Damp, black night of muttering voices and howling dogs, the whisper of a monk's robe gliding past like a shadow, deep grey fabric returning to crimson in the flickering light of a hundred butter candles. Faces appear in the warm glow, then fall into black— moving, simplified shapes. The unwelcome drone of a motorbike, the piercing whine of a mosquito, a gritty, painful cough. The generators' hum harmonises with a distant om mani padme hum unfolding from a pair of unknown lips.
My thoughts drift to loved ones, to people newly met, to questions about my life and its travelled paths. A flicker grows inside my chest until I'm wholly alight with gratitude.
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