We trudge along. Scrub gives way to cultivated fields; wheat turning from green to light yellow. A skylark pouring down song on us plummets down into the wheat. Another rises skyward, flutters at one spot and trills away. Then another. And another. The cultivated land ends. Our feet sink in sand. We come to a small pond. A flock of whistling teal rise and whistle past over our heads. I raise my arms, take aim and say, ‘Bang, bang . . . . Good shot Lady Hoity-Toity. Six birds down!’ She laughs, ‘You are making fun of me.’

We skirt the pond. Our feet are now ankle deep in powdery soil. Suddenly the river bursts into view.

We are on a high bank. Below us stretches the Jamna coiled like a three-mile-long grey python. She seems lifeless but for a red shroud entangled in marigolds that floats lazily downstream. Three turtles scamper down and slosh into the water. On the sandbank on the other side thousands of waterfowl bask in the sun. Terns slice the air. A white-headed fishing eagle flies over the stream scanning its surface.

Lady Hoity-Toity spreads out her arms in wonder. ‘It’s like a pre-historic reptile! All those bends and curves!’ She takes my elbow and lowers herself on to the sand. I sit down beside her. Our feet dangle over the ledge perforated with the nest holes of bank mynahs. She lights a cigarette.

‘That’s because of Krishna’s brother Balaram. Jamna would not yield to his lust so he got drunk and dragged her by the hair zig-zag across the plains of Hindustan.’

A fish takes a somersault on the surface of the stream.

From far away come the thuds of the shikaris’ guns. Waterfowl on the opposite bank rise skyward. They pass in a great whoosh, honking and squawking as they go: geese, mallard, brahminy ducks, pintails, pochards . . . .They fly along the river and back again to land on the stream a hundred yards from us. Peace returns to the Jamna. Once again terns slice the air and the white-headed eagle looks for fish in its heavy, purposeful way.

After a while, Hoity-Toity puts her hand on my knee and asks: ‘Is this one of your sacred rivers?’

‘Only a fraction less holy than the Ganga! She is Sarjuga, daughter of the Sun; she is also Triyama, sister of Yama the ruler of the dead. And since she was born on Mount Kalinda, she has yet another name, Kalinda-Nandini, daughter of the black mountain. The Vedas were washed up by its flood; Krishna bathed in her waters. Madam, the Jamna is so holy that one dip in it washes away the sins of a lifetime. As a matter of fact if I were to push you down the bank, I would be doing Your Ladyship a great favour.’ I put my hand on hers.