Guide The Tiger By The River

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The trick is to not let the sticky bits bog you down and hamper your progress. Swati's wife's red silk handkerchief was tied around its mouth. The policeman raised it to his face, and squinted at it. The policeman's hands were large and brown, with square fingers and bitten nails. Beneath the boredom in his voice, Swati could sense habitual impertinence. An aeroplane taking off outside the terminal startled the policeman. The vessel slipped from his fingers and Swati reached forward to catch it.

He did not want Nina to fall again on this strange earth of Delhi, upon the concrete floor, which was coated with dust of unknown arrivals and departures. As he leant forward, clasping the urn in his fingers, he lost his balance and fell against the policeman. Swati was holding his beloved to his chest and he could feel her inside that small vessel of copper, a tender, unbearable weight that he was carrying home. The policeman flailed against him and they fell together, the vessel slipping from Swati's hands and rolling away. He saw the cartwheeling blur of strangers in the background-faces with unclear features and puzzled frowns.

The fallen policeman disentangled himself from Swati's clasp, shook him away and tried to rise.

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The urn glinted at Swati in the light of the dawn coming in through the huge glass panes. It was intact but for a small dent on its side.

Injured tiger stranded near river

A little bit of her had fallen on the floor-in a slim trail of ash like a farewell hieroglyphic. Swati knelt beside it and carefully scooped it up in his fingers. She turned the side of his palm dirty grey. He rubbed her upon his chest. The policeman stood by, fidgeting. There are too many cranks these days.

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Swati interpreted his gaze, and could not help smiling at the policeman. He stood up, holding Nina close with both hands; she snuggled against his warmth. Swati opened his bag and put Nina back. Walking towards the door, he felt the curious gaze of other passengers upon him. Two women muttered furtively to each other, pulling a child holding a teddy bear away from his path. The little girl stared at Swati-a tall man in black, whose long hair had a white streak at one side. Swati winked at her. A short bald man with a huge woman smiled at him warily as he approached the door, standing aside, allowing him to pass.

Swati caught his eye and smiled back. Leaning back against his seat, feeling its texture against his head, Swati closed his eyes.

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He had placed the urn upon his lap, sensing her weight again after a week of death. He could feel her cheek against his shoulder, smell the fragrance of her fine, black hair, which fell to her waist, spilling over his.

Gazebo by the river - Picture of Panna Tiger Resort by OpenSky, Panna Tiger Reserve - TripAdvisor

He could feel the rise and fall of her chest, the pressure of her soft breasts against his arm. Her silk rustled against him, and her perfume teased lightly. Swati surrendered to her, not daring to open his eyes-he was not sure of meeting hers. He was afraid to see her again, afraid to lose again that glimpse of her red mouth and the dimple in her cheek.

A diamond of sunlight flashed upon his eyelids. The plane was carving a circle towards the south, and Swati looked down at the Delhi he was leaving behind, green and neat, the Yamuna a gleaming sickle in the morning mist.

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The roads were shiny black ribbons upon which vehicles glinted. It had been raining for over a week; on the first morning of the rain Nina had woken him at dawn. She licked the rim of his ear and giggled. This is a karst phenomenon, which formed mountains of incredible shapes, where, millions of years ago, there was the sea. Alas, I was disappointed by Yangshou, because it was so full of tourists and of shops selling junk at higher prices than in town.

And yet, the Chinese are crazy about this; it seems that in parallel with the consumerism that permeates the country, they have a Disneyland-like approach to tourism. So, I rented a scooter to go along the bank of the River Li , and it was relaxing to get lost in small villages surrounded by rural landscapes.


The electric scooter had a range of fifty kilometres and with a fast recharge, while I had lunch, I increased the range. On leaving Yangshou, I took the train to Dali, in Yunnan. It is in this province, which borders Tibet to the north, and Burma to the west, that about half of the Chinese ethnic minorities live.

Alas, Dali too was a number of shops selling junk, and clearly reconstructed buildings. I was beginning to regret planning a four-day stay, but I changed my mind when I visited the complex of temples of the Three Pagodas, an attractive sight, both for the pagodas and for the nine temples up in the mountain.

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And Lake Erhai, the seventh largest in China, was also beautiful ; I circumnavigated it the next day, visiting markets of the Bai minority. In the meantime, the screen of my poor mobile phone had broken, and I panicked as I had when I lost it in Yekaterinburg, but was relieved when they repaired it in half an hour. On leaving Dali, I continued north, to Lijiang. Here, the old town was much more beautiful than Dali, touristy admittedly, but with still wonderful, isolated and peaceful views. How glorious it must have been before the earthquake and the advent of mass tourism. Just like the old town of Shehe, just half an hour away, where I was lucky enough to meet an ethnic group that live on the border with Tibet, who performed really evocative songs and dances.

On my return, I received another demonstration of kindness. Positive, aware and proud of the road taken by the nation, without exaggerated nationalism, but with the healthy approach of Confucianism: respect for culture, and work ethics. Hoping for a future of greater freedom and concerned about the rising cost of living, especially about housing. I felt there was the spirit of post-war Italy, as my parents had described it to me : enthusiasm, seriousness and the desire to take on the world had raised the nation.

The Chinese, too, are great savers, with a deep sense of family ties. Here, the Yangtze gorge is the deepest in the world, with an altitude difference of m , and with the river descending m over fifteen kilometres, over impetuous rapids, flanked by mountains that exceed m. The people who dug out this path did an incredible job. Then, night-time in the anonymous capital of Kunming, and the last Chinese train to the Vietnamese border; next comes Hanoi.