226 PINJOR 



fruit trees, and on the lowest terrace the largeres- 

 troemia bushes had been a blaze of colour in the 

 rains. Here it was self -revealed — the garden of 

 the poets, of Sadi, Hafiz and old Omar. Through 

 an enchanted door I had stepped right into the 

 background of some old Mughal miniature. Even 

 the peacocks and birds of its illuminated border 

 called to me from the trees.) 



All sorts of friendly wild creatures filled the 

 garden. Squirrels played among the fallen 

 leaves. Once, when I had been very still, 

 absorbed in my painting, a little troop of soft- 

 furred monkeys gathered round. There they 

 sat, like puzzled children, gazing solemnly with 

 their bright inquisitive eyes. Suddenly, the 

 shadow of a huge vulture slowly sailing by to 

 his nest among the old mango trees frightened 

 them. Off fled the monkeys, swinging lightly 

 from branch to branch, only stopping to look 

 down on me from safe high-up boughs. A flock 

 of parrots, shrieking shrilly to each other, flew 

 past — making a vivid emerald streak on the 

 evening sky. 



Twilight draws in quickly under the trees. 

 The harsh call of the wild peacocks sounded 

 startling and ominous. Despite its enchantment, 



