Rukmini Ghosh  1 The hills of Shimla were cloaked in monsoon mist, the kind that seemed to creep into your very bones and whisper secrets from forgotten winters. Raina Mehta stood in the fading light of her grandmother’s colonial bungalow, perched on a quiet slope near Chhota Shimla, its dark green shingles weeping rain and its iron gate groaning with age. The house was a time capsule, untouched since Meher Bano’s death two weeks ago, and filled with that strange aroma of old paper, mothballs, and rose attar that always lingered in her grandmother’s sari folds. Raina had arrived from…