Night settled over the bungalow like a held breath.
Beyond the wide verandas and tall shuttered windows, the fog had thickened into a living thing. It moved low over the tea bushes, curling between trunks and hedges, swallowing the paths that led down into the plantations. From somewhere deep within the dark, foxes cried out. Their calls rose and fell in broken notes, sharp and grieving, as if the forest itself were singing to remember something it had lost.
Four chokidaars stood at their posts around the bungalow. Two of them held ancient double-barrel shotguns, the metal dulled with age but kept clean with ritual care. The other two carried long staffs carved from old, thick wood, polished smooth by years of handling. Their woolen caps were pulled low, shawls wrapped tightly against the cold. Each man stood alert, eyes moving constantly, listening not just to sound but to silence.
Inside, the bungalow did not rest easily.
Lights flickered in the corners of long corridors, their yellow glow trembling as if unsure of its right to remain. In some rooms the bulbs burned steadily, in others they dimmed and brightened without reason, suggesting faulty wiring or the presence of something that disturbed the current as it passed. Shadows clung to the high ceilings, collecting in the carved beams and along the edges of framed walls.
The dining chamber was prepared with ceremonial care.
A twelve-seater table dominated the room, its dark wood polished until it reflected the soft flame of candles. Candle stands of varying heights lined both sides, brass and iron mixed together, their wax already beginning to pool and harden. The arrangement was deliberate but not symmetrical, as though perfection itself had been avoided out of caution.
Four men sat waiting.
Two of them were in their mid-fifties, shoulders broad despite age, faces marked by long years of authority. Their attire carried an unmistakable colonial echo. Thick woolen coats over starched shirts, waistcoats buttoned neatly, trousers pressed with care. Their shoes were heavy leather, practical yet well-kept. Beneath the British cut, however, their presence remained unmistakably Indian, carried in the set of their jaws, the weight of their gazes.
The other two were younger, in their early thirties perhaps. They wore similar coats but with less ease, as though still growing into them. Their eyes moved often, not from fear but from calculation. They exchanged brief glances across the table, conversations passing silently between them, careful not to invite the attention of their seniors.
Before each place setting lay a small plate of salads, sliced cucumber and radish arranged neatly, a wedge of lemon placed with precision. The cutlery was classic, heavy forks and knives with engraved handles, their silver catching the candlelight. Polished glass tumblers stood near each plate, flawless and cold, reflecting distorted versions of the men who waited.
They did not speak.
Their silence was broken when Jaydev entered.
He stepped into the chamber with quiet authority, his posture upright, expression composed. The men rose slightly in acknowledgment, chairs scraping softly against the floor.
"So," said the oldest among them, his voice firm, seasoned. "Jaydev Babu. It has been many years."
Jaydev inclined his head. "Indeed, Ghosh Saheb. Makum remains unchanged in many ways."
A faint smile touched Ghosh's lips. "And changed in others."
Introductions followed in measured tones. Ghosh Saheb, the General Manager of the estate, his hair greying at the temples, eyes sharp as ever. Beside him sat Sen Saheb, Senior Assistant Manager, his moustache thick and carefully waxed. Of the younger men, one was Ramesh Pandey, already known to Rudra, his manner overly respectful. The other introduced himself as Anil Chatterjee, newly posted, his voice eager yet restrained.
They were still speaking when, in another chamber, Rudra stood before a mirror that did not merely reflect him but seemed to study him in return. The glass held his image with a quiet accusation, as though the room itself were taking measure of what grief had carved into his face and what duty had yet to claim.
He wore a long coat over his night gown, the fabric heavy and warm against the chill that had seeped into his bones. He fastened the lower buttons slowly, his reflection watching him with a tired patience. The dressing table before him was old British furniture, solid and ornate, its edges carved with faded floral patterns. A faint smell of polish and age clung to it.
A dull ache pressed against his chest, not sharp enough to alarm, but persistent enough to remind him of loss. Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps it was memory. His skin felt warm, a fever threatening but not yet declared.
He looked at his own eyes in the mirror. They seemed older tonight.
Rudra drew a long breath, steadying himself, clearing his voice and thoughts alike. He ran his fingers through his hair, framing it back into order, then stepped out.
The dining chamber changed the moment he entered.
Every man stood at once.
There was no rush, no confusion. Chairs moved back in unison, heads bowed slightly. Respect, not fear, filled the room.
"Rudra Babu," Ghosh Saheb said, stepping forward. "You look too much like your father tonight."
Rudra inclined his head. "Ghosh Saheb. It has been long."
"Too long," the older man replied softly. "I am sorry for your loss. Your father was… a formidable man."
Jaydev's hand moved then, calm and assured, indicating the central seat not as an invitation but as an unspoken acknowledgment of inheritance.
Rudra obeyed the gesture and seated himself, the chair accepting his weight with a muted creak, as if the wood recognized him and yielded to what was inevitable.
Conversation resumed, careful at first. Ghosh Saheb spoke of the estate's history, of seasons good and bad. Sen Saheb added figures, numbers spoken with precision. Ramesh Pandey nodded frequently, offering small affirmations. Anil Chatterjee listened, eyes darting between faces.
Then Ghosh Saheb reached beneath the table and brought out a bottle.
He held it up with quiet pride. "A Glenfiddich. I have kept this for years. Thought it fitting."
Rudra reached for it, instinctively.
Jaydev intercepted the gesture smoothly, taking the bottle instead. "Thank you, Ghosh Saheb. But Mr. Roy does not drink."
There was a brief pause.
Rudra felt suddenly younger, almost chastised, yet something warm stirred beneath the embarrassment. Jaydev's care was unchanged.
They spoke then of the gardens.
Of yields falling without reason, as though the land itself were withholding consent. Of factories burning hotter than their numbers justified, iron lungs breathing fire yet producing less with each passing month. When Ghosh Saheb mentioned the boiler house, his voice dropped, instinctively, like a man naming something that preferred not to be named. "The men complain of heat beyond reason," he said. "Machines behave… strangely."
"And the plantations," Sen Saheb added, his fingers tightening around his glass. "Some sections grow wild, almost feral. Others die overnight, as if the soil has turned against us."
Rudra listened without interruption, his gaze unmoving, his expression carved into stillness. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled, carrying the weight of something learned too early.
"Industries decay when they forget the ground they stand upon," he said. "And forests remember every wound inflicted on them."
Silence followed, dense and uncomfortable, settling between them like cold ash.
The men exchanged glances, brief and guarded, as though each had heard something familiar in his words and did not wish to admit it aloud.
Later, as they departed in a classic Dodge WC-51, its engine coughing softly into the fog, Rudra stood beside Jaydev on the veranda. Neither spoke.
The fog watched them.
An old servant approached then, carrying a tray. Upon it rested a gold steel glass of turmeric milk, saffron threads floating gently on the surface.
Jaydev took it, handing it to Rudra. "Medicine before poison."
Rudra smiled faintly. "One day, you will let me grow up."
Jaydev's lips curved. "When the gods do."
The fox cried again, closer this time.
Makum did not sleep.