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23 October. Mongsenyimti. |
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We woke this morning to a world of grey mist and drizzling rain with a bitter east wind penetrating every crack of the hut. We tried to light a fire but the smoke and ash swirled into our eyes. Unless we were to spend a dismal day in semi-darkness, it was best to march on to Mongsenyimti where there is a thatched bungalow. |
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It rained all the way as we toiled through the millet and rice fields. Wisps of smoke rose from the field huts, where families were crouching around their small fires. A few men and women in palm-leaf 'mackintoshes' were gathering the last of the rice or pulling up the stubble. In the valleys the streams were in spate and all the field paths were brooks. When we reached Mongsenyimti the village streets were deserted but heads were at every door. (116) |
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Now we have a roaring wood fire. Inside all is snug while outside the thatch drips monotonously through the long hours. |
