I wake each morning to domestic sounds in our block of rooms - water, cooking, footsteps on the walkways outside, and the occasional dog, although they are vocal at night and seem to like a lie in. A bell occasionally rings out a single, clear, high note and there are the gentle mechanical sounds of the factory below coming to life where monks make tibetan medicine. Some monks live in a neighbouring building and sometimes the sound of their chanting lulls me as I wake, warm and cacooned in blankets and duvets.
Although the main streets are a cacophony of vehicles during the day, they are quiet at night and early morning so the sounds of the streets are voices and footsteps as I wake. the smell of chappatis makes me think of breakfast, and the tibetan medicines sometimes add a spicy, herby smell. Outside the street traders set up - delicious, fresh vegitables - so tempting to the passing sacred cows who seem to be the only creatures who walk the streets serenly calm in the knowledge that nothing, noone, will run them down.
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