Nestled within a cloud-mattress, under a silken razai, I woke to a room in darkness. What had punctured the warm bubble of my sleep?

Loud thumping.

Wake up, WAKE UP! screeched a voice at the door. THE COOK’S BEEN MURDERED!

“Wha—?” I croaked, my voice froggy with sleep. I must have heard wrong. To leave the delicious warmth of my bed was an intolerable torture. Nevertheless, I pulled on my fleece-lined dressing gown, thrust my feet into fake-fur slippers and stumbled to the door.

Broad daylight. Chunks of snow hurtling down out of a grey sky. Madhvi Dhillon, her hair wild and uncombed, a bright pink parka over her lace nightie, was screaming, “The COOK! MURDERED! Come to the COMMON ROOM!” She sped away, continuing to scream, “Oh my GOD, oh my GOD!”

I threw on some clothes and hurried to the main building. The central structure was built onto a steep slope. The main entrance to the building was on the top floor. It led onto a mezzanine with a glorious two-storey viewing window through which Nanda Devi and all her fellow peaks could be seen in all their glory. Today, of course, there was only fog and snow.

A curving wooden stairway led down to the spacious…

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