At the top of the pine forested hill behind the cottage are three dhaba, Wildflower Hall, Tibetans selling chakas, and a long, winding road to the Presidential palace.
“Betaya, kooch chai,” and I was on a verandah with Kashmir in the distance sipping hot, sweetened, spiced tea.
“Aagh, run,” and I was at a gallop after a mom or dad or uncle monkey appeared suddenly and courageously, I might add, near the gazebo inside the grounds of Wildflower Hall. He was scowling angrily. Very, very angrily.
Later, the same day, it was curried mutton, fried okra (called “Ladyfingers” here), and stewed chick peas.