A gust of wind sweeps past lush green terraced wheat fields, a Gaddi sits there measuring the weight it carries to force a change of season; the wind hurries up the alpine slopes, a Gaddi sits there on a craggy rock guessing which way his heard would rush on hearing the swirling clouds roar; the wind turns icy as it meets the mighty Dhauladhars, a Gaddi is still there rushing down the crevasses, a little lamb in hands; at 15,000 feet the wind falls flat spreading a veil of eerie silence, a Gaddi tip-toes through it, flute in hand; the wind rushes down the nude slopes, a Gaddi keeps pace to reach home, a bonfire lit with ambers from the hearth that keeps his family warm miles away; the wind has a message to be delivered up in a village, a Gaddi sits there to take the first hint - their flock is safe and so is the tribe.