Dehradun, June 15 -- Author's Collection

My school was set among a clutter of trees. Past the medlar tree in the backyard beyond the picket gate stood a sombre man. He peered down at us. I was ten years old, she was eight.

'Are you the new volunteers? Let's see if you can find me that yellow flower?'

Assured of a bounty of two annas, we needed no convincing.

We clambered up the hill looking for the first flower of spring with butter-yellow blossoms. Taking a shortcut, we headed to the phyunlis (as we call them in Garhwal), gathered a few, and returned, dashed up the steps, burst through the door - victors come home with the spoils. Nothing on either side was said. He drew out his wiry spectacles, and he kept his word by giving us the ...