Not that it mattered, for there were no latches to keep them out and nobody within
calling distance except Uncle Potty on the other side of the jhora ravine, who would be drunk on the floor by this hour, lying still but feeling himself pitch about — «Don't mind me, love,» he always told Sai after a drinking bout, opening one eye like an owl, «I'll just lie down right here and take a little rest --» They had come through the forest on foot, in leather jackets from the Kathmandu black
market, khaki pants, bandanas — universal
guerilla fashion.