Namma

ago, his father had been killed over a land dispute. All of his sons displayed creative tendencies -Choegetar's younger brother, Sherab, had published a book of poetry, and the youngest, Jachwar, was a dancer and singer at the local School for the Performing Arts – and their work was imbued with a sensitivity and an acute sense of empathy that perhaps is only felt by those who have truly suffered.

But not all nomad lyrics were sorrowful. At our marriage blessing in England our Amdo friend Lamakyab had stood at the altar and read Tsedup and me the words to a lazjhee.

Let you be the yonder snow mountain,
Let me be the pure virgin snow.
Even though the blazing sun rises
I will never melt.

Let you be the sandalwood tree
And I will be the scented leaves.
As long as you are not harmed by the wind
Leaves will never fall.

Let you be the glistening lake
And I will be the golden fish.
For where would I exist
If not for your rippling waters?

Let you be the statue of Dolma, the female saviour,
And I will be your dazzling, brocade robe.
Who would don me
If you were not there in all your sculpted splendour?

The cedar in the forest
Neither perishes in the bleak winter,
Nor is changed by the sweltering summer,
Such are our thoughts.

The snow-white Waller flower
Is neither withered by the bitter wind,
Nor suffocated by the weight of snow,
Such is our love.

I had also heard Tsedo and Rhanjer chanting aloud a traditional rhyme that chronicled the transition of the various stages of winter, which were split into units of nine days:

The first ninth, the chilled ground cracks,
The second ninth, the cold stone splits,
The third ninth, the icy iron cleaves,
The fourth ninth, the shuddering bull groans in the barn,
The fifth ninth, a spark of fire warms the sea bed,
The sixth ninth, ice reveals its entombed treasures,
The seventh ninth, water brings seeds of life,
The eighth ninth, the horseman takes off his hat,
The ninth ninth, the wayfarer takes off his shoes,
The tenth ninth, the fertile land heralds the spring.

We were deep into the winter and still had a long way to go before spring. I regretted that Tsedup and I would not be here then: we would be leaving, and as the daylight hours shortened I knew that our time here was running out. We were somewhere in November and my awareness of the date was gradually becoming all too keen. We were dreading going back to England and the closer it came to the end of December, the more sad and reflective we both became. I missed my family and it would be good to see them and our friends, but we also had responsibilities I would rather have forgotten about. Our days of living in the wilderness were drawing to a close. London and a mortgage beckoned. I had also missed Tsedup's parents while they had been in Lhasa. They were due to return soon and it would be good to spend some time with them before we left.

A few days later the children came running breathlessly down from the mountains, their sacks bulging. They had been collecting grass worms. Previously I had denied the existence of a worm that could turn into a piece of grass, dismissing it as a Tibetan myth. I had heard many things, but this topped the bill. In England I remembered Tsedup telling me that in Tibet there was a tiny dog that was known to hatch from an egg. I had trouble swallowing this one too. But in the case of the grass worm, I was disproved. Indeed there did exist a worm that grew fungus on its head in autumn, which looked like grass, then died. It was called yarsa gunba. The Chinese used it as an expensive medicine, and at this time of year the nomad children were despatched by their parents to collect as many as they could from the mountains to sell in town. They were pleased with their haul today, but were even more ecstatic to be able to inform us that they had seen the tolla bringing Annay and Amnye up the track to the tribe.

Sure enough, the rickety vehicle was chugging towards us in a dustcloud. We hadn't had snow for a month now. It was bad news for the road, which, through lack of moisture had achieved the consistency of powdered turmeric. It was like driving on a beach. That day the wind was up and the powder enveloped the tolla in whipping clouds as the hunched figures of Tsedup's parents clung on tightly and lurched through the landscape, their faces covered with scarves. They pulled up at a distance, as the Chinese driver was nervous of the dogs, and the children ran whooping and squealing from the house to greet their grandparents. Annay Urgin, Shermo Donker and I followed and helped to unload the sacks and boxes that Annay and Amnye had brought back from Lhasa. Everyone was talking at once, grinning and laughing, happy to be reunited. The dogs were barking and jumping around Annay excitedly. Sanjay was pulling at the skirt of her tsarer and Dickir Che clung, chattering, to her grandfather's arm.

Then, in the commotion of voices and fervour of chuckling faces, Annay asked, 'Where is Sirmo?'

There was silence. It was the moment we had all been dreading. Annay and Amnye would have to be told that their daughter had eloped. But who was to do it? Shermo Donker busied herself silently with the luggage. I stared at the ground.

'She's gone,' said Annay Urgin. 'We thought you might have heard on the way.' This sort of