In the searing plains, we walked along dried riverbeds, taking the buffalo herd out to graze. The buffalo moved at an apathetically slow pace, giving us too much and too little to do in the meantime. We played games, tossing and catching river stones when we weren’t lounging on stubby patches of grass. Rani, who was my age and became a friend in no time, was fond of poetry and whispered a few lines she had written, later admitting they might have been influenced by a dialogue from a Bollywood film: “Hazaaron manzilein hongi, hazaaron karwaein hongi; zamaana humein dhoondega, hum na jaane kahaan honge.” (There will be a thousand destinations and a thousand caravans; time will look for us, but the search will be futile.)

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