All was silent in the forest. The only sound was the gentle throb of the little stream, like a pulse-beat in the clear mountain air. A forktail hopped from boulder to boulder. A small fish swam between my feet as I waded through the shallow water.

I was 12 this year, spending my summer holidays in a rented cottage on the outskirts of Mussoorie, a popular hill station. Granny was with me; so was her helper, Bimla, who was twice Granny’s size but as gentle as a butterfly. There was a cook. And sometimes my cousin Roshan dropped in to make a nuisance of himself and cadge a few rupees off Granny.

I liked being on my own most of the time. The steep hillsides were full of little paths that led to interesting places – a hill called Pari Tibba, supposedly inhabited by fairies; a forest of oaks, where long-tailed magpies roamed in noisy parties; a cave where robbers were said to gather at night; a village where the inhabitants kept agile hill cows, and grew maize and apricots; and the stream at the bottom of the hill.

How I loved that little stream. For a curious and adventurous boy there is...

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