But then, as it happens in the case of many things -- and people -- I got used to it. Sooner in Munshi's case, as the boy became my friend for that entire day. We spent a couple of pleasant hours together, talking about this and that, looking here and there -- me seeking; he with the answers. One minute we would be staring at the plunging gorge, thrilling at the sheer fall of it. And the next, looking up at the sky to watch the flitting clouds annoy the sun. Yes, he was certainly my friend. I wonder if I was his.

He was my model. A confident, unassuming one. Nice looking too. Not that I'm any good with the camera. But I like the occasional feel of it in my hands. I guess I also enjoy the way people react when you aim it at them. I enjoy my confidence with that thing Iunderstand so little about. My friend didn't know I knew as much about photography as he did about English.

That's another thing. Munshi didn't know English. He had never been to school. He didn't even know how to hold a pencil. Anyway, when he faced my camera, I tried my best. I held my breath, prayed, calculated the aperture, shutter speed, distance and all, just so that his pictures would come out well. I wonder if they will. The roll's still lying in my bag.

Perhaps because Munshi had seldom faced the camera, he wasn't conscious of it. He just wasn't bothered how he looked as long as he gave me the shot I wanted. So there he was -- walking through the flowers or peeping from behind the pine tree with only his wild, curly mop of hair and wise, serious eyes showing. He had the loveliest locks. Soft, round curls he wouldn't let the barber touch. He wanted them to reach well below his ears. I learned all this while on a trek down the hill with Munshi and my camera.

He wasn't shy about answeringquestions. Neither did he twist his answers. He was from Ludhiana, came to Barog with an elderly lady who spends her summers here; he had a sister and father back home; he had a friend called Saryu who lived close by. The two went exploring and trekking every evening.

Now, Barog's a place where you can sit for hours, listening to the birds, watching the monkeys, reading, sketching, writing poetry...I asked him: "Munshi, why don't you get a sketch book and sit somewhere and draw? I bet you'd like that." The wise soul in me said that here was a young man who was intelligent and promising. All he lacked was direction and opportunity. What a waste it would be if he wasn't saved! His reply put me in my place. "I don't do that." He wasn't rude. It was just a statement. He didn't do that because he didn't do that. Made sense.

Besides, who was I here? What was I doing? An over-eager messiah. Or an over-enthusiastic seeker looking for meanings and codes in all this boy said and did. How old was he? Ten, eleven,twelve? "Could be," he said. How did it matter? Does age matter? How would I feel if I didn't know my age? Okay, I guess. How would we all feel if we didn't know our age? Probably just the way we feel today. Maybe more relaxed, without those scores of numbers to remember. Brother's and sister's age and birthdays, mother's and father's age and birthdays...Rakhi on August 8, Independence Day on the 15th, Gandhi Jayanti on October 2. Numbers, numbers, numbers.

Munshi was free. He had his friend, his sky, his hill. I had it all too. But with numbers, choices, deadlines...and limits. They had, over the years, become a part of me. And I came back to them.