Morning routine followed with M's absence woven into the air. 
Down below a morning congregation, a pilgrimage to watch the god's procession, the ceremony risen in intensity, drums, horns and a wailing clarinet.
In the hot springs the sight of pilgrims scooping handfuls of water over themselves, anointed. 
And that's the thing, it's a holy place, one worthy of pilgrimage; that world of faith where the water from the hot springs contains a blessing. 
The mystic day surrounding, challenging the sceptical eye until there's only the sound of what's happening, detachment, an unexpected thought, am I ready to leave this place?
And the music changes, jazz, horn and clarinet tinged by New Orleans as the hot water surrounds me, drums rise from the street beyond, fitting in, scattering rolls and beats until a piano solo calls them quiet and the steam rises into the cold air. 
And it's the final day up here, already postponed, and tomorrow the bus to Rekong Peo and the quest for a permit to enter Spiti. But today Vashisht and the continuing contemplation as to what it is about this place which makes me so reluctant to leave it.