Mother had finally told me about Mrs Dong, having initially refused, saying some things it were best not to know. But when an elder caught me resting in its shade one morning and declared that I had thus imperilled my future lives, and I had thereafter scrupulously avoided treading on worms and beetles in case I’d be accused of murdering relatives in a previous life during my next one, Mother had sighed, fearing that I might develop a permanent limp, and said perhaps it was time. Fearsome as Mrs Dong now was, when she first came to the village she was merely Little Amchila, discovered on the upper slopes by a goatherd, a waif in rags fleeing the tyrannies of Tibet. We’d had a few in those years. Many, of course, never made it across the passes which were said to twinkle with the bones of fallen travellers. Of those who did, most moved on, but Little Amchila decided to stay. She was put up in the Hotel Nirvana which was very popular in those days. Its owners, Mr and Mrs Jafferjee ran an excellent kitchen, Mrs Jafferjee was often to be heard shouting at the cooks, and the food was first rate.
