Shayahadri Hotel, Mahabaleshwar, Pune

3rd January

Dear Ajit,

I couldn't write to you after coming to Bombay. You know how difficult I find to write letters. You are a writer so you are capable of writing long letters. But where will I get your imagination? I only deal with truth!

Still, I am sitting to write this long letter to you. You will understand why I am undertaking this Herculean task, as soon as you come to the end of this letter. I am writing this letter in candlelight from the hotel room of Mahabaleshwar, a hill station. It is cold and dark outside. I am sitting in a closed room but I am unable still to avoid the cold and the dark. The wick of the candle is flickering. There are long shadows moving silently on the walls. Indeed, a ghostly atmosphere! I have always tried to avoid dealing with the supernatural in my life — but — it is becoming difficult for me to keep it out of my business here. As I am unable to relate a story as you do, I have first written what I should have related later — I must begin from the very beginning!

I took about four days to finish my work in Bombay. I had decided to return on the same day. But I had got acquainted with a police bigwig — Mr. Vishu Vinayak Apte — Maharashtrian. He said, "How can you go back from Bombay without seeing Poona?"

I asked, "What is there to see in Poona?"

He said, "Poona was the Great Shivaji's capital. There is lots to see there — Singh Garh, Bhabani Mandir, etc."

I thought that I might not come to this part of India again — so why miss the chance of seeing places.

I said, "Alright, I am interested."

We started out in Apte's car. The road from Bombay to Poona is beautiful. It weaved in and out of the Shayahadri Mountain Ranges of the Western Ghats. It is difficult for a person like me to describe the scenic beauty of these parts — on one side are the mountain ranges, on the other — deep gorges. You would have written an epic on the beauty of this place.

I was a guest in Apte's house in Poona. There was no dearth of hospitality. Poona is colder than Bombay. But this cold does not make one feel numb, instead one feels energetic.

I stayed in Poona for three days and saw all that had to be seen. Then Apte said, "How can you leave Poona without seeing Mahabaleshwar?"

I said, "What's that?"

Apte laughed and said, "It's a place. It is the best hill station of Maharastra — just as your Darjeeling. It's two thousand feet higher than Poona. Everyone from Bombay goes for a holiday in Mahabaleshwar during the summers."

"But no one goes during the winters. How cold is it?"

"It's like the weather in England — let's go — you will like it."

So here I am in Mahabaleshwar — and am I enjoying myself.

Mahabaleshwar is seventy-five miles from Poona. We started out by car after lunch and reached Mahabaleshwar at about four in the afternoon. On reaching we found that the town was virtually empty, except for a few permanent residents. It was really "home" weather here — as Englishmen would say — severe cold during day, severe cold during night. I had borrowed a heavy overcoat from Apte — or else it would have been impossible for me to bear the cold. The town was a smaller version of Darjeeling. Apte and I put up in the Shayahadri Hotel. There was not one guest in the hotel. Only the owner of the hotel was there with two or three servants.

The owner is a Parsi gentleman called Shorab Homji. He is an old friend of Apte — middle-aged, plump — very fair. He must be a good businessman but he is also a very amiable person.

Apte introduced me to him — he looked at me sharply — then welcomed me to his sitting room — coffee and pastries came soon after. The sun had set by the time we had finished our coffee. Apte went out to meet a relative of his who lived here. He said that he would return within an hour.

After he left, Homji smiled and said, "You are a Bengali. You will be surprised to know that a month and a half back this hotel belonged to a Bengali couple.."

I was surprised, "What are you saying? A Bengali came and started a hotel so far away!"

Homji said, "But he did not start it alone, he had a Gujarati partner."

The servant came and said something to Homji. He asked me, "Hot water is ready, do you want to have a bath?"

I said, "Are you crazy? In this cold! I will bathe only after returning to Bombay."

Homji laughed. I asked him, "Your home is in Bombay — then why are you staying here in this cold. There are no beaches here now."

Homji said, "There is a lot of work to be done here. Visitors will start coming from March. So the hotel has to be painted and tidied up by then. Then I have made a rose garden at the back of the hotel. Why don't you come along with me, it is still daylight — I am sure that you would like to see the garden."

The garden was at the back of the hotel. Flowers will begin blooming in a month or two. The hotel was a whitewashed, two storeyed house. It had about twelve to fourteen rooms. A red pathway passed the front of the house. At the back, after the rose garden, was a deep gorge. If one bends down — one would notice a dense forest and a stream, deep down in the gorge.

We were returning indoors when a roar