A cold day, the wind chill and the cloud low upon the mountains, reaching down to the treeline while a light rain falls upon the village. 
A day of celebration, a festival,the temple busy, cooking pots taken in last night, the hope that tonight I get to hear the women chanting again. 
But until then there's the day to be watched, one of those where passing distances stretch out through my eyes, the day at s slight remove as anticipation flows. 
Later, in the temple, the god is dressed, made ready to come out, a gathering of locals in Kinnauri hats, the sacred manifest. 

And at six pm a puja, supplicants beneath blankets, a green leaved branch striking them before the god dances above them. An exorcism, the removal of negative energies, or a ceremony of resurrection and rebirth, something I doubted I'd ever get to see with my own eyes. 
No photo's or videos allowed so a photo from the balcony this morning of the neighbours dog in what is becoming a veritable forest of weed.
Kalpa, more than I'd dare to have dreamed.