The sun's golden rays filtered through the light clouds draping Nainital's green mountains, heralding the arrival of a splendid morning. Some awoke to the day's gentle call, while others remained ensnared in the mysterious world of their dreams. The rays, streaming through the dew-kissed windows, imbued the rooms with a gentle radiance, while the dew droplets on the glass sparkled like crystalline gems, twirling in the morning sunlight.
Behind one of those windows, barely touched by the dew, a young woman, wrapped in a golden sheet, slept peacefully on her left side amidst a bed strewn with various scattered items. A light smile bloomed on her fair face, as if she were witnessing one of her sweetest dreams come true, her long black locks splayed elegantly across the pillow. The remnants of black ink lingered on her hands, a silent tribute to the diligence she had dedicated to the pages throughout the night. The room was enveloped in a tranquil silence, providing the perfect backdrop for her slumber, until the door creaked open with a gentle rustle, causing her steady eyelids to flutter. A distant sound then drifted to her ears, stirring her from her peaceful repose.
"Didi, Maithili didi," She slowly opened her heavy eyelids, fighting the urge to close them again, and turned her brown eyes toward the source of the sound.
A maid, dressed in a light pink salwar kameez with a light brown shawl draped over her shoulders, stood near her head, swiftly gathering the white curtains around the bed. She got up slowly, rubbing her eyes.
"Mayuri, why are you brimming with energy at this early hour?" She murmured in her drowsy tone, her words barely audible through the fog of sleep. Yet, this failed to impede the maid's pace.
"Didi, tidying your room always consumes the most time, and I still have three guest rooms to attend to. I need to spread fresh sheets on the beds and hang clean curtains in those rooms as well. Today's agenda is quite packed with chores." She quickly said, carefully lifting the typewriter from the bed. That's when the memories of the previous night rushed back to Maithili, and a tinge of embarrassment crept over her, stealing away the last remnants of her sleep.
"I've already prepared hot water and clothes in the bathroom for you to take a bath. Please bathe quickly, or the water will cool down." She spoke softly as she meticulously arranged the ink bottles on the table, her fingers lingering on each one as if to ensure its perfect placement.
"Hmm..." She slipped off the bed, fingers gliding through her hair as she made her way to the bathroom.
Emerging from the bathroom, her steps left delicate imprints on the polished hardwood floor, evidence of the lingering moisture from her recent shower. She was clad in a dark green salwar kameez, adorned with a light golden dupatta intricately embroidered with small five-faced flowers made of golden threads. Her hair was elegantly secured beneath a pristine white towel. She walked over to the dressing table, just beside where the dried rose petals had been yesterday. They were gone now. On the table, there was a big mirror with golden edges. It looked like someone had wiped it with something wet, as it was still a bit damp. The only space in the room that was not filled with an abundance of objects. Looking at herself in the mirror, she shook her hair free from the towel, letting it cascade around her shoulders like a gentle rain. With a delicate hand, she combed her hair using a white ivory comb, each stroke smooth and deliberate. Then, she carefully applied kajal (kohl) on her eyes, highlighting their natural allure and intensity. She adorned her ears with silver Agra earrings and her wrists with matching bracelets. As her slender finger caressed the kajal around her eyes, she delicately marked a tiny dot between her brows, a subtle touch that only added to her enchanting allure. She turned her gaze from the mirror to the neatly folded papers resting beside the pile of books on the table. She extracted the third page, its surface marred by words hastily written and then angrily crossed out, as if the writer had been dissatisfied with her own thoughts. There was only one line in it, which was written at the end and could be read clearly: 'Are beliefs greater than truth?'
She studied the paper intently, then returned it to the table before exiting the room, her fingers curling around one of her earrings.
The floor outside the room greeted her with a slight chill and a dampness that hinted at recent cleaning. As she made her way toward the stairs, she noticed that the doors of the two rooms adjacent to hers stood open. As she glanced into the first room, she noticed the furniture was no longer draped in thin white sheets. A new, clean bedsheet adorned the bed, and the open curtains allowed golden rays to flood the space. Moving to the second room, she found it in a similar state. Though nearly identical to the first, one detail in this room captured her attention. Near a mirror fixed to a grand wooden stand against the wall, a man stood adjusting his attire. He wore navy blue formal pants and a crisp, white shirt, his hands deftly buttoning the sleeves. He was Daman Singh. Maithili's eyes traced his reflection in the mirror, a sight more glorious and captivating than the previous night. That's when Daman's gaze shifted to the corner of the mirror, as if he had caught sight of an unexpected presence within its reflective depths. Witnessing his abrupt movement, Maithili hastily retreated, her steps quickening as she descended the stairs, a sense of urgency propelling her forward. Downstairs, the air was thick with the rich fragrance of simmering spices, weaving their enticing tale from the heart of the kitchen. Each wafting scent whispered promises of culinary delights in the making, a silent herald to the feast soon to be unveiled. She walked towards the dimly lit rooms behind the stairs, where the sunlight didn't quite reach as brightly. She stopped near a black door and opened the door by lightly turning the handle of its round cam lock.
The only light inside came from the lamps that had been burning since nightfall. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books bound in thick covers. In the center of the room stood a large wooden circular table, behind which sat a heavy chair. An old man occupied the chair, a tobacco pipe in his hand, his eyes silent behind glasses as he carefully studied some papers. It was her father, Mr. Verma. Right behind the table was a portrait of Nehru ji, beside which was a black-and-white framed photo capturing the country's first Independence Day.
"May I come in?" Maithili asked in a tone that was both insistent and humorous.
"Of course, baccha (child)." Mr. Verma remarked as he placed the tobacco pipe gently in the ashtray resting on the table, a faint smile gracing his lips. His eyes looked tired, and he turned them towards the papers again. Maithili went behind her father's chair and, placing her hand on his shoulder, studied the papers bearing the official seal of the Government of India.
"Have the decision-makers in Delhi devised any new plans for our city, hoping to bring about some improvement?" Maithili said, gazing at a large pendulum clock encased in mahogany wood, situated a little away from the table. The two thick, black hands of the clock pointed in different directions on a face adorned with Roman numerals, indicating 8:15. The steady ticking filled the room, marking the passing moments with a solemn rhythm.
"In his unwavering quest to propel the nation into the modern era, Nehru ji envisioned a Gymkhana as an essential cornerstone for Almora city's advancement." He uttered those words as he delicately lifted his glasses from his weary eyes, the action imbued with a sense of relief and weariness.
"But this will invite people into our city whom our city does not need. The silent poets of souls here do not want to see a crowd that does not appreciate its beauty." Maithili murmured softly as she adjusted her father's shawl.
Mr. Verma let out a subtle sigh, a gesture that could have been either a sympathetic response to Maithili's words or an expression of his own fatigue. Just then, the door swung open, revealing the servant who had been present during last night's commotion. He entered, carrying a silver tray with a matching pot and cup. With a deliberate motion, he gently set the tray upon the table.
"Chandan, has tea been delivered to the other rooms yet?" Mr. Verma uttered, his gaze shifting to the clock.
"Ji, Saheb. Saheb, a woman is standing outside the bungalow with her daughter." As he poured tea into the cup, he murmured his words.
"For what?" Mr. Verma said, signaling him to cease pouring more tea into the cup.
"She says that last night her husband and another man went to the old warehouse for bungalow work and have not returned yet." He said as he carefully served the cup in front of Mr. Verma.
"He must be passed out somewhere drunk. He'll show up once he's sobered up. Go and explain it to her." Mr. Verma said, his words drifting amidst the tendrils of smoke as he raised the cup, its wisps curling delicately around his face before he brought it near his lips.
Maithili was accustomed to her father's straightforward responses, so she often found herself drifting away, seeking solace in distant thoughts whenever he spoke bluntly. Chandan hesitated momentarily, as if on the brink of saying something, but then, without uttering a word, he picked up the tray and quietly exited the room.