Midnight on a Saturday night, climbing back up from the school to our new house, thick fog swirls around the gravel lines that edge the road, moonlight mushrooming in the silvery cloud.
I have a moment for myself and for Chamgang. No kids, no teachers, no family. The shouts, synthesizer riffs, clammy body odour and whiffs of excitement or is it cheap perfume that hung outside the school hall after the concert fade behind me and all that lingers is my diagonal view of the world, courtesy of some mind-blowing ara smuggled into the concert by the teachers and dished up over oily fried rice after all the kids had gone home.
For the first time in what seems like ages I give myself time to look at the silhouette of Talakha ridgeline, sloping down from the peak to the monastery, backlit by the phosphorescent moon.