Indranil Bhattacharya 1 The mist hung low over Kalimpong that morning, as if the mountains themselves were holding their breath. Colonel Rudra Sen (Retd.), now 83, stood at the edge of his moss-covered verandah, wrapped in an old shawl that smelled faintly of mothballs and eucalyptus oil. His sharp, sunken eyes scanned the hills that rolled endlessly into Bhutan and Tibet beyond, but his mind was stuck somewhere in 1962—an icy ridge, a blizzard of bullets, and a voice over crackling radio screaming for help. The kettle whistled from the kitchen, breaking his trance, and as he turned to go…