Nepal, Dec. 3 -- Despite rain pattering on the leaves in the dense forest, Gutthi can still hear the piteous voice of Bushy Mush, the Police Dafedar with a thick moustache, crying out for help from the bog in the lakebed. He can also hear Scraggy Mush, the young sergeant, trying to surround him from the roadside, cursing. Gutthi runs, runs without stopping. He runs up the hill through the forest, heedless of the painful, festering gash caused by Ijara Sabi's club. His only aim is to run as far away, as fast as possible to escape from the peril that is pursuing him, impervious to questions like: Where? Which way?

When his blanket cloak gets caught in the thorns, he yanks it off the bush running, and shoves it under his arm. When his head ...