Roshan Lama 1 The mist clung heavily to the slopes of Darjeeling that morning, veiling the tea gardens in a silvery pallor that made everything look otherworldly. The Caldwell bungalow stood aloof on its rise, a relic of colonial grandeur with its sloping roof and wide verandah, but something about its silence felt wrong. It was the watchman Hari Das who first raised the alarm, his shaking hands pointing toward the half-opened door where the lamps still burned from the night before. Inside, Richard Caldwell, the formidable manager of the estate, lay sprawled across a Persian rug in the drawing…