HOME FOR TSERING NOW is a white stucco apartment building in Ditmas Park, a Brooklyn neighborhood of shingled houses, wraparound porches, and manicured lawns. Shortly after we first met, he invited me to his place for lunch. Over spicy chicken and home-cooked dal, Tsering and Nima—luminously pregnant at the time—showed me the artifacts of their former life. There were photos of Tsering and other descendants of Tenzing Norgay taken in 1997, posing with Hillary. Beside a window hung a large photo of Tenzing himself, shrouded with a ceremonial silk kata. Locked away in the next room was one of his most precious keepsakes: a Tissot watch that Tenzing gave Tsering's mother before his death in 1986, engraved by European fans. The inscription reads GLI HIMALAYANI ITALIANI—A TENSING—TRENTO 28-2-1958. ("The Himalayan Italians— to Tenzing—Trento, February 28, 1958.")

Tsering and Nima left more than memories behind. They met in 1987 as students at the University of Darjeeling, married six years later, and in May 1997 had a daughter, Norkhila. Now ten, Norkhila lives back home with Tsering's mother; she was eight months old when Tsering and Nima departed for the U.S. They had planned to fetch her shortly, but the family's green-card process has been mired in limbo since 2001. Because of that, Tsering has been unable to go back, though Nima returned in 2003. But now that the paperwork seems to be on track, they hope to bring Norkhila to Brooklyn next year.

On May 23, 2003, Nima gave birth to the couple's second child, a beautiful boy with blackbird eyes. Born a few days before the 50th anniversary of Tenzing's Everest summit, Norsang Norbu Sherpa is among the first Sherpas to be American by birth.

He joins a vibrant, close-knit community. If the center of worldwide Sherpa culture is the Solu Khumbu, in America it's Jackson Heights, the polyglot epicenter of Queens. At the corner of 37th Road and 74th Street, groups of women walk by in traditional Bhutanese robes, shopping bags from Bed Bath & Beyond in hand. Himalaya Video, at the corner of Broadway and 72nd, is the place to pick up a commemorative Everest T-shirt or the latest album by rapper Nurbu Sherpa, who recently moved to New York as well. "Representin' K.T.M.C." (short for Kathmandu City) is his big seller. Or how about a bootleg of Nhyu Bajracharya's single "Ma Sherpa Ko Chhoro," remixed with the sounds of an avalanche and grunting yaks?

Don't be surprised by the Sherpas' appetite for dance music. When it comes to partying, no one—not the sozzled freshmen of NYU or the coiffed scenesters of Brooklyn's Williamsburg district—can hold a candle. New York's Sherpas gather every weekend, almost without exception, in cavernous Queens banquet halls like Tangra, the Dhoka Club, or Five-Star Banquet. (Any large space will do.) Depending on the event, anywhere from 200 to 1,000 or more Sherpas show up; double that if the broader Himalayan community is involved. These throwdowns typically last until about 2 or 3 a.m., with plenty of dancing, Total Request Live style, and more than enough Heineken and Johnnie Walker Red to go around.

Last December, the Sherpas staged a benefit at the St. Vartan Cathedral, on 2nd Avenue and 34th Street, to raise money for a possible future visit by the Dalai Lama. Tsering and his friend Galgen Sherpa made sure I knew about it. "Every Sherpa's gonna be there," Galgen said.

"We are having coordination with Richard Gere-ee," another explained. The Buddhist actor has allied himself closely with the Tibetan cause.

Richard Gere didn't show, but an all-star lineup of Kathmandu musicians did—including Mingma, the rising hope of Sherpa pop here and in Asia; Nepalese crooner Nima Rumba; ponytailed Tibetan rocker Tsering Gyurmey; and petite Indian chanteuse Sindhu Malla. Headlining was Raju Lama, the Himalayan Bon Jovi, his sound equal parts grunge and power ballad.

Almost every Sherpa I'd ever met was on hand. Sonam Sherpa, a Transit Authority employee with the made-for-TV baritone of Tom Brokaw, appeared on stage in his usual getup of black T-shirt and sports coat, the night's emcee. Mongolian Hearts, Raju Lama's band, pumped out pulsing Bolly-pop as giant digital projection screens and skittering colored beams bathed the room in a cerulean glow. About two hours into the concert, Galgen led me backstage, waving us past a hulking bouncer and a throng of teenage Himalayan groupies clutching cameras.

In a small, smoky room, takeout containers were strewn across a table next to whiskey bottles and ashtrays overflowing with stubbed-out Marlboro Lights. Tsering Gyurmey, the Tibetan, smiled placidly before taking the stage with what appeared to be an electrified gourd. Sonam and Galgen were visibly starstruck but managed to look cool as a group of young women streamed in.

"These guys are huge," said Sonam, slouching against the wall with his hands in his pockets. And he was right. "When we perform in Kathmandu," Raju told me, "we get about 30,000 fans."

Onstage, Raju high-fived people in the front row, pulling back with a finger wag if anyone tried to hold on too long. Mingma, making his U.S. debut, alternated between classical throat singing and rave-ups recalling House of Pain's "Jump Around." Too soon, Sonam belted out his last "THANK YOU NEW YORK CITY!" and the DJ fired up the sound system to keep the party going. As usual, video clips appeared on YouTube within hours.