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…
-
-
Maitreyee Basu Chapter 1: The Blood on the Floorboards The monsoon clouds had just begun to roll over Kalimpong’s forested ridges when Dr. Arjun Roy’s taxi took the final bend toward Teesta Villa. The road, snaking through damp pine groves and moss-streaked colonial fences, looked like a forgotten memory. Arjun watched from behind fogged glasses as the worn iron gates of the villa emerged from a curtain of mist—weathered, crooked, and latched with a rusted chain that looked as old as the town itself. He stepped out with his leather satchel, the thick scent of wet soil, mildew, and…