Moon at Half Past Noon

The Queen and the Rebirth

In July 2024, a cool breeze drifted over Almora’s hills. Mohan Sharma, a thin man always thinking about money, stood before the Thakur Ram Singh Haveli. Built in 1835, its kath-khuni walls—stone and cedar—shone, polished to show lotus carvings. Weathered stone cast eerie shadows, cedar glowed warmly. Mohan’s architectural skills turned the ruin into a spooky yet fancy homestay. The grand hall had shiny mosaic floors, lotus arches, and solar chandeliers for guests. Twelve guest rooms were available, with six rooms on each of the two floors. The rooms featured plastered walls. Flickering lamps added creepy vibes. The floors were made of creaky cedar. Rooms held local quilts and en-suite bathrooms, with windows facing the naula orchard’s valley views. A first-floor lounge had jagar tapestries of red-sari brides, tea tables, and big windows. The naula orchard was free of vines. It glowed with red apples. Its stone path was rigged with hidden lights and speakers for Bhootki scares. A veranda with swaying fringes wrapped the hall for guest dining under stars. An attic stored eerie carvings, its creaky stairs empty. Mohan reused old timber, bartered stone, and added cheap lamps to keep Anjali’s ghost story alive, saving cash. Solar plumbing and mandala tiles added luxury.

“City bumpkins are eager for ‘a haunting experience.’ They will pay a premium for this palace,” he muttered, his breath misting in the cold air. He descended the rocky path, his boots crunching on gravel that once felt the tread of Katyuri traders. The haveli’s rusted gate, a relic from Haldwani’s 19th-century bazaars, groaned open, as if in protest.

The courtyard was a riot of weeds, a testament to nature’s reclaiming hand. Mohan wrinkled his nose. “Dharma!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the silent stone. “Where’s that lanky… oh, never mind.”

He stepped into the main hall. His gaze swept over the shattered mosaic floor. It was laid for a Thakur’s bride centuries ago. Slate roof sagged overhead, and timber beams, carved with faded Bhootnath mantras, seemed to groan under the weight of history.

“Charming,” Mohan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He pulled out his phone, the screen displaying a checklist of pending tasks: ‘Clear courtyard. Repair floor. Fumigate. Find reliable cook (urgent).’.

As if summoned by his need, a voice boomed from the doorway, startling a flock of pigeons into flight. “Mohan Sharma, you’re thinner than a Thakur’s walking stick!“

Mohan spun around to see a woman framed in the entrance. She was wide-shouldered, with a scarf as vibrant as Almora’s festival banners wrapped around her head. In her hands, she held a large basket, from which steam curled, carrying the aroma of spices.

“Krupa,” she announced, as if he should recognize the name. “I’m your cook. Bazaar gossip says you’re starving.” She strode into the hall, planting herself by the ancient hearth as if she owned the place.

Mohan stared, speechless for a moment. “I… I didn’t hire a cook. Who sent you?“

Krupa sliced a potato with a large knife, the blade glinting in the dim light. “Maybe Anjali’s Bhootki,” she said, her eyes sharp and amused, “maybe the wind. Does it matter?“

From the shadows, a tall, thin man emerged. This was Dharma, his face etched with the wisdom and wariness of the mountains. He clutched a small pouch in his hand, its contents rustling faintly. Salt.

“She… she just appeared,” Dharma mumbled, his Nepali accent thick. He looked at Krupa with a mixture of awe and apprehension. “Like a Vanachari from the forest.”

Krupa tossed a piece of potato to a shaggy dog with coal-black eyes, who had silently padded into the hall. The dog snapped it up, his gaze fixed on Krupa.

“Eat, rock-hands,” Krupa said to Dharma, “before you fade away completely.”

Mohan crossed his arms, trying to regain control of the situation. “I don’t pay for surprises! And I don’t trust bazaar gossip… or knives.” His eyes flicked to the large blade in Krupa’s hand.

Krupa laughed, a sound as loud and vibrant as a Kumaoni folk song. “You’ll trust your stomach, stingy-heart. Try my bhaang ki chutney, and you’ll beg me to stay.“

She launched into a tale about the haveli. She talked about Anjali, the Thakur’s wife, who had hanged herself in the orchard. Anjali’s restless spirit still roamed the grounds. Dharma nodded, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination. Mohan snorted.

“Cook, don’t preach,” he said, but his gaze kept returning to Krupa. There was something about her… an unsettling confidence, a spark of wildness that both intrigued and unnerved him.

The dog, Bhoot, sniffed at Krupa’s basket. His hackles were slightly raised. Then he ate a roti she offered. His coal-black eyes never left her face.

Mohan jerked his head towards the courtyard. “Dharma, a word.”

They stepped outside. The mist swirled around them. The gnarled branches of the wild apple trees in the orchard loomed like skeletal fingers.

“She’s louder than a temple bell,” Mohan whispered, “and twice as mysterious. We’re fine with your dal, aren’t we?”

Dharma grimaced. “My dal could choke a goat, and my rotis could break a tooth. But her stories… Bhootki, poison rumors… they make my skin crawl.“

Mohan rubbed his chin, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Two old bachelors, us, jumping at a woman’s voice. My brother would laugh. We haven’t had a woman’s touch since his wife ran off with that carpet seller.”

Dharma shifted, clutching his pouch of salt. “She cooks like a queen, but queens don’t barge in for free. And that knife…“

Mohan nodded slowly. “Her rotis could draw in guests, save us a fortune on a chef. But we watch her… closely.” He grinned, a flash of something predatory in his expression. “And you, Dharma, keep that salt handy.“

They returned to the hall, the argument forgotten as a new plan formed in Mohan’s mind. “You’re hired, Krupa,” he announced, “but no free meals.”

Krupa winked, her knife flashing in the light. “My stories are free, stingy-heart. And they’re worth more than all the rupees in your wallet.”

The haveli bloomed. Old and new entwined. Kath-khuni walls with lotus carvings met hemp curtains. The terraced orchard gleamed. Its amphitheater was cozy under apples red as Thakur rubies. The veranda’s jhalars danced in the breeze, its canopy framing stars. But the statue haunted them. One night in 2025, it toppled, splintering a rotted shelf. Bhoot growled downstairs, shunning the stairs. Mohan snapped, “Bad wood!” but Dharma whispered, “Bhootki’s wrath for disturbing her shrine.” Krupa lit a ghee lamp, chanting Garhwali verses, her eyes dim. “Anjali’s rope sways.” Mohan saw Dharma’s hammer nearby. Was Dharma, haunted by curses, staging it? Or Krupa, her prayers too polished? Mohan righted the statue, its eyes boring in. The ledger, in his room, burned with “orchard sees all.” Bhoot’s growl echoed, the orchard answering.

One moonlit night, eating aloo gutka on the veranda, squeals erupted—wild boars stormed the orchard, uprooting saplings. Mohan grabbed a shovel, shouting, “Scare them!” Krupa waved a torch, yelling, while Dharma hurled stones. Bhoot charged, a Kumaoni guardian, his barks like Bhootnath hymns, driving the herd back. A boar grazed his flank, drawing blood. The boars fled; Mohan exhaled, Krupa dropped her torch, panting. “That dog’s a warrior!” Dharma bandaged Bhoot, eyes wet, humming his sister’s tune. Mohan saw Krupa’s knife among the apples. “Fell in the rush,” she laughed, too sharp. Did she lure the boars? Dharma’s hands could’ve guided them, craving ghost-proof. Mohan’s axe gleamed by the gate. Bhoot growled at a shadow. Raju, a village boy, whispered, “Boars shun Anjali’s trees—something called them.”

Rain lashed the haveli in April 2025, its hall aglow with solar chandeliers. They huddled by the kitchen, sharing Krupa’s bal mithai, her hand trembling. Krupa teased, “Your wallet’s tighter than a Thakur’s vault!” Mohan shot back, “Your voice scares the ghosts!” Dharma laughed, then faltered, voice breaking, humming a Kumaoni lullaby. “My sister sang this by our fire—she burned when I was ten. The village blamed a Vanachari.” Krupa’s eyes dimmed, gripping his hand, voice cracking. “My husband drank himself dead—I begged him to stop, but folks said poison.” Mohan softened, clutching his brother’s letter. “My brother hung himself over debts—I sent him away, cursing him. This haveli’s my penance.” Bhoot nuzzled Dharma, then Krupa, finally Mohan, each petting him in silence, their pain a fragile bond. But Mohan’s debt, Krupa’s regret, Dharma’s rituals hinted at murder. Bhoot growled at the orchard’s shadows. Krupa whispered, “Anjali’s here.” Mohan snapped, “It’s rain!” his voice breaking.

The haveli stood ready—mandala tiles gleaming, tapkeshwar lamps lit, a sign: Sharma’s Homestay. But the night before the Singh family’s arrival, chaos struck. Apples fell, thudding like steps. The statue tipped, cracking a tile. Whispers rose, Bhootki-like, from the library. A guestbook fell open, scrawled with “Anjali watches.” Mohan grabbed a lantern. “Bad shelves!” Krupa clutched her knife, Dharma his salt, Bhoot led to the orchard. A rope dangled, knotted like Anjali’s. Mohan froze—was a killer here? Krupa pointed to human footprints. “Anjali warns us.” Dharma chanted, Bhoot unearthed a lotus-carved stone. Mohan scoffed, “Village kids!” but his heart raced. Was Krupa staging it? Dharma hiding murder? Or was Mohan blind to his own darkness?

Bhoot growled at a haveli window, a shadow moving. The Singhs were due tomorrow. Mohan locked the guestbook, hands shaking. The orchard’s shadow stretched long. The night before the Singhs’ arrival, a nervous energy flowed through the haveli. This was a stark contrast to the previous days. They were filled with frantic preparation. Mohan, usually a picture of pragmatic efficiency, found himself pacing the halls, checking and re-checking the arrangements. Twenty guests! The homestay’s success hinged on this, and the weight of it pressed down on him. A successful week would silence his brother’s taunts and prove his own worth. But a nagging worry gnawed at him. He worried about what if the villagers’ ghost stories spooked the Singhs more than it was profitable. He could almost hear their complaints. Their laughter turning to unease as tales of Anjali and the Bhootki filled the ancient halls.

He devised a plan. There was a feast at the village panchayat. It was a chance to “educate” the locals about the haveli’s history. This was presented as charming folklore, not spine-chilling horror. He’d emphasize the modern amenities, the sensitive renovation, and the warm hospitality. He hoped to subtly discourage any ghost-related gossip that might reach his guests’ ears.

Krupa, for once, was uncharacteristically subdued, her usual banter replaced by a quiet watchfulness. She moved through the kitchen with a fluid grace, preparing a feast of Kumaoni delicacies. The aroma filled the haveli, a strange mix of homely comfort and an underlying disquiet. She meticulously prepared enough food for twenty, her movements precise and economical. Even Dharma, who had initially seemed unfazed by the impending arrival, now appeared tense. His hand was never far from his pouch of salt. He muttered under his breath in Nepali.

The Singhs were scheduled to arrive mid-afternoon. Mohan had arranged their rooms. The family would occupy the newly renovated suites on the second floor. These suites have en-suite bathrooms and views of the valley. The children would be in the interconnected rooms closer to the common hall. He had ensured that each room had fresh linens, extra blankets, and locally sourced toiletries. Krupa had planned the week’s menu with a delicious mix of traditional Kumaoni dishes. The menu also included some more familiar fare. She kept in mind potential dietary restrictions. He had even stocked the common areas with a selection of teas, coffee, and snacks. He also arranged for a bonfire night in the orchard.

As the final touches were being made, a sense of foreboding settled over the haveli. The ancient stones seemed to absorb the light and deepen the shadows. The wind whispered through the eaves. It carried with it the faint echo of voices long gone. The haveli itself seemed to awaken from its slumber. It was like a beast stretching its limbs. It was ready to swallow the new arrivals whole.