Thank you Kis, it is one of my favorites also.
From this and his other postings shortly before his star journey, i have gathered that Uncle would not want us to mourn his death....But to rejoice in his rebirth. I honestly think he gained the enlightenment he was seeking.
http://www.himalayan-imports.com/Sunrise.htm
In the Kathmandu Valley many homes have a roof of poured cement. It is strong, generally leakproof, makes a solid floor if additional stories are to be added, and it provides space that a gabled roof does not provide.
Consequently you will see a lot of activity on the rooftops in Kathmandu and surrounds. Some people raise small crops and house a few chickens on the roof. Laundry is generally done on the roof and clothes draped down the side of the wall to dry in the sun. The colorful saris wafting in the breeze are a beautiful and unforgettable sight. Meals are sometimes eaten on the roof.
When Yangdu and I had our apartment in Swayambu just a ten minute walk down the hill from the temple I would often write on the roof. It was warm and sunny and I could see the glowing golden spires of Swayambunath up on the hill in the setting sun and hear the bells and tsankas (sp -- the big long horns the Buddhist monks play). Very conducive to creative writing.
A couple of houses over from us lived a Tamang man. What work he did I never knew but he would leave early in the morning and return home an hour or two before dusk in the evening. It was his ritual upon returning home from work to go up on his roof, play his flute which is called a "basari" in Nepali and sip from a half pint bottle of Khukuri rum.
The music he made was magical -- haunting -- sometimes sad, sometimes lively and happy. When he played I generally stopped writing and would simply sit and listen. I am sure he was a laborer of some type because of the clothes he wore to work but I felt that he should have been a professional musician. He did things with that little bamboo flute that I could never do and I admired and appreciated his talent.
Sometimes he would look at me while he played and he knew I was listening and watching him. Sometimes he would wave and I would wave back. We became friends of sorts but never met -- an unusual but nonetheless valuable relationship. If for some reason he missed an evening I felt empty, like something was not complete. If I was downstairs in the apartment and heard him start to play I would go up on the roof to listen and he would stop for a moment, wave and smile. I think he appreciated me as his audience.
Strange, perhaps, that we never met and that I do not know his name but I remember him vividly -- the Tamang on the rooftop -- and there are times when I think about the wonderful music he made for all of us and I now wish I had taken the time to go meet him and thank him. I doubt that now we will ever meet but I can still thank him. It is never too late for thanks.
So, thank you, Tamang on the rooftop, for all those wonderful songs you played. I can still hear them sometimes in the dark of the night when I lay awake and remember that wonderful and magical life I lived in Nepal.
Heard melodies are sweet but those unheard are sweeter.
Dhanyabad, bai!
Bill Martino - 11/99
