It was a quiet, clear blue afternoon in Bhaktapur. My skin was slowly changing shades, as I had forgotten my sunscreen, having gotten used to the grey, billowy blanket clouds of Boudha. From around a corner reached a beat and a cacophony of voices, both growing louder and louder until suddenly, I was swept away in a flood of colour and song.
I found an island to watch the crowd from, and was tossed a marigold. I put it in my hair.
And just like that, it was quiet again.
