GUITAR, GRASS & GIRLS - A MUSICAL THRILLER NOVEL

Mark Loffler looked at his watch and it was almost 1 pm. 

He had to start immediately else he would be missing the meeting. Mark quickly went to the last page of the diary. The decaying page looked yellowish-brown with a small hole burnt in it. It could be from an absent minded blazing cigarette tip, he pondered.  He brought the diary close to his eyes as the crumbling letters were tough to read. Gradually, the words entered his mind and soul sending a frosty mystic chill down his spine.

                                               ‘How long had I waited for this day. The flashing lights on the stage, the maddening noise of the crowd! Jerose on drums, Akhil on keypad, Gora on electric Guitar...and I, with my last song! Wish Jeniffer was here to see me for the last time. I know my fate and I am the reason for it. But never in my whole life had I thought it will happen! It’s so strange that two souls alive and breathing at totally different geographies can think, act and do alike....and I, I had to stop it! As the soft breeze coming from my broken old window tries to pacify my fervent soul at this hour of night, I remember Gurudev’s song of parting

Death, thy servant, is at my door. He

has crossed the unknown sea and brought

thy call to my home.

  The night is dark and my heart is

Fearful-yet I will take up the lamp, open

my gates and bow to him my welcome

Goodbye- Rabindranath ‘Jim’ Bose ’

He stopped at the slanted autograph of Mokhsa’s lead singer for a moment. A strange pain crept inside his although puzzled heart. He knew that the journey to know the unknown has begun. Suddenly, Mark looked at the date. 

It was written on 3^rd July, 1971 –the same day Jim Morrison died!

SYNOPSIS :

Paris. July 2, 1971, early evening. 

Jim Morrison and his girlfriend Pamela Courson went to the cinema to see Pursued, a western starring Robert Mitchum. At another theater, Jim Morrison sat alone, watching a documentary called Death Valley. Across town, at the Rock ’n’ Roll Circus nightclub, Jim Morrison scored some heroin and OD’d in the bathroom. At the same time, Jim Morrison walked the streets of Paris and shot up with some junkies on skid row. Meanwhile, at Orly Airport, Jim Morrison boarded a plane for an unknown destination.

No one knows for sure where…The very next day, Morrison’s lifeless body was found…was it accident, drug overdose..or was it Occult?       

        

                                    Mark Loffler, a German student studying literature at the University of Tübingen is highly influenced by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore and his works. He takes up his post doctorate research on Tagore’s music .Luckily, he gets a sponsored fellowship Program from Rabindra Bharati University ,Kolkata  after submitting one of his research papers .Mark comes to Kolkata and takes up a room in a small hotel in Park Street.

                               As he starts investigating about Bengali music and Tagore’s influence in it, he comes to know about Mokhsa, the first English rock band set up in Kolkata in the 70’s but it died an unnatural death, having done only 1 major show. 

The founder of this band was called Jimmy by his band members; his actually name was Rabindranath Bose, a converted Christian. 

Kolkata is slowly gripped with the Naxal movement and the socio-economic conditions get very affected.Some of Moksha’s members gets highly influenced by naxalite philosophies and it also influences Jimmy’s songs.

Jimmy died a very suspicious death on the very stage while performing for the first and last time.

It was on 3^rd July, 1971 –the same day Jim Morrison died!

THE OTHER SIDE OF LIFE

THE OTHER SIDE OF LIFE

-         Saptarshi Basu

                                                      (a piece of fiction)

My father once said - for people like us, it’s not the food what makes you strong but your hope. The day it dies, you are gone.

Walking back on that crimson evening with neon lights passing by, I suddenly remembered him. A man of few words he was, and plentiful beatings. His acute bony structure swayed back and forth like a bamboo tree in that alcoholic trance as he kept on beating me. Till both the stick and the man would succumb. To pressures of unknown dimensions.The last time I saw him, his silent legs swayed like a pendulum from our ceiling fan. Perhaps, his hopes died that day. As for me, it was now on all time high. Arjun Sir has accepted to look at my manuscript contradicting Mallick Da’s prophecy. Also, my faith on the present government exceeded my faith on myself. Million dollar investments, new factories, special packages for the poor – the banners coloured the wind with good news. I dreamt of extinction of my dreadful days. Then I looked at my watch and birds flying home, and panicked. I might miss the appointment with Dr. Shetty at Amherst clinic, I thought. I walked rapidly to the bus stand. I took the shortest path while meandering through narrow streets. I saw a young couple kiss in that broken light of the evening, and I cursed the whole generation. A generation without shame. A generation too bold. They fear nothing, and they respect nothing.I ran like a leopard at the glimpse of the bus and hung myself at the foot-stand. Sweaty bodies cling to each other in home returning rush. Like a swarm of mosquitoes over an oil-stricken head. Flat buttocks and bulged bottoms sharply pointed towards the pavement. I elbowed a few fat men and grumbling women, squeezing myself inside. Somewhere, I was deeply happy. Even after a gloomy sale something fruitful happened today. The bus moved in halts while remaining tilted to one side. Like an absent minded professor on his evening walk. I dreamt of uninterrupted happiness. The prospect of having the prosperity of three square meals a day .Of perfumed smell of freshly bought school books for Binu. Of a life less ordinary. ‘Dada, please stand properly’ the petite girl with small conical breasts and long eyelashes scolded me. I was standing on one leg next to her. Her face grimaced as she measured me carefully. With such abundant happiness in my heart, I was in no mood for a skirmish. I turned back to the right side where hungry smell of freshly baked samosa wafted inside the bus.

                               The hunger was growling inside as I came down from the bus .But with just six rupees left with me, I had little option left. I went to a nearby tea stall and drank vigorously from the jug. Water soothed my empty stomach a bit. I lighted a bidi and walked briskly towards the clinic. Dusk slowly engulfed the shallowing brightness. Street lights reflected on speeding car windows. Like your past haunting and taunting you and speeding away in the present .The milky white appearance of Amherst clinic looked grey in that gloomy darkness as I entered. Rich cars were parked on the alley beside petite fashioned bushes. The bushes looked like little children hiding in the dark .Rich people with rich cars. I walked into the general ward and waited just outside Dr. Shetty’s chamber. Tired ailing faces roamed on the corridors. Some howling and screeching ones lay on the floor. Poor people with rich diseases. Fat nurses with uncovered legs roamed and ran up and down .With serious expressions and jumping heart. A child kept playing with the IN and OUT outside the doctor’s chamber. His mother concentrating on her makeup while periodically threatening her son. Rich people with rich diseases. Their names formed strangely inside the mouth of the matron and spitted out at the top of her voice. Mr.C  Aslaaam , Mr C  Aslaaam, Mr K  Mooonshi ,Mrs. S  Bannorjeee... . I was thinking how to manage without the doctor’s fee when the attendant called me in. A gorgeously clad bulky lady was coming out and I squeezed myself by her side. The doctor was in all smiles looking at me. ‘Hey, how are you PannaLal, sit...sit...and how is Binu’ while scrubbing something deep inside his mouth with a toothpick. ‘Well, Sir...very good Sir...With all your blessings, Sir’ suddenly I was at a loss of words. ‘See PannaLal, I must say Binu’s case is a promising one. We shouldn’t lose hope.’ Dr Shetty stood up from his chair and called for the attendant. ‘Tea?’ he asked and I humbly refused. Drinking tea without the doctor fees didn’t seem like a good idea. ‘See...all we need is the money’ he again started. ‘So when are you thinking of getting all the money for the operation’ .I was always weak in maths, weak in most of the subjects I must say. That complex calculation was too tough for me. I dropped out at class ten after my father’s suicide. I feebly smiled at the doctor and said that I was trying hard. ‘You must’ he increased a few decibels and then suddenly looked immersed in his thoughts. I was thinking how to break the word of the missing fees to him. I already knew the futility of this visit but happened to succumb to the doctor’s fixed check-up dates. Only that the patient was not with me today. I was watching those smiling faces of children in the posters hung all across the room, when suddenly he spoke again. ‘I think, you shouldn’t do any further delay. If the operation is done immediately, Binu can walk, go to school, and enjoy his life. Think this way’ he said, pressed his lower lip with the upper and stopped. His gaze was now fixed on me. I was feeling guilty you know, of being a father. Of being a helpless father. I felt weak in my head. Baba, will I ever go to school?  - Those words of Binu again started pestering me .Vibrating on the hollow walls of my head. ‘PannaLal, are you listening?’ the doctor raised his voice. ‘Yes Sir, yes Sir...very well Sir...I, Sir...try, Sir...’. And then in that final moment of truth, I had to say about the missing fees. I begged, pleaded almost went to his legs. ‘Ok, ok...bring it next time’ he made an angry face and called the attendant. ‘Call the next patient in’ he ordered. I rubbed the dust off my glazed trousers and left.

                                         I reached our bustee, our slum somewhat around nine. Eyes heavy with sleep, head reeling, my legs painfully darted in the muddy dust. Endless darkness wrapped our pigeonholes where even your shadow leaves you alone. The thick air smelled of fart, daylong sweat and cries of domestic violence. Tired, drunken husbands assaulting the modesty of their wives. Trying to eliminate their day long shame by shaming their wives. Erasing inflicted insults with inflicted pain .A few scuffles, catfights here and there. Some hand rickshaws called it a day and waited silently for the next morning. A thick stagnant cloud emerged from its footstand. Madan and Mukul were sitting there, sporadically emitting balls of dense smoke. The clogged municipal drain carried bits of everything and remained undulated. Like a dead green snake.The smell coming out of it was mixed and confusing. As I crossed the cowshed which stood at the junction, I stopped .Painful cries of Mangala, the Bihari Doodhwala’s wife pierced the silence of the night. It goes on night after night. Somewhere in my heart, I have a fondness for her. I don’t know how it grew, but looking at her deep kajal -filled bovine eyes my heart occasionally skips a beat. Her enormous asset inside her crisp silk blouse is also an attraction. Her gait very much resembles Budhia- their cow. Sluggish, dreamy, peaceful. Months later, when hell broke loose on my life’s boundary, I felt her softness on one sudden winged evening. When tenderness burst into flower and the worm waited to return in my doomed life.

                          A few children along with their mothers responded to the call of nature behind the bushes and shrubs. I could hear their grunts, groan and moaning. I thought of Binu and mother .They would be eagerly waiting for me. And for their dinner. I neglected a few friendly calls coming from behind and briskly walked to Nimai Da’s shop. Six rotis, a shady looking curry and a bottle of Fifty Up- our economical country liquor. Mostly, this was my night’s ration. I cajoled Nimai Da to add the amount to my already humongous pending credit and ran home.  

  

                    Shadows of hunger smeared my walls as I entered. The damp smell of half-dried vests and underpants welcomed me home .Binu lovingly took my bag away and searched for an invisible candy. Binu shaped autumn cloud searching for a candy. My mother cried, shouted and complained for the water problem moving into its sixth day. I emptied her bed pan in the drain. Then Binu and I sat for dinner, and mother took it in the bed. Silence proceeded. There was a lot of ambition packed into my hot little room. Binu with his elephant shaped autumn cloud ambition, me with my erotic novel ambition and mother with her early death ambition. The dinner was finished off quickly and then Binu silently went to bed. ‘How was your day, Baba’ he asked. As I went to kiss him goodnight. A soft tired smile laced his face reminding me of her mother.  I smiled and said it was good. Same question, same answer. Night after night. Father and son. Asking him to close his eyes, I stroked his hair for a few minutes. Thinking about Bakul and her fairy tales. Her sleepy voice. Binu wouldn’t sleep without them. That rich prince who came on a large white horse with wide wings, that princess who was kidnapped. All such stories. With happy ending always. Where at the end, evil loses and good wins. Within minutes, Binu was deeply breathing, his eyes closed, his mind roaming on a dreamy land .Binu shaped autumn cloud watering soft yellow flowers at heaven’s door. Giant sized insect shadows hovered on my walls. Busy burning themselves on the flickering flame .I put out the kerosene lamp and made two large pegs in the moonlight. While silently watching the moon playing hide and seek behind the Gulmohar tree. In that moonlight all trees glistened naked and dark as if they had unclothed themselves, and the green things on earth seemed to hum with greenness. Just after finishing off the first one, a loud bang occurred on my door. I opened and saw Babu standing irritated. He has come to take me to Bula Di,our local Counciller for complaining about the troublesome water supply. He quickly came inside and finished my second peg as I searched a decent dress. My underwear kept for drying from the very morning was still wet. I cursed my luck .For not finding a proper dress for such an important visit. A woman is very much needed at home to do all such stuffs. Like drying your underwear and cooking for you. I got hold of a torn pyjama and a pale looking shirt and changed into it. I thought of applying perfume on my sweaty body but the bottle was empty. Perhaps, it was empty for endless times. And then we went straight to Councillor Bula Di’s decorated office.

About Myself:

Saptarshi Basu, a Gold Medallist in Mechanical Engineering, has been in IT industry for last 8 years and has worked for the top 3 IT companies of India (INFOSYS,TCS & WIPRO). However, writing has always been first love, his passion. His Debut novel- LOVE {LOGIC} AND THE GOD'S ALGORITHM is now a national best-seller in Infibeam, a premier online store.

His second Novel , AUTUMN IN MY HEART published by Vitasta Publishing with Times group (Times of India) launched in november'11 has already created a lot of stir due on causes of broken heart and homosexuality.

                                              Saptarshi Basu does motivational speaking and was invited from Jaipur Engineering College and Research Centre (JECRC) to address their Annual National Tech-Fest Renaissance -March, 2012.He was also invited as a guest poet to international Poetry festival at Guntur, India.

                              Blogging and travelling are the biggest pursuit of him.He had subsequently travelled and lived in London, Toronto, San Francisco, Dubai till he came back to Kolkata, his hometown.

                Saptarshi Basu also does screenplay writing for movies and writes columns for some online magazines like Asiacha- an international journal, museindia and others .

His children’s fiction ‘ The Zoo-break Adventures’ has been taken up by a renowned international animation company to be made into an animated series.

SOME OF THE PUBLISHED COLUMNS OF SAPTARSHI:

http://www.asiancha.com/content/view/1327/386/

http://www.asiancha.com/content/view/1409/391/

http://unboxedwriters.com/2012/06/the-bearded-man-in-my-head/

http://unboxedwriters.com/2012/07/naughty-feet/

MEDIA COVERAGE OF SAPTARSHI BASU AND HIS NOVELS:

The novels have been widely reviewed by media in leading newspapers like The Hindu, Times of India, The Telegraph, Mumbai Mirror, Political and business Daily and others.

A comprehensive list with pics is given here:

http://saptak-firsttry.blogspot.in/2012/03/media-coverage-autumn-in-my-heart.html

THE HINDU :

http://www.thehindu.com/todays-paper/tp-features/tp-metroplus/article2929936.ece

PTI (PRESS TRUST OF INDIA) :

http://news.in.msn.com/national/article.aspx?cp-documentid=5854785

http://itvnewsindia.com/new-fiction-takes-fresh-look-homosexuality

TIMES OF INDIA  :

http://articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2012-02-23/books/30670196_1_love-story-love-blooms-erich-segal

THE TELEGRAPH :

http://epaper.telegraphindia.com/PUBLICATIONS/TT/TT/2012/03/23/index.shtml 

MUMBAI MIRROR :

http://www.mumbaimirror.com/article/136/20120312201203121431153436bbe6f25/Autumn-winds-add-colour-to-every-love-story.html

"DOGS BARK, BIRDS FLY, I WRITE"

BTW, who is Naipaul?

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BTW, who is Naipaul?

-Saptarshi Basu

Year 2002. 2^nd year into the dreaded chase called Engineering.

I was sitting in a smoky, ghostly room with fellow Mech-ies enjoying rather a strong brew. Tranced into the ocean of Bengali renaissance songs, we hovered in a make-believe happy little world. All sorts of topic, ranging from girls in the ladies hostel to the ever increasing price of liquors were being seriously discussed. I really don’t know how that name came to my mind. It just came .Perhaps I was a bit high. And I started.

‘It seems…’ there was a pause. All looked at me with utter disinterest. ‘The chaos in the world is perennial. And as per Naipaul… .’ I was unable to complete my sentence when one of my friends popped up.

‘Chandrapaul’s brother?’ he looked at me with hazy eyes. ‘Did he also play for West Indies?’ .I… somewhat felt being in midst of a curfew .No one was there except for the burning flames which was lapping me up internally. ‘Hmm…I know re’ said another intelligent fella. ‘He played for Trinidad and Tobacco’. Trinidad and Tobacco… Trinidad and Tobacco…it echoed quite some time inside my alcohol-ed head till I went up. I left the room. The brew tasted bitter by now.

                                 

                                                                           Many years later while reading Sashti brata’s my god died young (kind of his autobiography written at mere age of 28-29) I read of a similar situation.

S.B. (another S.B. mind it!) writes:

We were at dinner round the marble table, some dozen faces in all. In between all the inane chatter I managed to scatter my pearls. ‘We no longer live in Wasteland,’ I said. ‘The ground is rich once again and Eliot’s voice is weak with fatigue…..’

At this point I was rudely halted by my eldest brother.

‘Who is Eliot’ he queried.

I felt stung. My orations ceased. I looked blank and cold.

I felt nothing much has changed. In all these years. My god died young was first published in 1968. It was 2002 for me.                           

                                                         Life went on. Chandrapaul did hit a few centuries after that and Naipaul was hit by a few controversies. The world mostly remained the same. We completed our engineering with bruises and burns. Jobs were rarer than girls. Slowly Naipaul retired temporarily to the dug-out and Bill Gates appeared with his word (MS Word man!). I somehow crash-landed in one of the country’s most esteemed software dressing room, oops! I mean Software Company.

       There by heaven’s virtue and God’s grace I met an IT engineer cum Bengali Renaissance poet. I was extremely proud to share our rented apartment with him. Off course others were there, but he was the most intellectual artiste. Different he was in all ways. Our beloved cook who cooked snakes and ladders provided vital information about the great soul. In those troubled and poverty stricken times, the sole television set was the Kohinoor of our flat. It helped us blue-ing our weekends with cheap source of entertainment. I told you, troubled times it was! Now, this great soul and intellectual artiste never cultivated in blues .We acknowledged it also. With his renaissance motive on high, it might falter him in the path. Our respect increased manifold. Till it got punctured .Our snakes and ladder cook had watched our respected friend to carry our Kohinoor to his room and make the whole room blue. I felt it was his need of the hour and dismissed it as a minor pimple in the face of our moon-ish friend.

   Life went on. On one such boring night I asked him about his best English novel (The beeest Eenglish Novel, mind it!). I was waiting eagerly you know. It was like stealing some diamonds from his ocean of intellect. When he scratched his French-cut and said ‘Hmm…there’s plenty…But…recently I liked…’ . ‘Which one?’ I shouted in my excitement.

                         ‘There’s a book called I too had a lovely story…nice but one problem’. I felt stung. My orations ceased. I looked blank and cold. ‘What problem’ I meekly asked. ‘The name you know…It should have been… I too had a dog story…so much like our life…’. ‘True’ I said somewhat absent-minded.

From then I loved dogs. Still I love them. Whenever the bar-man ask me, I have one constant reply. ‘Black Dog, 8 years’. Not a very old dog you see, just 8 years. Couple of days back with my Dog on my table I was unhappily shouting a few lines (Metallica was on their full pitch) to one of my office colleague. ‘You know…Philip Roth is retiring…Sad...Isn’t it?’. He looked at me surprised. ‘What has happened to you, Basu???…why are you lamenting for an English cricketer…Is Philip in the recent India-England series?’

I felt stung. My orations ceased. I looked blank and cold. Life went on. Chandrapaul did hit a few more centuries after that and Naipaul… perhaps had retired in Trinidad and Tobacco.

- Saptarshi Basu 



                                                     ***************


Saptarshi Basu, a Gold Medallist in Mechanical Engineering, has been in the IT industry for the last 8 years and he has worked for the top 3 IT companies of India (INFOSYS,TCS & WIPRO). However, writing has always been his first love and passion. His debut novel Love {Logic} and the God's Algorithm is now a national best-seller in Infibeam, a premier online store. His second novelAutumn in My Heart, published by Vitasta Publishing with Times group launched in november'11, has already created a lot of stir due to its theme on homosexuality. Visit his website for more information

AUTUMN IN MY HEART- REVIEWED BY PTI ( PRESS TRUST OF INDIA)

http://news.in.msn.com/national/article.aspx?cp-documentid=5854785


http://itvnewsindia.com/new-fiction-takes-fresh-look-homosexuality

FEATURED IN CALCUTTA TIMES -TIMES OF INDIA

AUTUMN IN MY HEART FEATURED IN TIMES OF INDIA-CALCUTTA TIMES

There is only one happiness in life- U know what?

‘There is only one happiness in life-To love and to be
loved. these are not my words. Lord Buddha has said this.’

Saying this he looked at us. I tried figuring out in my mind
how to let Guru know the details of my life to help him find
the truth for me, when he looked at Vinod and said.

‘Your uncle loved you. Where ever he is now, he wants to see you
happy, my son. You were confused for a long long time in a
world, which was not yours. Remember my son –

‘nainam chindanti shastrani
nainam dahati pavakah
na chainam kledayanty apo
na sosayati marutah’

‘The soul can never be cut to pieces by any weapon,
nor burned by fire, nor moistened by water, nor withered
by the wind. But then you need to realize what you are.
Consciousness is eternal. ‘Na Hanyate Hanyamane Sarire’-
Consciousness is eternal. It is not vanquished with the
destruction of the temporary body. My son, you need to seek
the truth within yourself, and that will set you free.’

---- Guru Lama from ' AUTUMN IN MY HEART'


                           READ MORE @ http://www.flipkart.com/books/9380828541

BOOK REVIEW- AUTUMN IN MY HEART

‘Autumn In My Heart’ by Saptarshi Basu is the tale of the quintessential human being we all have inside us. Be it the Software Engineer guy Deb, or the forced-by-family-to-get-married girl Ayantika, or the other parallel characters like Sagarika, Sujoy, Priyanka, and the office colleagues of Deb – ‘Autumn In My Heart’ tells the story of US, as a whole. The author Saptarshi Basu just had to take the pain to pen it down in a concrete basis in between two covers, efficiently. He did exactly that, and how!

Saptarshi Basu, the author, talks about the Bengali culture and sentiments in a way that not many authors from this side of the country has done recently. At least, not us from ‘Between The Lines’ have gone through such works lately. Naturally, ‘Autumn In My Heart’ was like a whiff of fresh air. And, the author has not disappointed. During these days of SOBA (serial-obsession-of-being-an-author, as we call it sometimes on BTL), Saptarshi Basu brings in some fresh change to the lackadaisical writings that we get to face otherwise. Though‘Autumn In My Heart’ straight reminds me of the Korean movie of the same name (Korean, right? Or Japanese it is? :O), we understand that even phrases tend to become limited at times, when one needs to express himself just like the way he wants to. Talk about cliches, the book never makes you feel it for once.

   READ MORE AT - BOOK REVIEW

AUTUMN IN MY HEART- AN UNIQUE BOOK CONTEST FOR A FREE TRIP TO THE HIMALAYAN VALLEY!

A UNIQUE BOOK CONTEST WHICH TAKES YOU & YOUR LOVED ONE TO THE HIMALAYAN VALLEY FOR FREE !!!!

VACATION IN MIND?

Answer 2 simple questions based on the novel –AUTUMN IN MY HEART and complete the logo to win a trip to the Himalayan Valley with your family.

QUESTIONS:

1)      Where Deb did went for a vacation?

2)      Who all accompanied Deb to the above place?

Complete the below sentence in 10 words:

I would love to visit Te Aroha because.........

RULES:

1)      Like the page of the novel in Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/pages/Autumn-in-My-Heart/251288681550080

2)      Email the answers to Saptarshi.basu1981@gmail.com with the subject : UNIQUE CONTEST –AUTUMN IN MY HEART

THE PRIZE!!!

1)      

             1)10 LUCK WINNERS WILL RECIEVE AN AUTHOR-SIGNED COPY OF THE NOVEL

2)     2 night-3 day stay AT TE-AROHA in a Deluxe Room for two persons.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner – ABOSULUTELY FREEEEE !!!!- FOR THE GRAND WINNER

NOTE :

1)      NO MEMBERS OF THE AUTHOR FAMILY OR FROM TE-AROHA CAN PARTICIPATE IN THE CONTEST

2)      The stay can be availed any time between 1^st March to 31^st July, 2012

3)      The contest will run till 25^th January, 2011

ABOUT TE AROHA :

A colonial-style summer house converted into a boutique luxury hotel, Te Aroha is located amidst the scenic surroundings of Mukteshwar in Uttrakhand. Owned by an eminent lawyer-writer, the hotel is a harmonious blend of traditional architecture and contemporary comforts. Huge decks and terraces, antique furniture, massive glass windows with breathtaking views of the Himalayan peaks and the high ceilinged lobby replete with carefully selected furniture can transport you through time to the bygone elegance of the colonial era. For more details, please visit www.tearoha.in

FB PAGE :  www.facebook.com/tearohadhanachuli