In the Indian monsoon – even though it may appear as irregular as the cow that ate eighty chapatis – wetness is expected. Rain which visits these hills of Himachal and sits around while it tumbles down. Pounds earthwards on occasion, as if trying to purge the land with washing. Or floats in wraps of mist curled around dampened rock ridges.

An umbrella’s skin shines brightly as rain catches it and rolls down. An umbrella with ribs, breathing widely in an urgent wind. As the rain shower ushers itself in, the umbrella is essential, but with the half-hour of rumbly warnings that came before the drops, it would have been possible to have skipped home or found better shelter.

I’m in the Parvati valley, where the quenched land is green and generously productive. Apricots and plums are so plentiful right now that ones newly fallen from the trees are left on the ground to rot.

As the growing season swings in, some ploughing is happening around, turning the soil between apple trees so that weeds are knocked back in their vigour.

I’m returned to India after a couple of years. Although food prices have shot up, it’s comforting to know that other essentials of daily life have not suffered such dramatic inflation. The one-rupee packet of shampoo, which I always buy in preference to a bottle, is still available and seems likely to struggle on through the next decade. Herbal toothpaste isn’t quite so cheap.