By midday I was feeling quite hungry. I wasn't alone and, since I was the only one with a watch, everyone who had missed breakfast was asking me the time. At last we were given the signal by Shermo Donker and we all went next door to Annay Urgin's house for a feast. Her clay home was dark and damp. In contrast to our house everything was made from earth: the walls, the roof, the floor, the sleeping platform. It was indeed basic, yet she had constructed an incredibly vibrant altar in the darkest corner, housing golden cups – thib - candles and pictures of the lamas. It was the only colourful thing inside the plain dwelling and proudly declared her religious devotion. We prostrated three times before the altar and Annay Urgin placed a small golden bowl of djoma and bread in front of the lamas' pictures as an offering. We then stuffed ourselves. Meat was omitted from this meal as an act of compassion, so instead we ate djoma, tsampa, bread and satsumas, and drank tea. Dickir Ziggy, who was not fasting, had become our slave during the meal as we weren't allowed to move. She scurried around pouring tea and filling the iron stove with dung. Aware of the encroaching fast, we ate so much we felt sick. Then fully satiated and nursing swollen stomachs, we each made a little lanchuch, which looked like a small boat with a bowl on top made from tsampa, filled with a piece of everything we had eaten. We spat water into it to purify ourselves again before we were allowed to get up. Sanjay ran and put our boats on the wall outside and we watched through the window, as the dog ate our handiwork.

There would be no more food until the day after tomorrow. I hoped I could make it. I was enjoying myself so far. Contrary to my expectations, for a religious experience the mood was far from sombre; everyone chatted and laughed and the children shrieked so much that Annay Urgin developed a headache. I hadn't had much time for the contemplation of sentient beings today, but perhaps that would come tomorrow with the silence.

The next morning, I woke to see Shermo Donker pulling on her tsarer inthe dark. I turned on the light and she smiled at me in recognition. Today it was forbidden to talk. Only prayers could be uttered, but since I didn't know any apart from ' Ommani padme hum', I would have to be silent. We prostrated three times and I lay down, listening to Dickir Che mumbling incoherently through closed lips in the next room. She was being teased by Sanjay and Dickir Ziggy, who were not part of the ritual and were trying to make her talk. Then she and Gorbo came into my room to prostrate and we smiled at each other and giggled. It was funny not being able to talk. I nestled down into my thick tsarer and watched the ice crystals melt very slowly on the frosted window-pane. They looked like intricate flowers, flashing white as the sun rose behind them. But too soon they were gone, dribbling in rivulets and racing each other down the warm glass.

By mid-morning I was deep in thought and hungry. I began to think about the fact that I was the embodiment of an animal. What did that mean? Which animal did I represent? I thought about the abra, the small rodent – which the bitch had killed yesterday. It had still been alive when I picked it up and its tiny body had shaken as I held it in my tsarer for comfort. I had guessed it was a mess inside, although it had looked all right. The children and I had made it a home out of an old shoebox and straw, but its damaged intestines had given up an hour afterwards. In all its pain it hadn't made a sound, not a squeak. I was silent. I was the abra. Or maybe I was a bird? I tried to internalise the feeling of being able to fly, then decided that maybe I was trying too hard. Perhaps I wasn't supposed to represent one single beast, but the whole spectrum of creeping, crawling, flying, skulking, living things.

At lunch-time the bitch bit the Chinese carpenter and Shermo Donker hit her with a stick. The bitch was a sentient being worthy of respect, but my sister-in-law had forgotten that rule. Then Rhanjer came round from his house, specifically to tease us. He encouraged us to be less pious by beating us with wet towels and, of course, we were forced to defend ourselves. He giggled like a naughty child and hit Shermo Donker with his silver pipe, which unfortunately hurt her hand. She was struggling so hard not to laugh that the tears poured down her cheeks. It seemed that nobody was prepared to take Nyon Nyi seriously.

That afternoon the hunger set in. It was twenty-four hours since I had eaten anything and a full nineteen since my last drink. I felt tired and my eyelids were heavy, but it was forbidden to sleep during the day, so I fought the fatigue. Although talking was banned, it seemed quite permissible to hum phonetically through pursed lips and it was now becoming something of a game, guessing what people were saying. Of course, my job was much harder. As Dickir Che tried for the fourth time to convey some piece of information to me, I had to give up. Trying to talk in a foreign language with your mouth closed is impossible. The others were quite good at interpreting each other, but Dickir Ziggy had decided to feign ignorance and was taking full advantage of the situation today. If the rules meant that her mother couldn't reprimand her, then she could be as bad as she liked and get away with it. Or so she thought. After a concentrated period of chanting prayers and quietly suffering Ziggy's antics, Shermo Donker thrashed her. Ziggy fled wailing and her mother began swearing under her breath; a weird, dull muttering sound. A new mantra.

I decided to give prayer a try. But I did it in the only way I knew how: in my head and to my God. I had always resorted to prayer in times of need. Whoever I prayed for, I asked God to hold them in His hand, as if He was some benevolent giant. Right now, something in the back of my mind was preventing me from relaxing fully into this experience and I knew what it was. Guilt. I was reminded of the words from Exodus: 'You may worship no other god than me. You shall not make yourselves any idols: any images resembling animals, birds, or fish. You must never bow to an image or worship it in any way; for I, the Lord your God, am very possessive. I will not share your affection with any other god!'

According to the Bible, I was committing sacrilege. But I preferred to think of it as showing respect for Tsedup's culture. I had always despised the zeal with which Christian missionaries had sought to convert indigenous peoples throughout the world. Although I wasn't a disciple of Buddhism, I afforded it the greatest respect. I wanted to learn about the nomads' rituals and, through participating, would be able to understand this place and, consequently, know more about my husband. I also wanted to share this special time with Tsedup's family. I would just have to avoid any mighty thunderbolts that the possessive giant threw at me.

Neither Tsedup nor I were exceptionally religious in terms of either Buddhism or Christianity. I had been confirmed when I was eleven with my best friend, yet I was suspicious of my motivation. In retrospect I had probably just wanted to copy her. My mother had been my main source of encouragement in matters of faith. When I was a child our house had been littered with religious paraphernalia. There were palm crosses tacked to the walls and postcards of Jesus on the dresser. On the wall in the toilet was a rhyme I had pondered throughout my youth. It began, 'Go placidly amid the noise and the haste and remember what peace there may be in silence…'

Today I felt peaceful and silent. I prayed to God for all the sentient beings and was satisfied with that compromise. Whatever else I felt about my religion, I knew that God was love and Buddha was compassion. When you stripped the religions down to their bare essentials, that was it for me.