Up the mountains, far, far away, 'neath a sloping green roof, inside the mahogany walls, Amma lives. With endless stories in her kilta, fresh green apples on the table, and prisitine snow outside. Wrinkles, of course, where smiles were, fine folds of skin, creases, telling that she has seen it all, the summers, the winters... infinite vagaries of weather. And that she is not done yet. Sun-kissed, stubborn and spirited too, spontaneously swirling to the traditional beats, there's a purity in her laughter. That's her world precisely. Her hill, her orchards and her people. And that's her life. Simple. Joyous. Welfare unto all Rab rakha