Rooftops above, rooftops below. People practicing yoga on rooftops, monks watching the sun set. Colorful clothes drying on rooftops, cows munching grass. (Yes, cows munching grass on rooftops. I have no idea how they got up there).
Tonight, I heard music, laughter, and clapping.
It’s hot in Dharamsala, and the door to my lanai was open. I walked out and listened. Beautiful.
I thought maybe the music was coming from the rooftop of our guesthouse. I walked up the stairs, and emerged into darkness. I was able to make out the shapes of people sitting near the edge of the roof. A cigarette burned in the darkness, its tip glowing orange. But no music.
So I walked to the edge, put my hands on the rail, and looked down.
On the rooftop below, a circle of people had gathered. They beat hand drums and strummed guitars. Their voices rose in warm, happy song. One girl’s voice lifted above the rest, moving, strong.
There was joy in the air, and every few moments, the music was punctuated by whooping and cheering. A candle burned beside them, its white wax melting in the night.
They are from Chile, someone whispered beside me. They have been playing music all night.
Beyond everyone, beyond every rooftop, the full pink moon rose in the sky.