Our first night was at Khungri, just inside Rolpa—a district which to Nepalis is synonymous with the guerrillas. The rebels had detained us at one of their bamboo gates straddling the dirt road, topped by red flags. "Sleep there," they told us, indicating the yard outside the mud-built house they had commandeered. Later, we retreated to a tiny room as the rains pelted down. There, an older girl, about 16, cooked for us. She would leave next morning with a .303 rifle. A younger girl, about eight, stared at us, a strange smile fixed to her face. She was someone's daughter, I wasn't sure whose. These things are never clear in Maoist encampments.
Comrade Ranabhumi (Battlefield) had a scowl and looked in pain. He had sustained a bullet in the knee in...
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