Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of Mussoorie Murders by Divyaroop Bhatnagar

There are books you read with a cup of tea in hand, letting the warmth seep into your palms while the pages gently turn. And then there are books that snatch the cup right out of your grasp, sending it crashing to the floor because — what just happened? The Mussoorie Murders by Divyaroop Bhatnagar did exactly that to me. I opened it expecting a quiet weekend read. Instead, I found myself wide awake past midnight, staring at the ceiling, replaying clues like a detective who refused to clock out.

Divyaroop Bhatnagar — fondly known as Debu to readers who’ve been following his work — carves a space for himself in the landscape of Indian detective fiction that feels both nostalgic and refreshingly new. He writes with the confidence of someone who has walked through Mussoorie’s misty lanes at dawn and listened to the wind tell secrets. His story spans two eras, 1909 and 1973, yet he holds the threads with steady hands, weaving them into a tapestry that glows with old-world charm and contemporary sharpness.

At its heart, the novel is a chilling locked-room mystery that begins in 1909 with the brutal murder of Margaret Maynard Liddell inside a hotel room bolted from the inside — an impossible crime that rattles the British administration and piques the curiosity of literary giants Rudyard Kipling and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Fast forward sixty-something years, and Mussoorie witnesses another eerily similar murder — the death of heiress Anahita Bilimoria, found lifeless under circumstances that mimic Margaret’s fate. Two women. Two rooms locked from within. Two eras haunted by silence. And one persistent detective: Avijit Sikdar, a mathematics professor turned Oxford-bred sleuth whose love for classic mysteries is as crucial as his ability to see beyond the obvious.

This premise alone is delicious. But what delighted me most was the texture of the writing. Bhatnagar doesn’t simply describe Mussoorie — he resurrects it. I could almost taste the cold fog curling around lamp posts, hear the crunch of pine needles underfoot, see the way twilight glowed against slate rooftops. Mussoorie shifts from being a holiday postcard to a living accomplice — quiet, patient, holding its breath. If Ruskin Bond gave us the Mussoorie of gentle rains and childhood nostalgia, Bhatnagar gives us the Mussoorie where shadows cling a little too long and every locked window feels like a withheld confession.

The narrative alternates between the two timeframes, but instead of disorienting the reader, it adds dimension — like peeling wallpaper in an old mansion revealing the stories beneath. The pacing is crisp, every chapter bearing just enough weight without overstaying its welcome. The suspense builds not with loud shocks but with subtle tightening, like the quiet click of a lock in the dark.

Avijit Sikdar is a character I won’t forget soon. There is something deeply human about him — not a flamboyant Sherlock, not a brooding Byomkesh, but an intellectual who wrestles with logic and instinct in equal measure. His admiration for Doyle and Kipling doesn’t feel like fan service; it becomes an emotional compass. And the supporting characters, from the enigmatic housekeeper to the aloof husband to the charlatan godman, each carry the smell of possibility — guilt, grief, or truth.

There are moments in the book that made me pause — particularly the quiet reflections on the loneliness hidden beneath wealth and the idea that secrets do not die, they merely wait. It reminded me of something my father once said: “Time doesn’t erase — it only rearranges.” These two murders sixty years apart feel like echoes refusing to fade.

If I had to gently critique anything, it would be that a couple of secondary characters could have been explored a shade deeper; some emotional beats left me wanting more — not out of dissatisfaction, but because I was invested. The ending, though immensely satisfying, arrives like a sudden gust of wind: stunning, but I wished I had a few more seconds to brace myself.

But the strengths? They shine. The atmosphere. The layered structure. The elegant prose. The blending of fact and fiction so seamlessly that the boundary dissolves. The homage to the golden age of murder mysteries without becoming derivative. Bhatnagar writes like someone lighting a candle in a dark room — slowly, deliberately, illuminating just enough to keep you moving forward.

When I closed the book, I realized something: mysteries aren’t about catching killers. They’re about understanding what drives people to the edges of themselves. And this novel does that beautifully.

If you love atmospheric thrillers, historical mysteries, literary crossovers, or simply the feeling of being deliciously unsettled — The Mussoorie Murders deserves a spot on your shelf, somewhere close to Doyle, Christie, and maybe a cup of hot cocoa for emotional support.

And maybe, just maybe, after reading it, you’ll think twice before checking into a room with the windows locked from the inside.

Go find this book. Sink into it. Let the mist swallow you whole.

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