Five Hours to Simla

Then, miraculously, out of the pelt of yellow fur that was the dust growing across the great northern Indian plain, a wavering grey line emerged. It might have been a cloud bank looming, but it was not—the sun blazed, the earth shrivelled, the heat burnt away every trace of spring's beneficence. Yet the grey darkened, turned bluish, took on substance.

'Look—mountains!'

'Where?'

'I can't see any mountains.'

'Are you blind? Look, look up—not down, fool!'

A scuffle broke out between the boys on the sticky grime of the Rexine-covered front seat. It was quietened by a tap on their heads from their mother in the back. 'Yes, yes, mountains. The Himalayas. We'll be there soon.'