89

died juts now in his sleep could you tell death was present? Did the soul leave with his last breath or must it be released by smashing the shell? Is it only after the body is cold, become stiff in accelerated decay? One full turn of the head between the living and the dead.

Image: A naked religious, a naga man walking down a crowded evening street delicately holding a large bamboo fan in front of his genitals. Sally Rand couldn't have handled it more gracefully.

May 29, 70

Three men one old, one middle aged, one young. Load wood by the bank at Assi. Brown thin frames of hard muscle. A scale, the balance four rocks, two logs at a time lifted to be weighed. The white dressed buyer squats, overseeing. As every two logs are weighed, the young man goes to buying who hands him a pebble, which he puts in the folds of a [ILLEGIBLE] towel around his waist. Pre-[ILLEGIBLE] counting method, tactile assurance of number. What one touches is believable, is real. The eyes demand corroboration.

May 29

The gullies: Sounds at Seven Thirty

Hari Krishna, Hari Ram, young female voice sings slowly, drawn, held. High flat clinking of finger cymbals obscuring the words. More Christian hymns than Indian. Sometimes another girl's voice joins, singing acapella. Staccato spurts of short exchanges from the lane, broken fragments of passing voices. Bengali

90

housewife voice from the house next door. The dud pat swish of a piece of cardboard used as a fan, giving draft of a started coal fire. Quickening tempo, brushing the sides of the clay stone. Rhythm lost - cymbals stop - space silent - found resume faster. Two pairs of brass beating, air-forced, expanded.

[Relish the instant response of sound to the action required to make it - direct answer, no waiting, satisfaction for effort, no complications, just hit something, almost anything, and it makes a sound.]

Loud mother no, to a child. The music does not stop exactly or fade off it just disappears when you're not . . . . Shuffle of sandles on stone. Voices from inside rooms, unmuffled through open windows. Sharp click of light switch, tearing paper, iron bolt of door sprung back. Electric fan in a state of almost imperceptible vibration. The assured sound of naked feet. Crackle of caught fire cow-dung smoke released, sucked by drafts of air obscuring the lane, entering houses burning eyes. A pendulum clock unforgotten somewhere, chimes obscurely. Water in a steady fall, guided by a thin strip of cloth tied around the nozzle, striking concrete. A bucket being filled, water hitting water, the sound slowly changing timber as the pail fills - overflowing. Brass pots touching, echo the sounds of the quiet cymbals. A cluster of men - boys' voices overlapping