Pramit Deshmukh
1
The hills of Dharamshala carried a silence unlike any other. It was not the silence of emptiness, but one layered with murmurs of prayer wheels, the occasional clang of temple bells, and the distant rustle of pine forests swaying with the mountain wind. In the early mornings, the mist floated across the ridges like drifting spirits, veiling and unveiling the town in turns. Pilgrims wound their way to monasteries, their maroon robes a steady rhythm against the gray stone paths. The air smelled faintly of incense and butter lamps, mingled with the earthy dampness of rain-kissed soil.
Colonel Arvind Rathore had chosen this place for a reason. After decades of service in the shadows of espionage, chasing men who wore different names and hid truths behind multiple masks, he had wanted peace. He had built a modest house on the edge of McLeod Ganj, overlooking the Dhauladhar ranges. Each morning, with a steaming cup of tea in hand, he sat on his veranda, letting his gaze wander over the sharp snow peaks that shimmered with the first rays of sun. He liked the rhythm here—the chants from Namgyal Monastery, the chatter of Tibetan markets, the laughter of schoolchildren running down narrow lanes. For the first time in years, life felt unthreatening, almost ordinary.
But Arvind was a man trained to notice details others ignored. Even in retirement, his senses rarely rested. That morning, as he sipped his tea, his eyes caught a figure in the distance. Near the monastery gates, a woman lingered longer than most pilgrims would. She wasn’t dressed like the locals; her clothes were modern, muted, deliberately plain. She stood as if studying the architecture, but her eyes scanned the courtyard with intent, not devotion. For a fleeting moment, her gaze swept in Arvind’s direction, and he instinctively looked away, an old habit resurfacing. Something about her posture, the way she tried too hard to blend in, unsettled him.
He shook it off. This was Dharamshala, after all—a magnet for seekers, researchers, wanderers, and sometimes lost souls looking for meaning in the high Himalayas. Not everyone who seemed out of place was suspicious. And yet, a faint unease stirred inside him. His instincts, honed in RAW’s clandestine corridors, never died completely.
Later that day, as Arvind walked through the bustling Kotwali Bazaar, the sights and sounds of Dharamshala wrapped around him in familiar comfort. Tibetan vendors sold steaming momos and thukpa, prayer beads clinked in wooden stalls, and tourists bargained for pashmina shawls. The air carried voices in Hindi, Tibetan, and broken English. Monks passed by silently, their calm faces a contrast to the noisy markets. Amid the crowd, Arvind’s eyes caught the same woman again. She was at a bookshop near the monastery road, browsing through texts on Tibetan history. When she noticed him watching, she quickly turned her head away.
Arvind’s mind stirred. In his years of service, he had learned to distinguish curiosity from surveillance. The difference was subtle, a flicker in the eyes, the angle of a head turning. This woman wasn’t browsing aimlessly—she was watching, recording, storing something away. He followed her discreetly for a few steps, but she melted into the narrow alleyways, leaving only the scent of sandalwood incense lingering in the air.
That night, as the town settled under a cloak of mist and the monastery bells echoed in the distance, Arvind sat by his study lamp. He picked up an old journal where he occasionally scribbled thoughts, though mostly it remained empty. For the first time in months, he wrote down an observation: “Outsider near the monastery. Intent unknown. Too deliberate.” He underlined the words twice, then closed the notebook.
The hills seemed peaceful, but peace, Arvind knew better than anyone, was fragile. Beneath the chants and prayers, history always whispered—whispers of borders drawn with blood, of wars fought in snow, of secrets carried across generations. And tonight, those whispers in the hills grew a little louder.
The figure of the woman returned to his mind before he fell asleep. He did not yet know her name—Mei Lin—but something inside him warned: this was no ordinary visitor. Something was about to disturb the calm of Dharamshala, and he, despite his desire for retirement, would not be able to remain a bystander for long.
2
The monastery had always been a place of stillness. Its courtyards echoed with the steady rhythm of chanting, its halls scented with burning juniper, its walls painted with stories of gods and demons. But on that fateful morning, silence came not as peace—but as shock.
Lama Norbu was found lifeless on the floor of his quarters. His prayer beads lay scattered near his hand, a cup of tea overturned beside him, the dark liquid staining the wooden planks. His face, usually so composed, was frozen in a grimace of pain. The monks who discovered him stood trembling, unable to comprehend how a man so devoted, so steady in faith, could be struck down within the sacred confines of their home.
The news spread through the monastery like wildfire. Bells tolled in confusion, their sound sharp, not celebratory. Younger monks gathered in hushed clusters, their whispers heavy with fear. Was it a natural death? Had the lama suffered a sudden seizure? Or, as some dared to whisper, had poison found its way into his cup? For a community bound by spiritual discipline, the idea of murder was unthinkable—yet the unease in their eyes betrayed what their lips refused to speak.
Colonel Arvind Rathore heard the commotion from the marketplace below. He saw monks rushing across the courtyard, their robes fluttering like restless birds. Against his better judgment, his instincts pulled him toward the scene. By the time he arrived at the monastery gates, the police had been summoned.
Inspector Vikram Rawat stepped onto the scene, notebook in hand, his khaki uniform stiff, his boots still carrying the dust of the mountain roads. A Himachali by birth, Rawat had handled thefts, drunken brawls, and the occasional land dispute—but never something like this. The death of a monk inside a monastery, especially Lama Norbu—a man deeply respected in Dharamshala’s Tibetan community—was not just a crime. It was a spark that could ignite political unrest.
Rawat crouched near the body, careful not to disturb the scene. His brow furrowed as he examined the cup. He glanced at the monks around him, their faces a mixture of fear and sorrow. “Who was the last to see Lama Norbu alive?” he asked.
No one answered at first. Finally, a trembling novice spoke, his voice barely above a whisper: “He asked for tea last night. I brought it to him. He seemed well.”
Arvind observed quietly from a distance, unnoticed by most. His trained eye caught details—the faint discoloration at Norbu’s lips, the bitter scent lingering in the cup, the absence of any struggle in the room. Poison. A clean, quiet weapon. His chest tightened. Someone had meant for the lama to die without noise.
Rawat straightened, already sweating under the pressure of the case. “Seal the room,” he ordered his constables. “No one enters until forensics arrives.” His tone was firm, but Arvind could see the uncertainty in the young officer’s eyes.
Outside, the courtyard buzzed with speculation. Some monks feared it was a political killing—retribution for Norbu’s rumored involvement in refugee activism. Others whispered of betrayal within the monastery itself. A few, their voices tinged with superstition, muttered about curses, divine punishment, or restless spirits. Fear grew like mist rising from the valley, enveloping everyone who passed through the gates.
Arvind turned away, unwilling to draw attention, but his mind raced. He had known enough about poisons in his career to recognize the signs. Whoever had done this was deliberate, calculated, and skilled. This was no act of impulse. And if whispers of politics were true, the implications could stretch far beyond the monastery walls.
Inspector Rawat, determined to assert control, began questioning monks. His questions were routine, his tone rehearsed, but each answer seemed to confuse him further. The monks spoke in riddles of loyalty, service, and faith—language that did not fit easily into a police report. Frustrated, Rawat excused himself to make calls for reinforcements.
As Arvind walked back toward his home, the weight of the scene clung to him. He told himself it was not his concern. He was retired. He had left that world behind. And yet, he could not shake the image of the outsider woman he had seen the previous day. Her presence, coupled with the lama’s death, formed a thread his mind instinctively began to pull.
That night, the monastery’s chants sounded different—lower, heavier, more sorrowful. Lamps flickered across the hills, as though the mountains themselves mourned. But beneath the sorrow, an invisible current moved. Someone had spilled death into a cup of tea. Someone had shattered the sanctuary of prayer.
And in the quiet of his study, Colonel Arvind wrote again in his journal: “Lama Norbu dead. Suspected poison. Investigation clumsy. Not random—calculated. Watch carefully.”
The whispers in the hills had turned into something darker. Dharamshala’s peace had been pierced, and the echo of that silence promised more than just grief—it promised danger.
3
Colonel Arvind Rathore had told himself again and again: This is not my fight. The police had taken charge, and the monastery was now under official scrutiny. He was just another resident of Dharamshala, an old soldier who had come here to escape shadows, not chase them. Yet the image of Lama Norbu’s lifeless body lingered in his mind like a ghost refusing to leave. The details gnawed at him—the cup of tea, the faint discoloration around the lips, the hurried whispers of the monks, and above all, the unsettled eyes of the mysterious woman he had seen the day before.
The following morning, he walked past the monastery, telling himself it was out of habit. The courtyard was unusually quiet, as though grief had stolen sound itself. Two constables stood at the gates, half-heartedly questioning passersby. Inside, monks moved like shadows, their voices subdued. Arvind paused, debating with himself. He should walk on. He should let Inspector Vikram Rawat handle it. But his instincts had kept him alive for decades in places far more dangerous than Dharamshala. Something inside urged him to look closer.
Slipping into the monastery was not difficult. The police were distracted, and the monks, though unsettled, seemed to trust his calm, respectful presence. He found his way to Lama Norbu’s quarters, a small room lined with shelves of texts, scrolls, and medicinal jars. The smell of juniper incense still hung faintly in the air, mixed with the sharper, bitter trace that he recognized from the poisoned tea.
Arvind moved slowly, letting his eyes adjust, his training guiding him to details others would have missed. The police had clearly done a cursory inspection—his soldier’s mind noted careless footprints on the floor, papers stacked clumsily after being disturbed, a cupboard left half-open. But something else caught his attention. On the low writing desk, among scrolls of scripture, lay a folded piece of parchment. At first glance, it seemed like a page of Tibetan prayer text, written in neat calligraphy. But Arvind noticed the irregularity instantly—the spacing between certain characters was uneven, almost deliberate.
He sat down, running his fingers gently across the page. It wasn’t just scripture. It was coded. His mind flashed back to training days in Delhi, when cryptographers had taught them to recognize hidden messages within ordinary text—where a word out of rhythm, a symbol slightly altered, became a key to unlocking secrets.
His pulse quickened. Why would Lama Norbu, a spiritual teacher, be writing in code?
Arvind scanned the room further. A drawer beneath the desk held scraps of parchment, all ordinary verses. Only this one page carried the odd spacing. He carefully slid it into his coat, a habit as natural as breathing. It might mean nothing—but it might mean everything.
A voice startled him. “Colonel Rathore?”
He turned to see Inspector Rawat standing at the doorway, arms crossed, suspicion etched on his face. The young officer had clearly noticed his presence.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Rawat said firmly, stepping inside.
Arvind held his composure. “I was paying my respects. Lama Norbu was a man admired by many.”
Rawat’s eyes narrowed. “You were in intelligence. People say you notice things others don’t. If you’ve seen something, say it. Don’t make my job harder.”
For a moment, Arvind considered showing him the parchment. But his instincts cautioned him. The police would see only a strange page of scripture. They might dismiss it—or worse, lose it. This required discretion, patience, and an understanding of secrets.
Instead, he said, “What I notice is that you’re in over your head. A murder in a monastery is not the same as chasing drunkards out of the bazaar. If you’re not careful, this will slip away from you.”
Rawat bristled. “With all respect, Colonel, this is my investigation. Retired officers don’t get to run parallel inquiries.”
Arvind gave a faint smile, his old steel returning. “Then don’t make mistakes.” With that, he left the room, leaving Rawat fuming behind him.
That night, under the yellow glow of his study lamp, Arvind unfolded the parchment again. His fingers traced the uneven words. He began marking the spacing, circling characters, the rhythm of code returning to his memory. Slowly, letters emerged from between the lines. It wasn’t complete, but fragments formed: “… hidden … war … truth … valley … silence …”
Arvind leaned back, his breath tight. Lama Norbu’s death was not simply an act of malice within monastery walls. It was tied to something deeper, older—something that reached back into history’s scars.
For the first time since his retirement, the Colonel felt the weight of his old world pressing down again. He had tried to leave it behind. But now, the shadows had come looking for him.
And as the monastery bells echoed through the misty night, he realized with grim certainty: he was no longer just a witness. He was part of the story now.
4
The morning after his discovery, Arvind walked to the monastery once more. The mist clung low to the ridges, wrapping Dharamshala in a pale shroud, and the prayer flags fluttered weakly in the breeze. The town was unsettled—shopkeepers whispered as he passed, monks hurried with lowered eyes, and tourists glanced nervously at the police vehicles parked near the temple road. The murder of Lama Norbu was no longer just news; it had become a tremor shaking the very foundation of the refugee community.
At the monastery’s inner courtyard, Arvind was introduced to Tenzin Dorje, one of the senior monks. Tall and lean, his maroon robes hung loosely over his frame, and his face bore the stillness of a man long practiced in silence. Yet when he spoke, his voice carried weight, as if every word had passed through a filter of wisdom.
“Colonel Rathore,” he said softly, joining his palms. “I have heard of you. The mountains have ears, and stories find their way to us.”
Arvind returned the greeting, respectful but cautious. “I only wish to understand. Lama Norbu’s death cannot be allowed to slip into rumor. His life mattered too much for that.”
Dorje led him to a shaded veranda overlooking the valley. For a while, he gazed out at the peaks as though gathering his thoughts. Then he spoke. “Norbu-la was more than a teacher. He was a bridge. In his youth, he walked the long road from Tibet with thousands of others, carrying nothing but prayer books and memories of a lost homeland. But he was also restless—he believed that exile could not only be endured, it must be fought against. He traveled to Delhi, to Nepal, even to Europe, speaking of our struggle. Not all in the monastery approved. Some feared he brought politics into prayer.”
Arvind listened, filing away every detail. Activism, travel, controversy—each strand added to the web surrounding the dead monk. “And what of enemies?” he asked. “Did Norbu-la make any?”
Dorje’s eyes narrowed. “In exile, Colonel, enemies take many forms. Some come from across the border, hidden among sympathizers. Some are within, those who believe our cause should be quiet, invisible, obedient. And some, perhaps, are created by truth itself, for truth unsettles those who prefer comfort.”
Before Arvind could press further, a sharp voice interrupted them. “Truth is not enough. Action is what we need.”
He turned to see a young woman approaching, her black hair pulled back, her stride quick and defiant. She wore no monastic robes but a simple sweater and jeans, her presence as fiery as Dorje’s was calm.
“Tenzin-la speaks in riddles,” she said, her eyes burning as they fixed on Arvind. “But I’ll tell you plainly—Lama Norbu was targeted because he refused to remain silent. He spoke too loudly of Tibet, too openly of betrayal. He carried papers that frightened people.”
Dorje sighed. “Nyima, restraint—”
But she brushed past him, addressing Arvind directly. “I’m Nyima Dolkar. I work with the refugee youth groups. Norbu-la was my mentor. He believed we must remind the world that Tibet is not forgotten. That is why he was killed.”
Arvind studied her carefully. Her voice shook with passion, but there was steel beneath it. She could inspire devotion, perhaps even provoke rebellion. Yet he also saw something dangerous in her intensity—an impulsive streak that could make her reckless.
“What do you mean by papers?” Arvind asked.
Nyima hesitated, then lowered her voice. “He kept records. Old letters, old testimonies from those who escaped Tibet in the sixties. Some said he had proof of things both India and China would prefer to keep buried. I don’t know where he kept them. But I know they exist.”
Arvind’s mind clicked instantly to the coded scripture he had found. Proof, hidden in plain sight. But he revealed nothing, masking his interest with a neutral nod.
Dorje, sensing the tension, stepped between them. “Colonel, Nyima speaks with fire, but fire consumes quickly. Do not mistake passion for proof. The truth is fragile, and those who wield it carelessly bring danger upon us all.”
Nyima glared at him, then turned on her heel. “If you won’t act, I will. The world must know what Norbu-la died for.” She disappeared into the courtyard, her words leaving a trail of unease behind her.
Arvind and Dorje sat in silence for a while, the weight of the conversation pressing on them. Finally, Dorje said quietly, “Be cautious, Colonel. This is not just about one man’s death. It is about memory, exile, and wounds that never healed. You seek justice—but justice here is entangled with history.”
As Arvind walked back down the monastery steps, the chants resumed behind him, low and mournful. He felt the threads tightening—the secret scripture, the whispers of old records, the passionate activist, the guarded monk. Somewhere among them lay the truth about Lama Norbu’s death. But in Dharamshala, truth was never simple. It came clothed in exile, in politics, in the shadows of wars long past.
5
The crisp morning air in Dharamshala carried the smell of incense from prayer wheels and butter lamps, mingling with the earthy aroma of wet pine. Colonel Arvind Rathore stood at the edge of the market square, his gaze following the woman he had quietly come to distrust. Mei Lin—if that was even her real name—moved with an elegance too deliberate, her footsteps neither hurried nor slow, but always measured. She carried herself like someone who knew she was being watched, yet didn’t wish to make it obvious.
Officially, she had introduced herself as a Chinese-born researcher studying the cultural transition of Tibetan refugees. Her credentials seemed impeccable, her smile polite, her curiosity endless. But Arvind had spent decades in intelligence work; he knew when a story was polished too smooth, when a smile carried too much control. He had learned to listen not just to what people said, but to what they avoided saying. Mei Lin avoided plenty.
Today, she wandered through Kotwali Bazaar, pausing at stalls filled with prayer beads, old manuscripts, and refugee crafts. She asked questions about monastic practices, about Lama Norbu’s teachings, about community gatherings. To an ordinary observer, she was merely a curious academic. To Arvind, she was an actor in a well-rehearsed play.
His suspicion grew stronger when he noticed her phone. Twice now, he had seen her duck into secluded corners of the market, her lips moving in soft whispers while her eyes darted around. The device itself looked ordinary, but her posture was not. She always cupped her mouth slightly while speaking, shielding her words. He knew that habit—spies, diplomats, and intelligence officers did it often.
Arvind followed her discreetly, using the natural bustle of the bazaar to conceal his presence. He passed a group of monks chanting, a vendor selling steaming momos, and a young boy spinning a prayer wheel, all while keeping her in view. She finally stopped near a rundown teahouse tucked in a side lane. The wooden sign above the door was fading, its Tibetan letters barely legible. Mei Lin entered with a swift glance over her shoulder.
Arvind hesitated for a moment, then slipped inside after her. The teahouse was dim, its air heavy with the smell of stale butter tea. A handful of locals sat in silence, lost in their cups. In the corner, Mei Lin spoke with a man in a dark jacket. Their words were hushed, but Arvind’s trained ear caught fragments—mentions of “Lhasa,” “shipment,” and “1962.” His pulse quickened. Those words did not belong to idle conversation.
He pretended to study the menu chalked on the wall, his posture relaxed, but his mind sharp. The man handed Mei Lin a folded piece of paper. She slid it quickly into her bag, her expression unchanging. No tourist or academic handled notes that way—it was a drop, an exchange.
When she left the teahouse, Arvind followed again, keeping a safe distance. She made her way uphill toward the prayer halls, the colorful prayer flags fluttering in the wind above her. The monastery bells tolled faintly, a solemn reminder of the place’s sanctity. Yet beneath that sanctity, something far more dangerous was unfolding.
Arvind’s instincts screamed at him now: Mei Lin was not a researcher. She was an operative, a messenger perhaps, but for whom? The Chinese intelligence services had long had their eyes on Dharamshala. It was the seat of the Tibetan exile community, a hub of whispers and resistance. Could Lama Norbu’s murder be tied to her mission?
As dusk fell, he watched Mei Lin meet another contact near the large prayer wheel. She handed over the paper, receiving in return what looked like a small flash drive. The exchange was quick, concealed behind the motions of spinning the wheel. A perfect cover.
Arvind’s breath caught. He had uncovered enough in his career to recognize espionage when it unfolded before his eyes. But the question clawed at him: was Mei Lin here to suppress truths about the Tibetan struggle, or to expose something darker that even the monks were hiding?
He walked away before she could sense his gaze, the mist settling once again over the hills. The shadows of Dharamshala grew longer, but so did the mystery. Mei Lin was not who she said she was. She was a masked stranger—and in her wake trailed the scent of secrets, deception, and danger.
6
The rain had ceased by dawn, leaving the monastery wrapped in a fragile silence. Mist curled through the tall cedars, their wet trunks glistening in the first light of morning. Arvind Rathore sat alone in his modest study, Lama Norbu’s scripture spread across the table before him. The parchment was old, its edges worn and yellowed, yet the ink remained sharp. On the surface, the verses seemed like an ordinary Buddhist chant—but to a man trained in the language of secrets, the text felt alive with hidden intent.
His fingers traced the lines with care. Between the chants of compassion and enlightenment, small inconsistencies revealed themselves. Certain letters had been deliberately elongated, others marked with faint dots. To an untrained eye it was nothing, but to Arvind, it screamed of a code. He reached for his notebook, his mind slipping effortlessly back into the patterns of his RAW years. Cipher recognition had been his specialty—back when secrets were the currency of survival.
The code revealed itself slowly, like a reluctant witness. Every third character, when aligned against the Tibetan script’s phonetic sequence, formed words in broken Hindi and English. “Bridge… 1962… Shakti… file… truth hidden.” Arvind sat back, heart pounding. The year struck him first. 1962—the war that had scarred India’s northern frontier and left wounds that time had never fully healed.
He closed his eyes, memories rushing back. In the late 70s, during his early years in RAW, he had once handled fragments of an intelligence file. It had spoken of a monk-spy—an enigmatic figure who had infiltrated both Chinese and Indian lines during the 1962 conflict. The monk’s knowledge of terrain, language, and loyalties had made him a ghost, slipping between camps, gathering secrets no one else could. But one day, he had vanished, leaving behind only rumors that he had taken something vital with him.
Could Lama Norbu have been connected to that figure?
Arvind’s thoughts circled the question. Norbu had been respected, almost saintly in the eyes of the community. Yet the scripture in his hand suggested that his life carried shadows. Why leave such a cryptic clue unless he had wanted someone—the right someone—to find it?
The retired officer felt a strange stirring. He had promised himself peace in the hills, a quiet ending after years of blood and deception. But the past had a way of clawing back, dragging him into battles he thought he had left behind. The war may have been fought decades ago, but its ghosts were alive here, hidden in prayer halls and whispered between exiles.
Arvind lit a lamp and studied the parchment again. One phrase gnawed at him: “Shakti file.” It sounded familiar, echoing something buried deep in the corridors of intelligence history. The “Shakti files” had been whispered legends within RAW—documents rumored to contain sensitive details about covert Indian operations in Tibet during and after the war. If such a file existed and Lama Norbu had held knowledge of it, then his death was not just a monastery’s tragedy—it was a matter of international consequence.
The thought chilled him. Espionage was not a game of saints and villains—it was a shifting ground where survival demanded betrayal. Could Norbu, the serene monk revered for his wisdom, have lived with such a secret? And if so, who wanted him silenced after all these years?
Arvind’s mind turned to Mei Lin. Her carefully disguised identity, her secret phone calls, her nervous glances—they all hinted at a mission far larger than academic research. If she had been searching for the same secret that Norbu tried to protect, it meant foreign agencies were already circling Dharamshala.
The scripture became heavier in his hands, as though it carried not ink and paper, but the weight of history. He could not hand it over to Inspector Rawat; the young policeman lacked both the training and the clearance to understand its significance. Nor could he reveal it to the monastery elders—not until he understood how deep the rot went.
Arvind folded the parchment carefully and slid it into a steel box, locking it away. For the first time in years, he felt that old spark, the razor’s edge of being on a mission. His senses sharpened, his instincts awake. Peace had been an illusion. Dharamshala was no longer just a sanctuary of monks and pilgrims—it was a battlefield of secrets, where faith and espionage intertwined.
He stepped outside his study. The morning air was damp, filled with the fragrance of pine and the distant sound of prayer wheels turning. But beneath the calm, Arvind felt the pulse of danger. Somewhere in the misty hills, hidden players were already making their moves.
Lama Norbu’s death was not just a crime. It was the opening act of a story that stretched back to the blood-soaked passes of 1962. And whether he wanted it or not, Colonel Arvind Rathore was now standing at its center.
7
The road leading to Major Karma Singh’s modest house wound through dense pine forests on the outskirts of Dharamshala. Arvind drove slowly, his mind a storm of questions. The coded scripture, Lama Norbu’s death, and Mei Lin’s suspicious activities were threads of a web that felt too wide for coincidence. If anyone alive could help unravel it, it was Karma Singh—a decorated veteran of the 1962 Sino-Indian war and one of the few who had witnessed its hidden side.
The house itself bore the quiet dignity of a soldier’s retreat. A neatly kept garden framed the front, with faded regimental flags hanging beside the door. Karma Singh answered with a deliberate slowness. His once imposing frame had stooped, and his eyes carried the weight of battles long past. Yet, when he saw Arvind, recognition sparked.
“Colonel Rathore,” he said in a gravelly voice, “you’re a sight I didn’t expect in these hills.”
Arvind offered a firm handshake. “I wouldn’t trouble you unless it was important. It’s about Lama Norbu.”
At the mention of the monk’s name, Karma’s expression shifted, the warmth replaced by a shadow. He gestured Arvind inside, leading him to a wooden study lined with books, medals, and a large map of the Himalayas pinned to the wall.
For several minutes, they spoke of trivialities—old comrades, postings, the bitter winters of Arunachal Pradesh. But Arvind knew Karma was circling the heart of the matter, avoiding it as though afraid of the memories it would awaken. Finally, Arvind leaned forward.
“You were there in ’62. You saw things most men weren’t meant to. Lama Norbu’s death isn’t just a crime of passion or politics. His past ties back to something bigger. I need the truth, Karma.”
The old soldier stiffened, his fingers tightening around the armrest of his chair. Silence stretched, broken only by the ticking of an old wall clock. Then Karma spoke, his voice low.
“You know the war wasn’t fought only with bullets, Arvind. We were outnumbered, outmaneuvered. But we had one advantage—knowledge of the land, and the loyalty of those who had fled Tibet. The monasteries were more than places of prayer. Some… some became our listening posts.”
Arvind’s eyes narrowed. “You mean they were bases for intelligence gathering.”
Karma nodded reluctantly. “Yes. Disguised within chants and scriptures were coded messages, maps, and reports. Young monks, refugees, even elders risked everything. We trained them, sometimes against their will, sometimes with their full devotion. It was the only way to keep up with the Chinese advances. Lama Norbu… he was one of them.”
The room seemed colder at that revelation. Arvind’s thoughts raced back to the coded scripture he had found in Norbu’s quarters. Suddenly, the threads began to connect—Norbu wasn’t just a spiritual leader but once a cog in a hidden machine of espionage.
Karma’s voice grew quieter, tinged with regret. “He was different, though. Dedicated, yes, but always questioning. He hated the deception, the way faith was weaponized. After the war ended in humiliation, many of those networks were quietly dismantled. Some monks disappeared, others returned to silence. But Norbu… he walked away, built a reputation of peace. It was as if he wanted to bury that chapter of his life.”
Arvind asked sharply, “Do you think his death is tied to that past?”
Karma’s weathered hands trembled as he poured tea. “The war never truly ended, Colonel. It just went cold. Old secrets have long shadows. If Norbu had something… something from those years, people on both sides would kill to possess it. And if Mei Lin is involved, it’s not difficult to guess who sent her.”
The words hung between them like a verdict. Arvind felt the old weight of duty settle on his shoulders again. He had tried to leave espionage behind, but now the past was pulling him back with an unrelenting grip.
Before leaving, he asked one final question. “Did Norbu ever mention what he carried away from that war?”
Karma looked at him for a long time, his eyes moist with memories. “Not in words. But once, he told me that truth is like a relic—it doesn’t decay, it only waits. Whatever he held onto, Arvind, it wasn’t just for himself. It was meant for someone strong enough to face it.”
Arvind stepped out of the house into the fading daylight, the pine-scented air doing little to calm the storm within him. The puzzle was no longer about one monk’s murder. It was about a war unfinished, about ghosts of espionage buried in the chants of monks and the silence of monasteries. And Arvind knew, with a chill running through his veins, that he had just crossed the threshold into a battlefield where shadows fought harder than soldiers.
8
The hills of Dharamshala wore their usual cloak of mist, the morning sun struggling to pierce through drifting clouds. Prayer flags fluttered in the cold breeze, their colors muted against the grey sky, yet within the monastery walls, serenity had been fractured beyond repair. Rumors moved like smoke—thick, shapeless, and choking. Someone from within had betrayed their vows, and Lama Norbu’s death was no longer seen as an act of fate but as the first move in a dangerous game.
Colonel Arvind Rathore felt it in the silence of the monks, in the way they avoided his gaze, whispering among themselves when they thought he could not hear. He had spent years in RAW learning to read atmospheres, and this one was heavy with guilt. He knew instinctively that the enemy was not only outside these walls but had already entered, hidden under the garb of prayer and discipline.
Inspector Vikram Rawat, meanwhile, had been moving clumsily through the investigation, his frustration showing. A stack of half-written reports lay on his desk, but no clarity emerged. That morning, he arrived with a glimmer of triumph. “Colonel,” he said, trying to mask his unease, “we’ve found something—something that points directly to Nyima Dolkar.”
Arvind’s brows knitted. Nyima, the fiery activist, had always been a troubling presence—sharp-tongued, passionate, and fiercely political. But instinct told him she wasn’t the kind to murder Lama Norbu, especially not with something as cowardly as poison. Still, Rawat laid out his findings with a sense of finality: a hidden vial of bitter herbs, the same kind found in the tea that killed Lama Norbu, was discovered near Nyima’s lodgings. A few witnesses claimed they had seen her arguing heatedly with Norbu days before his death.
“Convenient,” Arvind muttered, studying the evidence. His years of intelligence work had taught him to distrust neat answers in complex puzzles. “Too convenient. You’re being led, Inspector. Don’t you see it?”
Rawat bristled at the suggestion, but before he could respond, another development shook the fragile trust within the monastery. A young monk, barely in his twenties, was caught sneaking out after curfew, carrying messages hidden in the folds of his robe. Under questioning, his story crumbled. At first, he claimed he was writing letters to his family. Then he said it was for a friend. Finally, his silence condemned him.
Arvind pressed harder, his voice calm but unyielding. “Who are you working for? Who is pulling your strings?” The boy’s lips trembled, but no answer came. Fear sealed his tongue. That silence was answer enough—there was indeed a spy within these sacred walls.
The discovery unsettled the entire community. To the monks, betrayal from one of their own was worse than any external threat. To Arvind, it meant that Lama Norbu’s death was not an isolated act but part of a larger scheme. Someone had infiltrated, someone had been feeding information—possibly for years.
Later that evening, Arvind walked through the monastery’s courtyard, his mind weighing possibilities. Mei Lin’s shadow lingered—her false identity as a researcher, her coded phone calls, her secretive meetings. But Mei Lin was an outsider, and her access was limited. For her mission to succeed, she would need help from someone inside. That inside help had now revealed itself, though not yet fully.
When he met Nyima again, she was defiant despite the accusations against her. “They want me silenced,” she spat, her eyes blazing. “Norbu was a voice they feared. Now they want to frame me, because I am the next loudest.” She gripped Arvind’s arm with surprising strength. “Colonel, you have seen wars. You know what governments and spies can do. Don’t let them turn me into a scapegoat.”
Her words echoed in his mind long after she left. Could it be that Norbu’s death was tied not just to old wartime secrets, but also to present-day politics, where activists like Nyima threatened established powers?
Inspector Rawat, however, remained convinced. He prepared to detain her formally, hoping to wrap the case quickly. Yet Arvind stood in his path. “You’re chasing the wrong lead,” he warned. “Look deeper into the cracks of this monastery. The true betrayal is here, festering in plain sight.”
That night, Dharamshala seemed darker than usual. Lanterns flickered weakly in the mist, prayer wheels spun as though restless, and the air carried an unspoken tension. Somewhere among the chants and shadows, the traitor still moved freely, unmasked and unpunished. Arvind knew one thing with certainty: the hills were no longer whispering. They were warning.
The betrayal had begun, and its consequences would only grow bloodier.
9
The monastery lay under a heavy shroud of mist that night, its prayer flags fluttering like silent witnesses to the storm about to break. Arvind Rathore, his instincts sharpened once again after weeks of digging through half-truths, coded scriptures, and shifting loyalties, knew the endgame had arrived. The trail no longer curved in misleading circles—it pointed straight at Mei Lin.
He found her in the dimly lit prayer hall, the glow of butter lamps flickering against her face. She no longer carried the soft expression of a researcher. The mask had dropped, and in its place was a calm, cold certainty—the expression of someone trained to survive on secrets.
“You’ve followed me long enough, Colonel,” Mei Lin said without turning. Her Hindi was fluent, her tone controlled. “Perhaps it’s time we stopped playing games.”
Arvind stepped closer, his voice low but firm. “Games end when blood is spilled. Lama Norbu’s death wasn’t random. You killed him because he carried something from a past you wanted erased.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she drew out a thin envelope from her coat and placed it on the altar. “Do you even know what this is?” she asked.
Arvind didn’t answer immediately. His gaze fell on the envelope—worn, stained with age, yet intact. It was the missing piece, the documents Lama Norbu had risked his life to hide. He could almost feel the weight of history pressing against it.
“Proof,” Arvind said finally. “Proof that during the 1962 war, monasteries weren’t just houses of prayer—they were intelligence outposts. Norbu was part of it, wasn’t he? He carried records of covert operations both sides swore never happened.”
Mei Lin gave a faint, humorless smile. “Your side buried it to protect its narrative. Mine buried it to protect its pride. But Lama Norbu believed truth deserved light. A foolish sentiment.”
Before Arvind could respond, a sudden shuffle echoed behind the pillars. From the shadows stepped Nyima Dolkar, her face pale, her eyes filled with fear and anger. “You told me we fought for freedom,” she said, her voice trembling as it carried across the hall. “You used me, Mei. You made me believe Lama Norbu betrayed us.”
Arvind’s heart tightened. The betrayal he had sensed within the monastery had a face at last. Nyima wasn’t the killer—she was the pawn.
Mei Lin’s expression hardened. “Idealism is a weakness, Nyima. You wanted a cause, I gave you one. That’s how wars are fought now—not with armies, but with belief.”
The confrontation escalated as Inspector Rawat entered, flanked by two local policemen. His pistol was drawn, though his hands shook. “Step away from the envelope,” he barked, his voice betraying his nerves. “This ends now.”
But Arvind knew Rawat was out of his depth. Mei Lin’s hand slipped under her shawl, and instinct screamed through him. “Don’t!” he shouted, lunging forward.
The next moments blurred—Mei Lin drew a concealed weapon, a small, sleek pistol, and fired. The shot cracked through the monastery halls, scattering the monks who had gathered outside in terrified prayers. The bullet grazed Rawat’s arm, sending him crashing to the floor. Arvind tackled Mei Lin, their struggle spilling against the altar, the envelope caught between them.
Years of training returned to him like muscle memory. He disarmed her with a swift twist, the pistol clattering to the ground. Mei Lin fought back with surprising strength, but Arvind’s determination was steel. With one final surge, he pinned her down, his knee pressing into her arm.
Breathing heavily, he looked into her eyes. “This ends here. Norbu didn’t die to let your lies live.”
For the first time, Mei Lin’s mask cracked—rage mixed with something else, a shadow of defeat. The policemen rushed in, restraining her as Arvind retrieved the envelope from the altar.
He opened it carefully. Inside lay brittle papers, handwritten notes, and faded maps. Names of operatives, locations of monasteries used as bases, records of covert transmissions—an entire forgotten chapter of history. Arvind’s chest tightened as realization struck: this was not just a Tibetan story, nor an Indian one, nor even Chinese. It was the shared, hidden truth of nations too proud to admit vulnerability.
Inspector Rawat, pale and clutching his bleeding arm, looked at him. “What… what will you do with it?”
Arvind closed the envelope gently, his eyes on the distant horizon where the mist began to lift. “Not bury it again,” he said quietly. “Norbu wanted the truth to survive. We owe him that much.”
The monks began to chant, their voices rising like a balm against the violence that had stained their sanctuary. Nyima stood apart, tears running down her face, her world torn between betrayal and awakening. Mei Lin, bound and silent, stared at Arvind with eyes that promised the war of shadows was far from over.
Yet for that night, amidst the whispers of prayer wheels and the fluttering flags, the truth had been pulled from its grave. Arvind, weary but resolute, knew his quiet exile was over. The hills had given him no peace, only another battle—one not fought with bullets or blades, but with memory, conscience, and history itself.
10
Chapter 10 – The Quiet After the Storm
The monastery stood hushed under the pale glow of dawn, its prayer flags fluttering lazily against the mountain winds. The clang of the temple bell returned after days of silence, echoing across the valley. Life, at least outwardly, had begun to resume its rhythm. Yet for Arvind, watching the monks file back into the prayer hall with lowered heads and muted chants, the silence carried a different weight. It was not the serenity of faith, but the aftermath of a storm—when the air is heavy with the memory of thunder.
The killer had been unmasked, Mei Lin’s web of deceit torn apart, and the coded documents Lama Norbu had guarded were now secured. Inspector Rawat, visibly relieved, had filed his reports with exaggerated self-importance, eager to wash his hands of a case that had proven far too deep for him. The monastery elders had expressed gratitude, but their gratitude was tinged with unease. The truth revealed had left scars—Lama Norbu was not only a revered monk but also a man entangled in espionage, his life caught between devotion and duty, faith and politics. To acknowledge this publicly would shake the foundations of their belief. To bury it would mean complicity in silence. They chose, as many do, the middle path: prayers for the soul, silence for the sins.
Arvind walked slowly through the stone courtyard, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots oddly loud in the stillness. He lit a cigarette, though he no longer smoked as frequently, and exhaled into the thin mountain air. Justice had been delivered—or so the world would see it. Mei Lin would be handed to intelligence authorities; the killer would not see freedom again. Yet Arvind’s thoughts wandered not to punishment or prisons but to Lama Norbu. Had the monk known that his past would return like this, masked in shadows, waiting for the right moment to tear through his sanctuary? Or had he accepted it as inevitable—that secrets, no matter how well hidden, eventually surface like stones under a retreating tide?
Major Karma Singh’s words returned to him: “In war, monks, soldiers, spies—we were all pawns of survival.” That blurred line haunted Arvind. Dharma and deception, prayer beads and coded ciphers—what had begun as survival had grown into something more treacherous, a history neither side wanted unearthed. Lama Norbu had tried to protect it, perhaps even redeem it, but in the end, the past claimed him as mercilessly as the poison in his tea.
Inspector Rawat approached, boots scuffing clumsily on the courtyard stones. “Delhi’s people will handle it now,” he said, as though trying to sound authoritative. “Your work is done here, Mr. Arvind.” His voice carried both relief and dismissal, a man eager to retreat back into routine.
Arvind smiled faintly but said nothing. Rawat would move on to petty thefts, disputes over land, drunken brawls—safe crimes with clear culprits. Dharamshala would soon forget the foreign spy, the hidden documents, the betrayal within sacred walls. But Arvind knew memory lingered differently in the mountains. Here, whispers outlived bodies; stories became echoes across valleys.
That evening, the monks gathered for a prayer of closure. Arvind sat quietly at the back, not as investigator but as witness. The rhythmic chants filled the air, low and solemn, weaving through the incense smoke. The monastery glowed in flickering lamplight, shadows stretching long on the walls. Arvind closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. It was beautiful, yes, but it no longer felt untouched. Behind every chant he heard the weight of silence, the cost of truth.
Later, as he descended the stone steps leading away from the monastery, the hills stretched before him in their timeless vastness. Stars blinked in the dark velvet sky, and the air carried the scent of pine and cold earth. Dharamshala looked unchanged, its narrow streets and bustling markets winding below. Yet to Arvind, everything felt altered. He had been drawn back into the shadows of espionage, unwilling but unable to resist. The storm had passed, but its echoes lingered in him.
At the edge of the path, he paused and looked back. The monastery stood still, prayer flags swaying gently, as if nothing had ever disturbed its peace. But he knew better. Peace here was fragile—an illusion constantly threatened by history, politics, and ambition. And yet, it was worth protecting, perhaps precisely because it was fragile.
Arvind flicked away the last ash of his cigarette and pulled his coat tighter against the wind. The hills would keep their secrets, at least for now. But he knew, deep down, that storms have a way of returning. And when they did, he would once again find himself standing in the quiet after, bearing witness to the fragile peace that always followed.
End
