Danku’s mother is as innocent as a three-year-old, and she loves playing with her three-year-old grand daughter, Xiaobei. When she is happy and nobody seems listening, she likes to sing. The songs she sings she learned from her grandmother and they don’t sound anything like the current pop Tibetan songs. She has a super voice. But, as soon as she is put on the spot to sing, she blushes, covers her face, and starts giggling uncontrollably.

One afternoon, Danku tricked her mom into singing while I had my voice recorder on next to her. They were sorting yak hairs, Xiaobei played around. The songs came out in fragments. Then, thunder and lightening cracked open the sky. She continued to sing, her songs ebbed and flew within the bouts of downpour.

Only memory was recorded that time.

I was hopeful on my return trip, perhaps, she could sing again. When all the interviews were done, we took photographs, ate, and laughed at one of the guys among their group none of us liked. That seemed to the best way to bound women together.

Danku, Sanji, Yeedan were all sitting around waiting, the mother sat at the side of the tent, facing against us. And then, she started, singing songs with super long tunes that could cut open the tent and reach out to the sky.