Full moon night. Walking in Lama’s brother Pujong’s garden—something roaring quite near that I like to imagine is a tiger or leopard (the same one which murdered poor Gunga’s brother), but which is more likely an unhappy cow. The moon like a small sun. No stars yet. On Boudha-side, red and green fireworks shooting in the air, and lots of shouting and faint music. Dark silhouettes of banana tree and sugarcane. I see for the first time that Pujong has a birdfeeder, a tray attached to the fence with birdseed spread out.

Pujong, whose house I sleep in, is a rather unassuming man, with quite different energy from either his brother or his sister. Both Lama and Uppal have a sort of ship’s figurehead air to them. Uppal is like a mountain fire at times—I'm reminded of that dakini of Colorado, Anne Waldman. Before coming to Nepal I had only met one woman with such drive and unassailable confidence; here it seems to be the norm, at least among my ani-haru. But Uppal has even an extra something, this rockhard desire beyond confidence. She is both childlike and ageless. Lama is more subdued, his demeanor gentler and more playful. Pujong is like neither of them, although when the three of them are together I love to see them interact, each so completely themselves and comfortable.