I had been dreading the midnight clanging of the church bells signifying the transition into the austere season of Lent. I recalled how the year before, I had struggled with returning to sleep because of how incessantly they seemed to ring. By the time I hit the sack—between 10.30 pm and 11 pm, the carnival celebrations in the town square were still robustly underway. Tramin takes this festival more seriously than any other. In fact, carnival ‘time’ in this town officially begins at 6 am on January 7. Until the day before, there is a feeling of Christmassy sanctity. But the very next morning, one hears what sounds like a canon ball and a very particular whip-like instrument being beaten against the wind. These midnight bells signalling Ash Wednesday feel to me like the church vociferously reclaiming time from its ‘heathen’ or ‘pagan’ clutches. They sound for at least 15 minutes. This year, I tried to minimise their impact on my sleep by being in bed earlier and by shutting all the doors to other rooms in the house. I still heard them when they began ringing, but because I was already in the sweet embrace of sleep, I was able to block them out.

I needed to sleep well, because I am approaching the 37th week of pregnancy, and I had two appointments on Wednesday at the hospital, one with the anaesthesiologist, the second with the doctors for my final ultrasound. In all likelihood, I would be given a delivery date, too, since mine is to be a scheduled C-section. I woke up fresh at 6.30 am, and twelve hours later was back in bed ushering our toddler to sleep. At 7 pm, the church bells began ringing once again, announcing the sole service in Tramin. Since he was now fast asleep and I was already reasonably decently dressed, I told my partner I was heading across to the church for the service.