The bus in Mysore rapidly fills up with a group of Tibetans. A large young Tibetan woman wearing tight blue jeans and a sporty black nylon jacket and a tiny older woman slide into the seat next to us. "This my mother. She mostly speaks Tibetan," says the young woman by way of introduction, smiling fondly at her tiny, wizened companion, who looks like a shrivelled dried apple doll. The mother is dressed in a traditional Tibetan long jumper and a challenging amount of heavy silver jewelry set with large, rough coral and turquoise stones. "We are on our way home from a visit with the Dalai Lama. He comes to see the South Indian refugee communities several times a year. We live in the mountains, to remind us of home." The mother's eyes twinkle and she flashes us frequent wide, toothless grins. Every time the bus makes a stop the daughter solicitously points at my travlling companion and queries, "Brother need go make number two?"

As the bus begins its ascent into the mountains, we enter the region under the sway of the western monsoon. The downpours assaults us as the bus careens up the bumpy mountain road. Evening makes a swift transition into night in a land without man-made lights. All is dark, wet, mysterious. There are still indigenous tribes living among the deep forests covering these peaks, with languages, religions and cultures completely unlike those of mainstream India. At the summit of the mountain through the rainy-dark, I can just make out a collection of many-storied wooden buildings clinging to steep slopes. It is the city of Mercara, a "hill station," where British colonials retreated to European-style cottages to escape the stifling summer heat of the plains. The Brits are gone, but their cottages remain. The Tibetans make a laughing, boisterous departure for their nearby homes. Almost all of them beam at us and wish us luck, and the men shake my companion's hand as they move down the aisle towards the exit.

I am faintly carsick, thoroughly jiggled around and heartily tired of being mashed up next to the glassless window and pelted by raindrops. The cheerful Tibetan mother and daughter are replaced by a grizzled man who roughly shoves us over to make room for himself, glowers and hunches down in the seat. He is dressed for winter in a dark wool hat, heavy jacket and pants, and a collection of dirty rags wound around his hands. The rain has rendered his ancient wool garments sickeningly malodorous. As the bus careens through the darkness down the rain-slicked mountain road, my stomach starts seriously turning over. Our seat companion, who is also exhibiting signs of queasiness, urgently demands, "Water! Water!" and reaches for our water bottle. He tilts the bottle two inches above his mouth and manages to imbibe half our remaining water without spilling a drop as the bus bounces and lurches around sharp curves. I pray that he does not vomit all over us, and add additional entreaties that I also avoid doing the same. The man signals to the bus driver to stop in a place with no visible landmarks of human occupation, and quickly disappears into the rain and the thick woods.

Miriam