A full nights sleep, yesterday's terror diluted towards trepidation, kind and helpful words through the ether. And breathe. 
J on the balcony, mountains cloaked in morning mists; a sense of scale, the first shoot of perspective rising.
Watching the day begin; bright colours on paths, voices and flowing water, beams of sunlight falling upon forest green slopes, peaks and ridges tumbling into focus. 
Sushant offering a glass of this morning's milk, Achtstein finding apples. 
And then the village. 
Small and quiet, no other gweilo faces, a few places to eat and a scatter of shops. Something out of a dream, that India which had almost faded by the first time I arrived. And beautiful, oh yes, heartrendingly so. 
Walk. Along the road, looping around and rising, skeletal constructions alongside guesthouses and hotels, all hoping for the flood of tourist rupees from the cities below. 
Close eyes, listen; the click of knitting needles, children's voices, wooden wind chimes and birdsong, an occasional car horn to disperse the Idyll, the wind carrying other voices, distance, footsteps.
And open eyes, the street suddenly busy, locals in kinnaur hats and traditional dress moving between tracksuits and sunglasses arrived on the bus from below. The changing tide. 
Night fallen, the sound of drums, a parade led by village women, sounds of elsewhere and everywhere carried within their voices, a glimpse of the eternal, that faith which predates all books and names.