Bhutanese gold smiths at work

We had a goldsmith in our neighbourhood. Every morning around 10, he would start pounding his hammer....tak...tak...tak. Upon hearing the sound we would all know that his session had begun. We, neighbourhood children, would gather there and everything he did was amusing for us. He would open several boxes and untie cloth bags from which would emerge tools tiny, very tiny, shiny, sharp, blunt---all kinds. They were really a sight for us to see and savour. Though we had seen them earlier, every time it was interesting to see him using them dexterously. Sometimes we would even fight there to turn the wheel which would help burn the charcoal furnace. There were many more jingling sounds which cannot be put into words. Whenever he put a small ornament in a wonderful little cup-like thing the yellow metal converted into liquid---he would remove it and put it into a wide vessel and lo---zzzz-sss--sh-- sounds. Our interest never vened. We would go home only when grandmother shouted for me. Even today, I long to become a kid and go to him, but would it happen?

Whenever I visited my village, i used to visit him. About a couple of years ago when I last saw him, he became quite old and frail. All his paraphernalia accumulated dust. He smiled at me as usual above his glasses but with a gaze I could not understand. I was told he passed away leaving his legacy of those sounds that still linger my ears and his house is now inhabited by strangers.

Whenever I hear such sounds, they remind me of my childhood.