There are bells from Indonesia made of clay, that fell from the balcony and have partly shattered. They now lie in a discarded pile at the base of the balustrade. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
There are bells from Israel. They are white, porcelain, with a handpainted swirl of flowers pink and yellow, three of them, together on a leather string like a trinity. They do not make a noise.
There is a bell that was bought from a poor boy at the top of a temple made of stone in the jungle and dedicated to a once Khmer kingdom. It is beautiful, cast in bronze, with a single dancing apsara on top.
There are two bells from Japan. Both tinkle in the night to remind me from where I have come, and how far.
And then there is a bell that is a javanese princess, or perhaps she is a hero from the ramayana tale. She is brightly decorated, sensuous, beautiful. She is perhaps, my favourite.
