: “Ah, Mrs. Chauhan… I have no words to express my gratitude.”

She gave me a kind smile, one hand on her heart, before gliding out of the room.

I stepped into the dim hallway, searching for the landline telephone. The scent of jasmine-sandalwood incense lingered faintly in the air, mingling with sunlight that filtered through the carved wooden windows. After a moment, I spotted the old rotary phone perched on a marble-top side table. I picked up the receiver and dialed my brother’s number in London.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

And then—his sleepy voice cut through the crackling line.

Kiran: “Hello… Khan’s home speaking.”

Just hearing him made me smile. 💛

Me: “Kiran! It’s me—I finally found a phone!”

Kiran (mock gasp): “Amala! I thought you didn’t call because you ran away from me!”

Me: “Oh, shush. Don’t be silly. How are you?”

Kiran: “I’m doing alright… I failed my English test.”

Me: “Kiran! I asked you to be more responsible while I’m away—”

Kiran (rushing in): “BUT the coach said I was the best player on the court yesterday! He’s probably gonna make me team captain!”

Me (smiling): “I’m sure he will, champ.”

Kiran: “Grandma’s lost in her own world as usual… Anyway, I’m going back to bed. It’s still morning here.”

Me: “Sorry I woke you. I miss you, you little monster.”

Kiran: “Yeah, yeah. Me too. See you soon.”

Me: “I’m really looking forward to it. Get some sleep. I’ll call again later.”

Kiran: “Uh-huh…”

Click.
The dial tone returned. I gently placed the receiver back on its cradle.

Me (thinking): “He’s growing up. He's got no time for me now…”

I ran my fingers down the carved grooves of the wooden table, took a steady breath, and headed downstairs.

The sunlight had flooded the dining room, illuminating the polished teakwood table and the soft peach-colored curtains that billowed slightly in the breeze. The scent of chai masala, turmeric, and fried ghee wafted in from the kitchen.

Me: “Good morning, Mr. Chauhan.”

Aryan looked up from behind his newspaper. A flash of surprise crossed his face, followed by warm approval.

Aryan: “Good morning, Amala. That sari looks wonderful on you. Regal, even.”

I smiled and took a seat at the table, smoothing the fabric of the sari down over my knees.

Just then, Sana entered the room carrying a brass tray balanced gracefully in her hands.

Sana: “Good morning, miss. Did you sleep well?”

Me: “Quite well, thank you… though I did hear some strange noises.”

Sana smiled, unfazed, setting down two plates stacked with crispy aloo parathas, mango pickle, and a steaming bowl of halwa.

Sana: “That’s quite normal, miss. The house is settling. She’s old, but still strong. Just… noisy at night.”
She giggled softly.
“We don’t serve English breakfasts, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you’ll find something to your liking.”

I chose idli for breakfast—soft, steaming rice cakes served with a colourful trio of chutneys and a fragrant bowl of sambar, the lentil-based stew rich with spices. Sana gently placed the plate before me, followed by a cup of strong South Indian filter coffee, its aroma deep and earthy. ☕️

I took a bite, the coconut chutney melting delicately on my tongue. As I glanced around the large, high-ceilinged dining room, a thought slipped into my mind like a whisper:

Me (internally): “Interesting… this house is enormous. Clearly too big for a couple and one maid. But asking about children would be... incredibly inappropriate.”

At the far end of the table, I noticed Mrs. Chauhan—her fingertips tenderly brushing her husband’s hand as she leaned in to whisper something. Aryan Chauhan gazed at her with such open affection that it caught me off guard.

Me (thinking): “They love each other. Genuinely. That’s rare... unusual for an Indian marriage. So many women here end up in arranged matches, paired with wealthy men they don’t love. No wonder she was so excited when I mentioned my younger brother’s visit. Maybe… children are a sensitive subject for her.”

A quiet voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

Sana (from the doorway): “Miss?”

I turned toward her.

Me: “Yes?”

Sana: “There’s a gentleman waiting for you outside. A young man.”

Me (frowning): “Captain Lightwood?”

Sana (shaking her head): “No, miss. His name is Mr. Vaish.”

I blinked.

Me: “Mr. Vaish? Who’s that?”

Sana: “Your guide.”

I nodded, curiosity piqued, and pushed my chair back with a soft scrape. Without pressing Sana for more, I murmured a thank-you to the Chauhans and headed to the front door.

Outside, a man stood by the gate. He was tall, lean, with a composed stillness to his stance—his face turned away slightly, eyes scanning the morning haze that clung to the street.

Me: “Mr. Vaish?”

At the sound of my voice, he turned slowly. His dark eyes met mine—calm, unreadable.

Man: “Good afternoon, Miss Khan. I’m Ratan Vaish, your appointed guide. I’ve been assigned to assist your task force throughout your stay in India.”

Me (nodding): “Ah yes… I heard about you. I thought we were supposed to meet yesterday.”

Ratan (flatly): “Yes, I was late. But your team leader, Mr. Rose, decided not to wait.”

I let out a soft sigh.

Me: “Typical.”

Ratan: “He sent me to escort you. The hotel room where Mr. Hayes—the missing diplomat—was staying must be inspected. That’s where your colleagues are. They’re waiting for you.”

Me: “Then let’s not keep them waiting.”

As I turned to head toward the taxi, I noticed Ratan’s gaze travel across the length of my sari. His eyes lingered for just a second longer than expected.

Ratan: “What a fine design. That sari… it’s a rare beauty. Where did you find such a gem?”

Me: “It was a gift. From my host.”

His lips curled slightly, almost in admiration.

Ratan: “A generous gesture. You should treasure it. Here in India, we believe that saris are garments of the goddesses. Before time began, they were worn by divine women. Legend says Lord Krishna himself gifted the first sari to a queen… a blessing, to protect her honour.”

His gaze deepened.

Ratan: “The more exquisite the sari, the stronger the shakti—the divine feminine energy. In that sari, Miss Khan… you might just drive men insane.”

He smiled. I returned it hesitantly, unsure what to make of his words.

Me (dryly): “Sounds… powerful.”

He stepped aside and gestured toward the waiting taxi.

Ratan: “After you.”

I walked ahead, his presence behind me oddly heavy. There was something tangible in the air around him, as though he occupied more space than he physically took up.

Me (thinking): “Why does it feel like I can actually feel his gaze? It’s almost… solid.”

I glanced back.

He was still staring at me.

Ratan: “Careful, Miss Khan. Watch your step.”

I turned forward just in time, narrowly avoiding a stumble over the curb.

He opened the door with a flourish, and I climbed into the taxi.

The vehicle sped off through the chaotic arteries of Calcutta, horns blaring in every direction. The driver muttered curses in Bengali and honked like it was a survival strategy. We cut sharply around fruit carts and motorcycles, darting through alleys that smelled of spice, dust, and damp earth.

Ratan stared out the window, pensive.

Me: “Did you know Mr. Hayes?”

Ratan (without looking at me): “A little. I was assigned to guide him when he first arrived. He was… anxious. Didn’t want people around. I gave him all the safety briefings. After that, he dismissed me.”

Me: “You didn’t see him again?”

Ratan: “No.”

Me: “Was his behaviour unusual?”

Ratan (with a shrug): “Apart from the paranoia and arrogance? No.”

Me: “Sounds like half the diplomats I’ve met.”

Ratan (half-smiling): “You mean like Mr. Emmet Rose?”

I gave him a look. He smirked.

Ratan: “He wasn’t thrilled about waiting for you this morning. The entire task force was already there… except you.”

Me (surprised): “Really?”

Ratan: “Captain Lightwood insisted. Said they wouldn’t begin without you.”

I stared at him for a beat, letting the warmth of that gesture settle.

Me (internally): “That’s… nice to know.”

We pulled up at the hotel. I climbed the marble steps with purpose, feeling the weight of yesterday’s tension press against my shoulders. The moment I spotted Mr. Rose, standing stiffly with his arms crossed and clipboard in hand, my blood began to simmer.

Me (thinking): “I won’t let this go.”

I strode up to the group, chin high, voice steady.

Me: “Good morning, everyone. Mr. Rose?”

Mr. Rose (barely glancing at me): “Miss Khan?”

Me: “Is it true you were going to start this investigation without me?”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. Killian and Lima exchanged glances behind him.

Mr. Rose: “Let’s not twist things. Everyone here speaks English. I didn’t see the need for an Indologist.”

I smiled coldly.

Me: “Let’s be clear. I was selected for this task force. Just like everyone else. I didn’t stumble in from the street. If you don’t want to wait for me next time, that’s fine. Just let me know what time I’m expected. Don’t dismiss my contributions without explanation.”

His jaw tensed. He shifted uncomfortably.

Mr. Rose: “As you wish.”

Then, addressing the group, he straightened up.

Mr. Rose: “Let’s get to work. There are plenty of staff to interview. We’ll split up. The hotel staff speak English, so there’s no need for Miss Khan or Mr. Vaish to accompany us at all times.”

Ratan (expression unreadable): “…”

Killian (stepping forward): “Perhaps. But I’d prefer Miss Khan joins me.”

Me: “?”

Our eyes met. There was steel in his voice.

Killian: “We’ll get more out of the interviews if we switch to Hindi. I’d like her with me.”

Lima: “Same here. I’m more comfortable going with Amala too.”

Mr. Rose blinked, caught off guard.

Mr. Rose: “Fine. Do as you like. Miss Khan… who do you want to go with?”

Me: “You’re right. It is important to talk about what’s bothering us. But… you also have to be ready. And I don’t think I am yet.”

Lima (gently): “That’s fine. I get it. Who wants to bare their soul to a stranger, right?”

Me (softly): “It’s not that… It’s not about you. I just haven’t had the time to process any of it—let alone shape the mess in my head into words. But still… I’m glad there’s someone here who’s willing to listen.”

Lima gave me a smile that could melt stone—warm, radiant, and real. 🌞

Lima: “Absolutely! They’ve thrown us into this mystery halfway across the world, won’t tell us anything, and expect us to work miracles without a map. It’s crazy! I’m so glad you’re here too. I’d lose my mind otherwise.”

Me: “Same here.”

Lima leaned closer, her voice dipping.

Lima: “Listen… I don’t trust anyone. Not the captain, not Mr. Rose, definitely not that charming guide of ours.”

Me (eyebrow raised): “Why?”

Lima (firmly): “Why would I? We’re in unfamiliar territory, doing work we know almost nothing about, surrounded by strangers in a city that hides more than it shows. If anything goes sideways—promise me you’ll call me. And I’ll do the same.”

She extended her pinky finger with a smirk.

Lima: “Deal?”

Me (hooking mine with hers): “Deal. 🤝”

She looked at me a little differently after that. Not just as a colleague—but as a comrade. Maybe even… a friend.

Lima (with a wink): “I have a feeling we’re gonna get along just fine.”

We made our way downstairs, footsteps echoing down the marbled hallway. A carved wooden sign pointed us toward the hotel’s restaurant.

Me: “Let’s try the waiters. If Mr. Hayes never left his room, they’re probably the only people who saw him. He had to eat, right?”

Lima (grinning): “Smart. But there’s a whole army of waiters—how do we find the one?”

Me (smiling): “Easy. We just ask.”

Lima gave me a once-over and let out a low whistle.

Lima: “Well, you ask. You look stunning in that sari. No one’s going to say no to you today.”

Me (laughing): “Thank you.”

Lima: “Seriously! You look like some kind of royal—upper caste and everything. I wouldn’t mess with you.”

Me: “Let’s hope the waiters think the same. Might scare the truth out of them. 👑”

We reached the entrance of the restaurant. A group of waiters were standing near the host’s stand, chatting in quick Hindi.

I stepped up and spoke clearly. They turned to look at me, eyes wide with a mix of politeness and caution.

But as soon as I mentioned Mr. Hayes, they all froze—and then shook their heads in unison.

Me (internally): “Hmm… that’s odd.”

After a brief exchange, I turned to Lima, stepping aside.

Lima: “Well? What did they say?”

Me: “Only one of them had any contact with him.”

Lima (blinking): “One?”

Me: “Yep. Mr. Hayes never came down here. He insisted on room service. Refused to open the door unless it was the same waiter every night.”

Lima (murmuring): “Creepy…”

Me: “Extremely. The waiter’s new. Been working here just two weeks. Keeps to himself.”

Lima: “That’s even better. Where is he now?”

Me: “On shift. Greeting guests at the door.”

Lima (rubbing her hands together): “🎯 Jackpot.”

We didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later, a slim young man in a neatly pressed uniform stood beside the entrance, hands folded behind his back.

Lima (pointing): “That’s him. He served us breakfast.”

We approached calmly. I gave him a polite smile, speaking gently in Hindi.

Me: “Hello. I’m Amala. May I have a moment of your time?”

Waiter (blinking, then looking at Lima): “Good afternoon… would you like me to take you to your table?”

Me: “No, thank you. I’d like to ask you about Mr. Hayes. What’s your name?”

A flicker of something crossed his face—fear, maybe. His skin paled a shade.

Waiter (quietly): “Ravi.”

Me (gently but firmly): “Ravi, I know you delivered meals to Mr. Hayes. Could you tell me anything about him?”

Ravi (stammering): “I-I didn’t know him. At all.”

Me: “Are you sure? Even just a small detail?”

He shook his head—but his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed. His gaze darted to the floor, then to the side. Beads of sweat were forming along his hairline. 💧

Ravi: “I hardly spoke to him… I didn’t… I don’t know anything…”

Beside me, Lima crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, watching his every tic like a hawk. She didn’t understand his words, but body language? That was her territory.

Her emerald eyes flicked to mine, unreadable but intense.

Lima (low whisper): “He’s lying. Through his teeth.”

Me (thinking): ‘We need a different approach… something that gets him to talk.’

I softened my tone but kept my gaze sharp.

Me: “Ravi, your friends told me you’re new here. That true?”

Ravi nodded slowly.
Ravi: “Y-yes, ma’am…”

Me (gently): “Do you have a family?”

Ravi: “I do…”

Me (voice lowering, like a quiet storm): “It would be a shame if you lost this job. Who would take care of them then?”

His eyes widened. 🫣
The blood drained from his face like someone had flipped a switch.

Ravi: “...?”

I leaned in slightly, my voice firm as steel wrapped in silk.

Me: “You will lose your job if you keep silent. My friend here—”
I gestured toward Lima, who stood poised like a predator watching her prey. “—is a guest at this hotel. Are you really prepared to say no to her?”

Me (calmly): “Because if you are… that will be a very bad idea.”

Ravi’s lips parted in horror. He blinked rapidly, clearly weighing his options.

Ravi (hurriedly): “No, no, ma’am… I won’t say no. I’ll help you. I promise! But I really didn’t know that gentleman. Mr. Hayes never spoke much… he kept to himself.”

He swallowed hard, voice faltering.

Ravi: “He was acting strange… like he was afraid of something. Wouldn’t open the door for anyone but me. If someone else brought the food, he’d just pretend he wasn’t there.”

A crease formed between Ravi’s brows as he recalled more.

Ravi: “The room was always so stuffy… he kept the windows shut, no matter how hot it got. And I was never allowed inside. He’d open the door just enough to take the tray, then slam it shut again.”

His fingers twitched nervously at his sides. He opened his mouth to say something else… but stopped. His tongue stalled, and his courage fizzled.

Ravi (quickly): “Ma’am, I’ve told you all I know. Please… I have work to do…”

Lima gave me a subtle nod.

Lima (softly): “Let him go.”

I exhaled and turned back to Ravi with a short, polite nod.

Me: “Thank you for your time, Ravi. You may go.”

The waiter scurried away like a spooked deer. 🏃‍♂️💨

As soon as he turned the corner, I turned to Lima and translated everything for her. Her lips pursed in thought, her eyes sharp as broken glass.

Lima: “The diplomat’s behaviour was strange… but that waiter’s? Weirder.”

Me: “You noticed it too, right? The way he fidgeted? His eyes darted around like flies trapped in a jar.”

Lima: “Exactly. He knows more than he’s saying. Something about Hayes shook him. Or maybe… someone.”

Me (thinking): ‘What is this waiter hiding?’

Lima glanced at her watch.

Lima: “Let’s go. We need to regroup with the others. With more pieces on the board, we might see the shape of this puzzle.”

We climbed the grand staircase, minds racing, heels tapping against polished marble like ticking clocks. 🕰️ When we arrived on the second floor, the rest of the team was already gathered.

It took a moment for everyone to regroup and exchange notes.

Mr. Rose cleared his throat, summing it all up like a detective at a crime scene.

Mr. Rose: “So… we haven’t learned much. All the maids—on both floors—and the waiter say the same thing: Hayes became increasingly paranoid. Reclusive. He never used the restaurant. Always demanded the same waiter. Never opened the door otherwise.”

He frowned.

Mr. Rose: “The windows were to stay closed, always. He wouldn’t let anyone touch his belongings. He insisted the door be guarded at night. His anxiety was off the charts.”

An uneasy silence settled like fog.

Mr. Rose (looking around): “Thoughts?”

Killian (calmly): “Classic symptoms of fear. He was clearly convinced someone was after him.”

Lima: “But what was he so afraid of?”

Killian: “That’s the golden question. Answer that, and we’ll know where to look.”

Me: “No local would try to break into a place like this. People know better than to rob a foreign diplomat. But Hayes was still terrified. Kept the windows sealed in this heat. That’s not just paranoia—that’s terror.”

Lima: “But terror of what? What happened here, in Calcutta, to make him unravel like that?”

Ratan (quietly): “Unfortunately, what the staff told us… it’s not enough.”

Killian (decisive): “Then it’s time we check out the one place that might still hold answers—his room.”

Mr. Rose turned to Ratan sharply.

Mr. Rose: “The room hasn’t been touched?”

Ratan: “No. I made it clear to the hotel manager—nothing was to be moved.”

He hesitated.

Ratan: “Actually… one of the maids did enter the room after Hayes disappeared. The manager sent her to check in when he hadn’t been seen for days. She found something. But…”

Mr. Rose (leaning forward): “But?”

Ratan: “She didn’t say what it was. She quit the same day.”

A chill rippled down my spine. 🥶
Something in that room scared her off completely.

Killian (gritting his teeth): “All the more reason to see it with our own eyes. Let’s follow the trail… wherever it leads.”

P.S.

Oh, my bedazzled Velvet Vixen 🍫—

Well, just say I didn’t warn you! Because if tonight’s tales haven’t left your nerves frayed, heart whiplashed, and sense of dignity somewhere between “lost slipper” and “runaway sari,” then darling, you might actually be the ghost haunting this story. (Boo, hiss, and pass the smelling salts.)

Honestly, with all this supernatural commotion, seductive silk, and more unresolved tension than a Bengali soap opera marathon, how is a drama queen supposed to keep her hair unruffled? Do tell me you clutched your pearls when Ratan Vaish unleashed that smolder, or did you, too, contemplate launching a sandal at the next spectral creak in the dark? (If you didn’t, I’ll have to do it myself—purely for journalistic research, of course.)

Let’s not overlook the true chills: Priyanka’s sari game is so sharp it could cut through colonial history, and her side-eye comes with its own zip code. Honestly, I’d sooner wrestle a midnight phantom than withstand another withering “underdressed” glance from her. Can I get a witness?

So, my mischief-mongers, time to unleash:

• Your wildest plot twist theories (bonus if they include forbidden romance and haunted tiffin boxes).

• Survival advice for girls trapped in Gothic mansions with only a brass candle and infinite sarcasm.

• Confessions of who deserves a midnight moonlit dance (or a scare) with yours truly.

Remember, every scandalous tale demands an even juicier comment. Out-dramatize me, if you dare—because around here, more is never enough and subtlety is strictly for amateurs.

With a swirl, a wink, and a chandelier crash,

Mistress of the Midnight Masala 🕯️