Lone Fox Dancing

owsill, the geranium in the old plastic bucket, the elegant king crows sleeping in the oak trees that grow on the surrounding slopes—they are also family. As are the trees, my brothers. I have walked among them, feeling I am a part of the forest; I have put out my hand and touched the grey bark of an old tree, and its leaves have brushed my face, as if to acknowledge me.

For the last thirty-six years, I have lived on the top floor of this windswept, somewhat shaky house on the edge of a spur in Landour. My bedroom window opens onto sky, clouds, the Doon