At Home in the Himalayas [antikvár]

Foreword I have lived in Manali, at the head of Kullu valley in the Indian Himalayas, for nineteen years. In the beginning I must have seemed like a hippie (or hippini, as the female is referred to in Kullu), though I didn't consider myself to be one. Nor was I concerned with improving myself, as advised by a Miss Isobel Savory in 1907: To roam about in the Himalayas in gypsy fashion, meeting with trifling adventures from time to time, is a complete change for an ordinary English girl; and it is easy to find every scope for developing self control and energy in many a 'tight corner'. I was footloose, and simply enjoyed the idea of turning my back on the familiar, revelling in the journey, heedless of the end. Then I became a businesswoman, organizing walking holidays, and some years later, with misgivings and fears, a wife, mother and householder. My life was like anyone else's, except that I was 7,000 feet up in the Himalayas. I don't think I tried to change things as the Memsahibs used to; I lacked their conviction. Our kitchen was far from European, and I didn't teach anyone to make bread or bake cakes - the tin-box oven we brought from Kashmir was soon used as a hens' nesting box. Our attempts to encourage adult literacy quickly petered out, and much of my early faith in Western medicine was dashed. Over the years I taught very little; I learnt a lot. I absorbed unfamiliar values and new concepts. My Hindi isn't perfect, but it enabled me to become aware of the aspirations of the people I met, their different reactions to misfortune and suffering, their ideas of God, and the fetters that bind them in a network of relationships. Without some understanding of Hindi and without the experience of years in Kullu, I would never have appreciated the extent to which concepts are confined by language. As I