The light is a pale, faint, pearlescent gleam. All is quiet and peaceful.
The cock crows first. A single crow at first followed by others, closer together, and, it seems, louder each time.
The birds start to sing. A few dogs bark. The monastery and nearby temple bells sound out reassuringly on the hour. A steel shop blind is unlatched and rolled up with a harsh metallic grating sound. An itinerant salesman calls out his wares as he pedals past. A truck stops and bangs open its tail-gate, the early morning arrival of goods for the shop opposite. The pallets are bumped rhythmically and noisily across the truck gate and dropped onto the pavement with a regular thud.
Early morning greetings in the streets. Women call out. Children laugh and joke.The birdsong gets louder and louder. Then the carpentry shop next door starts work – first the sanding machine, then the saw, then the hammering. Scooter horns sound shrill-ly and insistently. Motorbikes roar past on the bumpy, dusty road. Car horns and engines have a deeper growl. More monastery bells, more sanding, more barking. A radio plays Nepali music in the background.
Gradually all these sounds get louder as the strength of the sun grows, coming together and merging as one continuous mélange, a growing cacophony that one either forgets or accepts as the day progresses. Occasionally the raucous crow of the cock can still be heard, as if to remind one that the day is for living and no-one should still be in bed.
Although it is from one’s bed that one hears all this at the start of the day.
c. Tim Taylor. Kathmandu April 2013