Sonam Wangchuk-ji, I heard him. That boy from Ladakh, making ice stupas in the desert. Here in Dimapur, the monsoon comes and washes my topsoil into the highway drain, and I think, why can’t we catch that water like he catches the ice? My granddaughter in Kohima draws mountains with snow on top, and I tell her, “That man knows how to keep the water for when you need it.” The government talks big schemes, but Wangchuk-ji shows us a pipe and a prayer works better. Maybe the Naga Hills need a few ice stupas too, eh?

This morning, the wild peahens came for the young spinach again. I shooed them gently and they made such a fuss, like I was the thief! But my compost pile is dark and rich now, like our old forest soil. If the rains come too strong this year, at least the earth will hold a little better.

You know, I see these rally cars zooming on TV, all that speed and dust, and I think of my bicycle—the one I fixed myself last week after the chain broke on the way to sell my pineapples. That was adventure enough, let me tell you, with a monsoon cloud chasing me and the load wobbling. But I wonder, all that hastiness on the road, what happens to the little things—the birds, the soil—when you only care about the finish line? Maybe the old way, slow and steady, has its own kind of daring.

My granddaughter in Kohima sent me a drawing of our pineapple field, but she put a big yellow umbrella over each plant. When I asked why, she said, "For the heavy rain, Apo." Even a child sees it. This season, I am building little bunds with stones, the old way. Let's see if it holds against the new drain.