Srirupa Deka The story begins in the sprawling tea gardens of Assam, where the rolling hills are carpeted in green, and the morning sun often struggles to pierce through a shroud of heavy mist. For the laborers who spend their days plucking delicate tea leaves, the mist is more than just a veil of nature—it is the cloak of a tale whispered across generations. They speak of the “White Lady,” a spectral figure said to wander the gardens after dusk, her presence heralded by a voice so hauntingly sweet that even the strongest men cannot resist its pull. By day,…