Sohini Das The car stopped in front of the rusted gates of Windmere Lodge with a hiss, steam rising faintly from the bonnet like breath on a cold mirror. Devika Rao stepped out, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Mussoorie in late October was crueler than she’d expected. The sun had vanished behind a sheet of dull grey clouds, and even the pine trees looked like shadows painted against a darkening canvas. She looked up at the lodge — a two-storied colonial building half-swallowed by ivy and memory. The windows were arched, curtained in velvet too heavy for the…