D Dungru’s Story ungru laid his instrument on the grass that was still wet with the morning dew, and began singing. He had a pretty good voice. The song he was now singing was one he had heard only once before. Yet, he had picked it up, almost without making an effort. It was a song a beggar usually sang just outside Hanuman Phatak. But he played an instrument, too. Shyam Gurung, the local greengrocer, had an instrument like that. Dungru had borrowed it for the day, but had already realized playing it wasn’t half as easy as singing. Who knew running a bow over a few strings could be so difficult? Dungru’s voice rose. There was a maize field in front of him, in which a couple of buffaloes and three goats were roaming freely. There was no one else in sight. Behind him was a very steep hill. Just under it, not far from the mound on which he sat, stood an almond tree. The little house in the distance with a tiled roof was where he lived. His father owned this maize field. There were other hills and several mountain peaks dimly visible through the morning mist. One of these, called ‘Machhipuchh’ because it was shaped like a fish tail, had started to turn pink. Dungru began the second line of the song, but had to break off abruptly. A strange rumble in the hill behind him made him spring to his feet and jump to one side. In the next instant, a large boulder rolled down the hill and went past him, crushing his instrument and missing him by inches. Dungru could hardly believe his luck. But before his heartbeat could get back to normal, something else happened: something much more unexpected and far worse than a rolling boulder. But, like the boulder, it came crashing down the hill, struck against the almond tree and fell to the ground, together with several broken branches. What on earth was that? He gaped, his mouth hanging open. Good heavens, it was a man! Not just any man, but a well-dressed babu, probably from a big city. There was blood on his head, his face and chin. One of his legs was folded under him at a very odd angle. Was he dead? No. Dungru saw him move his head. Then he remembered the others. There was a group of men camping out near the spring across the main road. Dungru had often stared in amazement at the colour of their hair and their beards. No one that he knew in his own village had hair like that. And certainly no one had a beard. But if anyone could help this man, it had to be those men. They knew Dungru. They had bought maize from him and given him money, almost every day. Dungru began running. ‘Hi, Joe, come here quickly!’ shouted one of them on seeing Dungru. ‘Why, what’s up?’ Dungru stood panting. He couldn’t speak their language. In fact, he was too breathless to speak at all. So he just rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out. Then he pointed at the hill. The man caught on immediately.

‘OK. Jeep. Go . . . Jeep!’ Their jeep had all the colours of a rainbow. Dungru had never seen a vehicle like that. He jumped into it. Joe, Mark, Dennis and Bruce joined him. ‘Jesus Christ!’ one of them exclaimed softly when Dungru took them to the exact spot where the injured man still lay on the ground. All of them bent over him. Mark, who had left studying medicine in Minnesota, checked his pulse. Then they picked him up and placed him carefully in the jeep. The nearest hospital was in Kathmandu, thirty-three kilometres from here.