Are those Gears?

Still in Manali. Had to have my clutch replaced. Laid my eyes on clutchplates for the first time. Not particularly interesting. The crankshaft - now that is beautiful piece of equipment. Like a solid unbreakable bone. Industrial power. Like the bolts in the spiral staircases in tube stations.

Days are now spent walking up and down the windy road past clothing and jeweller shops, Tibetan, Indian and Israeli restaurants all with their seductive smells, exotic snake charmers (I think I should just get charmed), strolling festival goers with ridiculously large trumpets and fanfare, holy cows, well groomed yaks and yapping dogs (or jolly St Bernards carrying baskets in their mouths), chugging Enfields, mighty marijuana plants, and mountains all around.

Walking down to the mechanic, both of us squatting. Him fiddling (it all seems so logical - auto repairs - but totally ungraspable), me pointing and asking whether those are the gears? And after a while, are those gears? I don't think I'll ever find them.

Or going up to the jeweller, who is going to cook again for us this evening, looking at gemstones and drinking tea. Or sitting with the shifty Kashmiri guy, listening to his woes.

Sarita is making a salad. I can't wait for something fresh.