All along the way in hills, friends were made. Most of the time, it was bestowed upon us, as this one, called Lalu by locals, did. we may meet him on road, or in eve stroll, or while sitting in Kausani market on road pavement, he sneaking in slowly from a forgotten byalley. All unknown, in hidden shadows..
In his autobiography "all the strange hours", Loren Eiseley, the famous archaeologist, talks about depression years and fleeing from Nebraska as a tramp in a railbox. And feeding a mongrel his last morsels of bread..and how it came running all the way on platform as the train left. He knows he may have fed the last feed for the mongrel, and still wonders how long it may have survived after that day. Even as an old man, the love of the mongrel, it's sad eyes...
I hope to meet Lalu again soon..wild as wild comes, he comes and goes as he pleases. On the day of our departure, he sat unusually long, as in this photo. They absorb a language we didn't speak, and radiate a feeling we can feel. Hmm..these charlatans and their game of stealing hearts..
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