He stepped cautiously from his car and scowled at the dense stands of sissoo and teak. He appeared to be as intimidated by this obscure patch of Indian forest as I had been by the crush of cars that converged recklessly at the traffic circle where we had met an hour earlier. The horn blast that followed smashed through the woodland tranquillity like squealing tires on suburban asphalt. But no sooner had the sound begun to fade over the forest canopy than it was overrun by a chorus of barking hounds. Please don't be hurried.
Price is same.
This time, I chose a guide carefully and explained my expectations clearly. I want to meet an Indian queen. Now, here we were at the first difficult juncture and he appeared to be abandoning me. But the driver would have none of it. For heroics you must call Mr. Rambo.