THE EDITOR’S LETTER
IN INDIA RECENTLY I gave a man a word. His name was Balveez, and he worked for the bus company whose services we were using to get from Udaipur airport to the city. Balveez, with his very definite side part—as if his hair was having an unresolvable argument—said he would like one day to return to his farm and work the land alongside buffalo, cows, and goats. He planned to open a camp there so visitors from all over the world could come and stay with him and see how he and his family live. Until then, he is making money shuttling guests to and fro and is keen to improve his English. I could feel, even though he was sitting two rows away, that his head was turned entirely…