The journey used to be divided into various stages. The first part would be the segment to Nongpoh, 50 kilometres down from home. We were still in the Khasi hills. Then we would pass Jorabat, which as its name suggests was a jor of baats or a road junction. One road led to Guwahati, the commercial capital of the region, and then went on to the southern and western parts of Assam and the Khasi and Garo hills. We would travel on the other road, which snaked up a group of low hills before descending to the Brahmaputra valley. And what a landscape!

Kilometre after kilometre of paddy fields, gentle and dry in winter, with cattle ambling over the dry land, turning up puffs of dust as they walked. Jacaranda trees and seemul with its red-silk blossoms lined the roadside. Large throngs of goats, being prodded and bullied en route to a market or a slaughterhouse, would slow our progress. A few village pie dogs would run along yapping and barking at the vehicle and their own reflections in the hub-caps.

The edges of the roads abutted in places on shallow ponds and streams, their surface covered with water hyacinth. Once, I remember, we were stopped by the flood waters of the Brahmaputra. The river itself is not less than 50 kilometres west of the road than runs along the plains. But in a petulant, final surge of its high water—it was the fourth wave of floods that year—it breached the highway in many places, forcing travel to a halt as water got into distributor heads and engines. Finally, villagers pushed the cars across—for a price, of course.

Hundreds, were perched on the edge of the road, which happened to be the only high land in the neighbourhood at the time. It was a very long time ago and I do not remember it that well, but for the image of rice heaps placed to dry on bamboo mats by the road, a few inches above the water level, and a handful of weary, old men staring hopelessly at the cars struggling by.

Usually, we would drive into another small hamlet, Jagiroad, by lunch time for a helping of spicy chicken and parathas served at a Sikh hotel. Parathas were so novel to us—since Assamese eat rice both at lunch and dinner—that we looked forward with hungry anticipation to the rotis and the chicken curry. And then onwards, past the hillsides scarred with dynamite blasts for rock and rubble needed for road construction and other projects, past the hamlet of Nellie and to the warmth and affection of the home of my grandparents. Till much later, I did not even know of Nellie’s existence.