Seemingly

Dharamsala sounds like rhythmic sweeping early in the morning, the rough scratchy sweeping done with bound straw. It sounds like rival packs of monkeys and dogs late at night, and Hindi dialects until I fall asleep. It sounds like Indian men asking me to look in their shop. Like photographs. Like the chatter of nine televisions set to different stations.
Sometimes it sounds quiet. I only hear the constant mantra recording singing from the temple, "Om Mani Padme Om...Om Mani Padme Om.." and the clicking of prayer beads and staggered footsteps and canes and whispering old people voices.
Sometimes it sounds like it smells. Like tea, like sewage, like motorbikes and rickshaws, like foreigners, like incense burning and second hand stands by the roadside.
Dharamsala looks like the Himalayan Mountains, forever as far as I can see. It looks like it doesn't know whether it is very old or very new and can't quite decide which it prefers. It looks like "Free Tibet" insignias, candlelight vigils, protests, posters, documentaries, chanting, NGO's, and campaigns. It looks like beggars, bonfires, trash heaps, cows, congestion, dilapidated buildings and scrap metal.
It is welcoming, offering butter tea. It wears traditional chupas and adornment. It says, "You are Safe here." Sometimes it is scary at night. Sometimes it is lonely. Its a transitory place that feels like welcome home.