In the late 1970s, as the political winds shifted, the atmosphere around Darband began to change. The laughter was quieter; the hotel less crowded. Many of the foreign guests stopped coming, and the once-vibrant terrace grew still. Those who worked there — cooks, servers, and caretakers — spoke in hushed tones about the future, uncertain what it might hold. Yet even then, the mountains remained unchanged. Snow still blanketed the peaks each winter. The streams still flowed clear and cold.
For a while, the Darband Hotel seemed untouched by the turbulence below in the city, as if time itself lingered longer in the mountain air. But change came, inevitably. After the Revolution, the property’s purpose shifted, like so many others. Some say it was nationalized; others say it simply closed its doors, its rooms left to dust and silence. What remained was memory — the echo of laughter in the hallways, the warmth of a samovar by the fire, the feeling of peace that mountain mornings once brought.
