Rows and rows in glaring sunlight, rustling along the coasts and on mountain slopes, the crowns blown to stars, while the one that stands alone resembles a great roaster on a long grayish stilt. And if the monsoon rains fall, like curtains of lead, their head functions as a funnel that pours the water down the trunk to drench the mosses and dark clump of roots. And when the storm passes they bow like grasses. A tribute to a tree as gracious as it is useful. I will never forget my first glass of tuba. I got it from one of my two fishermen friends I saw sharing the drink…