It sounded like this. "Chi lo?" What did he say? The truck with the loudspeaker was announcing something about the demonstration, but the sound was fuzzy and nobody understood. When does this thing begin, anyway?Do you know?

It sounded like this. "Sil vous plait?" the tourist asked the old women sitting on the curb, pointing at his camera. They wore traditional Tibetan dresses and held Tibetan flags with sacred Buddhist scarves tied to the top of the poles. Several clicks of the shutter and a parting "jule," once they nodded approval.

It sounded like this. Locals laughing at a tourist who had crouched, got up, readjusted his position, even moved the Tibetan flag held by a woman who was partially turned away and unaware that somebody was taking her picture. Before he could get the shot, she abruptly turned even further away and ruined his photo. "I'm not taking pictures today," I told Rinchen. "I think I'll just participate."

It sounded like this. The soft flutter of dresses and striped aprons as we rose once, twice, three times, to start marching. The first time, we all walked about twenty paces, realized it wasn't time yet, and sat down again. The second time, Rinchen told me to sit back down, as the women were only walking across the road in search of shade. The third time, we started in earnest, and the call and response began.

It sounded like this. Whether in friendship or in anger, when Ladakhi women yell, their voices become shrill, almost nasal. For a while, I walked in a crowd of women, behind a girl in a green "Free Tibet" t-shirt over her Tibetan dress. Her voice never gave out, though it hurt my own throat to hear her calling:

What we want? Freedom now!

Release release! Panchen Lama!

Long live! The Dalai Lama!

We condemn! Government China!

Wake up wake up! UNO!

Support support! Free Tibet!

It sounded like this. Discordant waves washing over our heads. There were groups of women marching in front of and behind me; I was within a group of men; everybody was yelling at the top of their lungs, each group a different chant at varying times. It sounded like this, in waves of shrill and deep voices: WAKE UP WAKE UP PANCHEN LAMA SUPPORT SUPPORT GOVERNMENT CHINA WE CONDEMN JUSTICE NOW!

It sounded like this. Silence from the bystanders watching us, staked out like crows on a telephone wire. Tourists, Muslims, shopkeepers, workers from Bihar, salesmen from Jammu and Kashmir, students in uniform, the perpetually smiling guy from my favorite internet cafe. Watching from their doors, balconies, second story windows, rooftops, from the sidelines.

It sounded like this. An old Tibetan woman in a sparkly purple blouse and sash, hobbling up the slight hill, voiceless but raising her right arm and fist in response to every call.

It sounded like this. The shuffle of feet and soft bobbing of bodies squeezing clockwise around Soma Gonpa. The squeaking of the prayer wheels, turned by Buddhists closest to the building. The incongruous shouts of the marchers ahead of and behind me. The hum of mantras from the old men and women next to me.

It sounded like this. The thrust of hundreds of dark arms into the air as the crowd responded to the calls of one of the leaders of the Tibetan Youth Congress, on the loudspeaker at the polo ground. He was wearing a white silk shirt and sunglasses and had been rousing the crowd for two hours, and his voice broke, again and again, as he shouted "What we want?" "Support support!" "We condemn!"

It sounded like this. A man with gray hair was alternately singing "Free Tibet" and speaking on the makeshift stage at the polo ground. "He is a famous Ladakhi singer," said Tenzin, and immediately I recognized the lilt of traditional Ladakhi vocals, only this time without the strain of horns that sound uncannily like bagpipes. "Up there is Rinpoche from my monastery in Phey. He's the special guest today," he added. The stage was actually part of the bleachers, which were occupied by monks, nuns, and older Tibetans. The rest of us sat down on the dusty grounds, listening to the man sing.

It sounded like this. "Yogi! Yogi!" and "Laurie!" And what does a clasp of the arm or a held hand sound like? What does a smile sound like? Throughout the morning, we ran into our friends who escaped from Tibet to India, or whose parents and grandparents had, who now live in Agling Camp or Choglamsar or Leh or Dharamsala. "Thank you for participating." "I'm Tibetan. I was born in Ladakh."

It sounded like this. Quiet. Cross legged on the sand, the white girl in the azure headscarf played with the baby of a local woman sitting close by. Somebody was going on about Tibet and the Olympics on stage; women squatting on the grounds were chatting under headscarves and umbrellas; tourists strided purposefully or not through the sitting throngs, looking terribly out of place; I sat talking quietly and intermittently with Tenzin, Chomphel, and Tashi; men coming across their friends leaned and hung on them in the most comfortable way; a French girl from our guesthouse found Yogi and asked "Do you understand anything they're saying up there?" But the girl in blue and the tawny skinned baby with sparse fly away hair were quiet, wrapped up completely in their own universe.