Creative Writing: A Fictional Narrative

The face staring at her through the moonlit mirror placed in front of their bed, startled Sanchi, even as she heard a knocking sound coming through it. She turned to look at Ruchika, who was fast asleep and relieved she slid beneath the covers again. But no sooner had she shut her eyes when she heard the knocking again. it was her bedroom door.
“Who’s there?” she asked sitting up.
“It’s me. Jo!”
What the hell was Jo knocking at her door for, at this Godforsaken hour, she wondered not sure what to do? But then she heard Anne’s voice.
“Sanchi open the door. There is someone asking for you downstairs.”
Pulling on a wraparound sweater, Sanchi opened the door.
“For me? Here? At this time?” she asked all at once.
“There downstairs. He is a middle-aged

Had she met him somewhere, sometime?she wondered even as Anne nudged at her to speak up. “Sir, that’s a nice name sir, but not mine.” “Okay. I’m sorry then. But... you are her.” “Jo please tell him I am Sanchi. And this is really not the time to visit anyone.”
Jo who was enjoying the high drama playing out in his living room shrugged without saying a word. But Anne had had enough. “Sir, this here is Sanchi, a guest in our hotel. I hope you do realize the lateness of the hour. Please leave,” she said leading him to the porch.
“I am sorry. But I had to see her with my own eyes. And I did.”
Saying so, he pulled out a card from his wallet and handed it over to Saanchi.
“My name is Satpal. I live in Amritsar. I have a farmhouse here and one in Manali and visit often. Both are called Attari home. Do visit sometime.”
“Sure,” Sanchi replied accepting the card.
“I look forward to your visit and believe me you will,” Satpal said letting himself out.
The three of them stood flummoxed on the porch as he drove away in a silver

Please do! A full pot of masala tea,” she requested shivering in the morning cold.
Ruchika had joined her by the time Ajit brought them their tea.
Both girls sat there in compatible silence.
An hour later, they joined the others at the breakfast table, laid out in the garden.
As they planned out the day’s schedule, Anita a slim, local woman dressed in a shalwar kameez its bright pink a tad too harsh in the morning sunlight bustled around the table serving the guests. Fascinated by Anita’s heavily powdered face and her thick lips outlined by a dark brown liner, filled in with a brighter pink, Ruchika and Shanks stared at her as she chatted nonstop, interrupting the conversation repeatedly.
“Do you know it’s a one one hour walk uphill from my home near the Dal Lake to Eagles Point? I do that every day,” she boasted, smacking on chewing gum.
Jenny raised her brows in exasperation and was just about to resume explaining the route to the temple when Anita cut in again.
“Madam, how many toasts for you?” she asked Jenny, buttering a few of the browned slices.
Jenny ignored her and continued talking animatedly to Subhu. But Anita was not one to give in so easily. She snapped at Jenny in Hindi, “Ae buddhi! Kitna toast