Flat fields run to the horizon around Abohar, and the sky fills most of the view. Then the small things pull you in. Orange crates wait between rows of kinnow trees, and a blackbuck lifts its spiral horns at the edge of a field. In the Bishnoi villages outside town, the antelope stroll between farmhouses as if they paid rent.
Back in the city, the theh, a mound of old mud-brick walls, rises above the streets. Summers are long and fiercely hot, the monsoon is short, and winter turns cool just as the kinnow harvest begins. A Local Friend can pull up a chair for you at a family table you would never have found alone.
