And there we were, back at our campsite, settling down for the night. In short order, we set up the tent and arranged the mats and sleeping bags nearby, in the open. Our intention was to use the tent only if it rained. Then we set to work on the campfire, strategically located in a rocky clearing surrounded by dry, tall grasses. A jungle fire was a real possibility and later in the evening a merry breeze whipped up around us, forcing us to reduce and finally extinguish our lively fire. But now, several hours earlier, we worked patiently to get the bonfire going, Saishree managing to get several twigs to light by holding a candle patiently to them. The evening passed happily, talking, singing (old Hindi songs), playing 20 questions and munching on our stock of snacks.

It was past 9.30 when we heard voices. At first we ignored it: sound carries a long way in this silence. Then, we heard them again and this time they were much closer. Hurriedly, we put out what little remained of the fire and huddled a little closer, not sure what to expect. The voices got closer: it wasn’t forest officials, that much was clear. They sounded drunk. Saishree and I were instructed to sit in the tent and keep quiet, leaving the men out to handle the situation as it developed.

The newcomers were speaking Malayalam and Saishree and Rajeev gathered that they were a group of college boys out for a night of revelry. They were certainly more than a little drunk and determined to get even more so. How they had found their way up the hillside in the dark, god only knows, but here they were. It took them a while to stumble on to our camp and after they did, conversation ensued. They were a group of 8 or 9, no tents or sleeping bags, just booze and chicken. They helped themselves to some of our firewood and went away to make a fire, roast the chicken and continue drinking. All of us agreed that they seemed harmless, but all of us were worried. If they decided to have some fun with Saishree and me, the situation would be ugly. We women were sternly instructed to stay where we were and not to make any noise.

The wind had picked up a good deal by now and it was tugging impatiently at our tent. Saishree and I cowered inside apprehensively, speaking in whispers. I had already taken out the Hedgehog, our Swiss Army knife, and handed it to Amit, but it didn’t give me much comfort. As Saishree so reassuringly pointed out, they had knives too, to cut the chicken. For several hours, we could hear them shouting, wandering around, enjoying themselves. Several times, they came close to the tent, speaking to Rajeev.

Hiding went against the grain. I would much rather they had seen us up front; then we would have known whether we had anything to worry about or not. Hiding, with the risk of discovery, and speaking volumes as it did about our vulnerability (not to say cowardice) seemed much worse. But it was perhaps prudent. So we hid. All night long, with the wind sweeping and howling around us, hardly sleeping and awakening at every real or imagined footfall, the two of us hid in the tent. For a long time we resisted the temptation of our sleeping bags: restricted mobility, Saishree pointed out. The beautiful, starlit night under the open sky that we had looked forward to was not to be.

The next morning, we could still hear them around. Well, why should they leave? It was a Sunday and they would doubtless hang around the whole day. We couldn’t hide forever, so at last we emerged from our tent and allowed ourselves to be seen. Nothing happened. They were more interested in their drink than in any of us. Rajeev reported that they had already made one midnight excursion down the hill to fetch more liquor. And as we watched, another excursion set out for breakfast and more liquor.

We lingered only a short time. Then we breakfasted, packed up our camp (collecting all our non-bio-degradable garbage with us) and left.