N. V. Rao One Kartik Rajan had written about many strange things in Delhi—forgotten cinema halls with broken projectors still facing empty screens, a clocktower in Chandni Chowk that ticked in reverse during an eclipse, and a hermit who claimed to dream in languages that no longer existed. But when his editor slid a dusty manila folder across the desk marked “Malcha Mahal – DO NOT ENTER,” he scoffed. It was the kind of gimmicky fluff assigned to rookies or burned-out writers nearing retirement. “Ghost Story Saturday,” they called it—an online weekend column for bored readers. Still, something about the…
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Manav Chouhan Chapter 1: The Letter from Chowk The rain had barely stopped drumming against the windows when Meher Chaudhary found the envelope waiting on the windowsill of her Delhi studio, damp but intact, as though it had arrived with the storm itself. Its paper was of an oddly antique texture—off-white and fibrous, sealed with wax that bore an insignia she didn’t recognize. Her name was written in precise Devanagari script, the kind used in legal documents a century ago. Curious and mildly amused, she opened it, half-expecting an invitation to an art exhibition or a forgotten commission. But the…