“Why don’t you go for a night drive into the village?” suggested Kishan Singh Shekhawat, the hotel’s wonderful executive assistant manager, after a sublime supper. Cords of light from the jeep skipped over the backs of darting hares; a still nilgai bathed in this light had the quality of a Robert Brook photograph — eerie, formal, mercurial. The chauffeur Ram Kishan stopped the jeep and hiked up the glass shield — I was freezing, and the shield really cut the draft. A bracing ride through the icy darkness of Sawai Madhopur was something out of a Wes Anderson film — beautiful and bizarre enough to be inaccessible, yet radiating a familiar, low-lit intimacy. With knuckles freezing, I returned to the warmth of my tent at Aman-i-Khás, a square of sumptuous white — dignified and monastic — where lay, among all essential things, an exquisite pair of night slippers. My first trip within India after 18 months — I felt lucky to spend these days among the birds and wildcats of Ranthambore, and at the Aman, which has come to define luxury as a kind of daily exhalation of kindness. Motoring down the next morning to Amanbagh, a sister property three hours away, the chauffeur Jagdish Singh slowed the car each time I took a sip of water from my flask. After the horrors of the past months, such acts of grace have the whiff of a miracle.