From my rain-streaked window, through floral-print curtains, unfolds an exquisite Impressionist painting: Knitted rows of emerald tea bushes, mist rolling across the distant Himalayan ranges, and candyfloss clouds. My suite, furnished with a Raj-era four-poster bed with hand-embroidered bedlinens, teak flooring, and tables bearing vases and jugs of fresh garden flowers, takes me back to a sepia age. The siren.