DAD’S STORY and other writings by Min Chit Paing
A Wedding Photo
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven”
Although the sun set in, the whole surrounding was still bright. The last ray of a day left its dim residue in the house. Through small windows for light and ventilation, light revealed some thick earth oil soaked wood beams. I counted the numbers of the beams under the roof with a sudden, empty thought.
I was lying easily on the bare planks floor. I had any other things to do and to think deeply and so, I was slouching on the floor. I thought that I was outgrown with my childhood habit that was lying here and slouching there. But it was strange that old habit returned to me as soon as I arrived back at this house.
I wondered if it was because I was possessed by my childhood spirt that was left by me. I wondered if it was more like a supernatural story. I wanted to laugh at myself and so, while I was looking at the beam and I smiled. As I thought properly, my old habit was gone when I arrived at the city after leaving my house. No matter this kind of habit that came with since one’s birth or one’s childhood or one’s preference became impossible to stick to it when one found hard to struggle for a piece of shelter in the city. Not only the city was congested with people and dense accommodation, but also it was as busy and hardworking as bees, anyone had to fold this habit away when one was in the city.
In that sense, this habit did not disappear. It became latent because of lack of a spacious space. Or I wonder if I was so busy to have enough time to go in for it.
At village, we had spacious places for rolling here and there and slouching even in the smallest house or a bamboo floor house. As a child, I was not busy as adults and although I had household work, I did not have any responsibilities, I had much more time for slouching. I became a guest being a hybrid urban girl, household work seemed running well with my assistance or without my assistance. It did not bring much effect whether I was involved in it or not. So, it depended on my wish, I wanted to help, I helped. I was involved in it if I found it unsuitable. If I did not want to help, I let it be. Sometimes, I thought that it was suitable and I lied to myself. So, I had much time when I was young in the house.
The house had a spacious floor and I had much easy time to spend and the habit revisited me.
Scurrying Nyo Mya on the beam without losing its balance came into my sight and my thought became connected with cats. I was brought up in a house in which not less than seven cats were breeding and I asked myself that I was a cat’s lover. I did not give it a thought to that question. I wondered in what way a cat’s lover is related to cats. At that time, I was honest with myself that there were many questions that I did not know their answers. I said I was sincere to myself? This expression sounded like a holy one? But, I liked it even reflecting on this expression.
I was not sure I was a genuine cat’s lover. But, truly, I lived very closely with cats. They seemed to be pleased with staying intimately with me or playing with me. They were at the sight of me when I lived at this house. They were curling up, or slouching or lying on a height, or at a warm and tender place or a place where the sunlight was arrested. Sometimes, they liked to curl up on my lap for snoozing or sometimes, they were lying alongside with me.
I wondered if I got the habit of lying here and there from the nearby lying cats within the sight of me. I reflected that it was an odd thing if that was true. On the other hand, I thought that it could happen. So, I asked that men could learn from animals and I thought that animals could not learn from men. I thought that when cats or dogs gave hands to people or sat and stood up, it was meant for gaining care or food from men and it was their effort to get them. Should we think that they have learnt that from men? I thought that men could learn from animals. There can be many things to learn from them. Hunters learn hunting skills from big games when they hunt their preys, keeping their steps quiet and silent. Men invented airplanes when they tried to fly like a bird after studying the flight qualities of birds.
Men invented a mass transportation vehicle with the help of machine while they try to fly individually like a bird. Men tend to imagine to fly lightly alone without the help of vehicle. Men tend to imagine to fly like birds in the sky or to stay submerged like fish for long enough. They like to possess such skills. From those imaginative wills, they have tried to portray from fairy tales to sci-fi stories or heroes to super heroes who have power to fly or to breath underwater.
I like those scenes in which heroes fly swiftly in the air before they descend to the ground and they are my favorite scenes. I wonder if I still like them. I think I do.
When I lied down on the floor, I upheld my hair that was long just over my shoulder and I caressed the spreading hair on the floor with my hands and I thought up a thing. Whether heroes are flying in the air or descending to the ground, their hair is tidy. I wondered what happened to my wavy and puffy hair. Whenever I swim, I do not use a swimming cap and so, whenever I submerge, my hair becomes upheld like sea weed because of water pressure and they are swaying with waves. There is water pressure as well as air pressure. Even a parachute because of air pressure, its sheet becomes bloated. So, hair tends to be buoyant in water and so also hair in the air. Heroes in films seem beautiful as ever when their hair is fluttering.
Oh, what a crap I have been thinking! Do they really matter in life? A thought or an action should be meant for life struggle and survival? Now, I like to think a trifle one than a serious one. The reason of why I returned to my house is probably that I do not like to think an important thing for my life.
I turned myself on my side from lying, after stretching out my hands under hair. So, my tilted head happened to fall onto one of my stretched arms.
Small flames of candles firstly came into my view. With shelves, tables, candles’ flames on the altar that took up the full space of the east side wall were bright in the dim eventide. Because of candles’ flames, the gilded Buddha image seemed brighter, and the white marble Buddha image seemed to glister with gold. Candles’ flames were reflecting on water in glass cups that were meant for donating. White star flowers that were placed in every vase on the altar were bright with golden orange color transmitting from the candles’ lights.
Mae Mae (my mom) was sitting reservedly on thinphyu mat that was fit for an adult on the floor, facing the altar that was bright with candles’ lights. With a black sarong on which red small flowers were printed and a white short sleeved buggy blouse, her fully formed back were visible. This scene was very familiar with me since I was young. The difference was the outfit and her back. I used to see the back of my grandma who was thin and stooped. My mom used to wear a dark colored, big floral Patik sarong instead of a flower printed sarong, and wear a long-sleeved cotton instead of a buggy blouse. Instead of my mother’s full formed back, I saw the back of my grandma’s. But, the way they said prayers was the same: they just whispered devotional texts.
Since I was young, my grandmother used to say prayers at this hour. My grandmother used to live as a kind of person who found her own peace, cultivating loving kindness, sitting in meditation, saying prayers, toiling in gardens for her solitary earning since I was young. I thought that she was a person who found peacefulness in religion rather than a pious devotee.
In contrary, mother kept herself away from religion. I did not have any idea of my mother who would sit reservedly in front of the altar for her devotion for a certain time. Since I was young, mother was as busy as bees. She woke up at three in the morning before sunrise and worked until eleven in the evening. She did not have much time to say prayers for three times. Our family livelihood and her job were her priorities. I did not know if she ever asked for her wishes before the Buddha. She worked as if her own efforts would grant her fulfill her wishes.
I understood that she was not a pious person although she was engaged in donation as others did but she believed in the results from her own practical job. She was so brave. Mother brought up three offspring when she was the same age as me and she struggled her life without giving up for supporting us and she was so strong. As for me, as of now, not even to raise a child, I did not have any courage to bring up a cat. I wondered why she was so strong, believing in what. Although mother was a pious devotee, she was struggling with work and she did not have enough time to show her piety. Or a time or a condition changed her to believe in religion? Or according to communal norms, she was now at the age of pursing liberation from bondage of life, she became complacent herself with cultivating devotional life?
Would I find liberation when I reached their age? Honestly speaking, I feared that I could not give an answer to everyone’s expectation. In those days, I used to assist the odd jobs of my grandma, I was a pious person like my grandma. On days when my grandma took a trip, I took the place where my mother was not before and I sat reservedly in front of the altar in place of my grandma for praying. Like my grandma, I tried to live according to Buddhist teachings.
I am asking myself now that I still believe in Buddha or his teachings. I do not have any desire to hang nothing except a large dreamy scenery photo and a water color painting, and so, what should I believe in? My vases are not on a small shelf or an exclusive space in front of Buddha images. They are on my desk. They are on a low table that can be seen as soon as you enter the room. You will find my vases beside a photo in which a family photo including me and my younger sisters and a girl with an active and bright smile.
I used to believe that the dhammas I have been striving to live will grant peace and justice for me. Instead of peace, what did I find? It is severe patience to control my feelings and freedom and the complacency that encourages to accept satisfaction of injustice rights. Then, I stowed away dhammas and tried to find myself and I found a thing that would misguide me. That was oppression.
When we were born, we were wrapped with white cloths and invisible colors for putting stickers on us. Together with them, there came oppression. Dhammas that taught us to grow up have oppression. Social and community norms have restrictions and oppression that tell us how to exist and how to live. To deter to know my own existence is that oppression.
I need to remove things that oppress me to know and to accept my own existence. I have a desire to liberate from that oppression. Then, do I need to renounce the oppressive dhammas that I used to adhere to? With that question, I began to feel suspicious on them. I ask these questions again and again.
The concepts that have been handed down over 2500 years ago and their successive teachings and the concepts of preachers mingled and so, the reality has been lost? Those concepts tend to oppress us because they lost their reality? Then, I disbelieve in preachers and I still believe in dhammas that must have real essence. Do I still believe in Buddha who has expounded real and original dhammas?
Why do I still believe in the Buddha? It is because I was molded to believe in him since I was young? In his original teachings there were probably some oppressive thoughts on us? What should we expect from the thoughts of a feudal and rich king’s son? He was born with many attendants surrounding him. At the age when I was struggling to live my life, he was enjoying his best wealth and he had power being a rich man’s son. In his prime time, he enjoyed his life fully. He renounced the best things in his life and preached that renunciation is the path to real peace. Do I still need to believe in a preacher like him?
Gaining in different ways means renouncing in different ways. But, his teachings encourage us to renounce like him. Do his teachings inclusive of oppression on us to influence us? A group of people who gain benefits from his teachings still believe his dhammas but for me who gets injustice rights and severe patience, do I still need to believe in his?
“Oh, my Buddho!” What happened to my thoughts? I want to laugh at my frequent exclamation. Should I exclaim “Buddho!” at this time? Will they tell that I will be going to hell who are lying lazily like a cat in front of the altar on which famous pagoda images and Buddha images are being hang? Hell? Who will decide I should be sent to hell or not? Do the glittering pagoda images and Buddha images have abilities to decide my going to hell?
Do these images portraying a person who lived over 2500 years ago look like the same man? I cast my glance at the biggest glittering Buddha image on the altar. Then, my glance moved to a marble Buddha image that had orange hue because of flames. These two images have many differences. I look at each of famous pagodas and Buddha images throughout the country. A photo of a standing Buddha of Bagan era lies to the rear of the altar, and beside the photo, the altar ends with a two-storied glass altar shrine for the Buddha image.
The bureau stood against the wall where the altar was placed. When I lied down to stretch my feet, I leaned my back against the wall. Though the bureau having two different sections was a two decked one, each section had two decks and so, it would be truer if we called it four-decked bureau. Both decks in the upper compartment were full with books, and the lower two decks had full of cotton-stuffed blankets, blankets, pillows and bed sheets. On the day when I came here, my mom brought out necessary things for me to sleep.
Although I found my grandma taking out a green front cover book written by Chan Myae Sayardaw from the bureau to read, mom had never touched any books. It would be truer if we said she had never read them rather than saying she never touched them. After putting books back in order, she tried to stack them properly. In fact, there were no more than five books that could interest me when I was young. But, when I became addicted to books, and I did not have pocket money to rent some books at the book rental shop, I took out books from the bureau that I had read all. I read some books two or three times. When I reflected that time, I had read some books that were not supposed to read them at my age. Whenever I asked mom who read and bought those books, she could not give me the exact answer.
Foraging books on the upper deck of the bureau, I put a chair in front of the bureau, my look turned towards a place rather than books. Those were photos that were on the wall against which the bureau stood, and on the top of the bureau. Sometimes, my attention on books was distracted and I placed my hands on my chin on the top of the bureau, I looked at each photo for a long time. I often looked at the photos since I was young whether sitting on the floor or standing. Sometimes, I came here to find something, and I forgot that to look at each photo unintentionally and returned. Now, I was lying on the floor, playing with kittens or my two younger ones, I looked at each photo that I used to see.
Until now, the photos were hung without changing their places. No new photos were added and those photos were not reduced. Changing my slanting position to lying down one, I put both of my palms under my head. My head got a cushion to raise my head, and my eyes readily reached each photo on the wall.
In the dim light of the evening, I could not see rather old photos clearly, but I knew exactly people in each photo and what they were wearing. I knew them because I felt like I saw them in daylight.
The photo next to the bureau was a black and white photo of a man who rather looked like Pha Pha (Dad). I knew it was not the photo of Pha Pha since I was young. Someone told me that it was my grandpa’s. I did not remember the person who told me that. Even I did not remember whether I asked him who was in the photo or not. Before I was born, my grandpa left the world for good. For me, I had this only photo concerning my grandpa.
Next to the photo of my grandpa was the photo of the torso of my grandma. She wrapped all her hair backward not to leave a single strand of hair on her forehead and to do a slanted hairdo on her head. Her manner revealed distinctive youthfulness with smiley lips and eyes. Under the clear neck, a simple blouse with bean- shaped buttons. I regarded the color of the blouse was white because it was the black and white photo. Or it would be another light color that could be seen white in the photo. Although my grandma whom I saw since I was young was quite different from the photo. But, I knew that it was her definitely without needing to ask questions to elders.
Next to her photo was the black and white photo of a wedding ceremony. The bridegroom who wore a full traditional Myanmar dress and the bride was sitting in front of a wedding ceremony’s setting. They were my grandpa and grandma.
And, there were color photos. Though they were not bright and clear, they could show basic colors. All were the photos of wedding ceremonies.
Next to the wedding photo of my grandpa and grandma, an elongated photo lied. The bride wore a full Myanmar dress of gold orange color and the bridegroom wore a gold orange color Bangkok longyi with a white Myanmar jacket. They held each other’s hand with solemn expression. The bride was the eldest sister of Pha Pha and she was my great aunt.
The second photo showed the bridegroom with a western style suit and the bride wore a white gong with white veil. They both wore a red ribbon on each chest. Their solemn faces showed their youthfulness clearly. When one looked at the face of the bridegroom, one could know that he and Pha Pha were brothers. There was another exception in the photo. It was the background behind the couple. Though they wore western outfits, the background setting was the theme of traditional Myanmar setting.
When I was young, I understood that this was the photo of a wedding. When I grew up a little, I came to understand that the wedding had some kind of Chinese theme, because they wore red ribbons on their chests. But, I felt something annoyed at the difference between their western outfits and Myanmar setting. But, I did not ask a question about it to others.
Once, when I was in my teen age, in our street there was a wedding in a house, and I grew up a little bit and I went there with my mom to help. Normally, I did not go with her. I knew that house well and whenever I came back from school in the evening, their family members including the bride-would-be were sitting in front of the house and greeted me and I felt I had some intimacy with them. And so, I came along with my mom. Out of curiosity, I felt like I would like to know what the wedding would be.
And then, I came to understand my indignation about the western style couple’s outfit and Myanmar background wedding setting. Whether from the side of the bridegroom or from the side of the bride, if they were a mix of Chinese blood, before the eve of the wedding (before the eve of bridal ritual time) they wore red ribbons on each chest wearing western style outfit and greeted guests.
But, why did my uncle choose to hang up the photo that took the eve’s night rather than the wedding day? It might be because of the best photo or it might be that they gave the photo to the bride’s parents and they would hang that photo in their house. The wife of my uncle was called Aunty Lay (little Aunty) by us. She was not from our native place. The wedding did not take place at this village and they hung whatever photo they could get. At that time, not even in our village, the whole township found it difficult to put a frame to an enlarged photo.
The last photo was the one of Pha Pha (dad) and Mae Mae (mom). One would not find any youthful features on their faces like those couples in the three previous photos. On their smiling faces, there could be seen shyness. When I was young, I thought that it was the other wedding photo. When I grew up, I figured out that their photo was quite different from others.
In the three previous photos, there were several similarities of the background setting behind the couple. The things in them had some similarities. The background seemed to enliven in the photos. But, my parents’ photo had the flat background. The background had some waves and they were not color blotches. And, their outfits and the hairstyle of my mom. For a tall man like my dad, the arm of the jacket seemed to be short and the shirt’s collar was long. The color of his longyi was the same as my mom’s. Though her bridal outfit was fit with her, her hairdo was not the usual one. On her forehead, there was a bunch of coiled hair that slanted down. She did not have a proper hairdo and she had her hair tied with a big clip.
When I grew up, I came to realize that they wore bridal outfits temporarily in front of a wedding setting curtain. When I was young, I thought that every couple got married holding a wedding ceremony. When I became older, I came to know that they got married without doing that. Although my parent’s wedding photo was different from others, they might have married holding a wedding ceremony. Although my parents did not tell me, according to our neighbors they were lovers known to everyone in the quarter, their parents also agreed them. They also loved each other and I thought that they did perform that. I had never asked about that to my mom when I grew up. But, I came to realize they did not hold a wedding ceremony when they got married. I did not ask them why.
Because of an action that caused the vibration on the floor and soon, that reached me. I did not change my lying posture, and I turned my looks from photos to my mom who was saying her prayers. After the prayers, my mom tried to stand up pushing her palms against the floor. After standing up, she directed towards a window that was on the left side of the altar. Then, I stood up looking at my mom. I stood up before the wall on which photos were hung passing by my mom to reach near the bureau. And, I looked up at the photo of my parents. My mom gently threw down the donated water through the palm leave roof towards drain right under the eaves as my grandma and I did.
“Haven’t you held a wedding ceremony?”, I asked gazing at the photo. My voice was louder than the sound of falling water onto the palm leave roof. The sound of falling water stopped on the roof and our environ became silent for a moment.
With surprises, my mom replied, “No, why?” Gazing at the photo, I did not know she answered that, turning towards me or still facing outside the window. Before she did not say prayers, I was with her and it was not a surprise thing. She seemed to be surprised because the question came out of the blues. After answering my question, she continued to pour water down.
“Where did you take that photo?” I asked. At that time, she had poured water and placed the bucket down on the floor, I heard the sound. I heard a long exhale coming out from her as if she tried to recall her memories. After a while, I heard an answer from her.
“After your sister were born, we took that photo in a photo studio at a pagoda festival. Do you remember the photo in which you and your sister sat together on a bench? We took this photo together with it.”
I did not remember that photo and its existence. In that photo, I was four years old and my sister was two years old. That was why I did not know when the photo was put on the wall. When I looked back, my mom was standing beside the window, she nipped off withered star flowers on the coconut stalks onto a flower basket on the table. And, after doing that, she put those coconut stalks into a bamboo cup that was curved out of a wooden flat board.
“Why didn’t you too hold the wedding ceremony? You two loved each other and both sides did not oppose it?” I asked her, walking towards her.
“Yes, that time it may be in the period of uprising or after that. I am not sure. It was the time when the student troops were in our village,” she said, and then a pause, she turned towards me. Reaching near her, I picked up a coconut stalk at which withered star flowers attached. I pressed the withered flowers upward. Then, my mom continued her talk nipping off the withered flowers.
“Your grandpa was arrested on the ground of communicating with the student troops. At that time, our sisters were not at home. We roamed in the village selling petrol and diesel. We had to sell each ward. When I went out to sell kerosene, a resident from our quarter came to inform me. Your dad was arrested and your house had been searched. Fearing, I was at a loss. I ran to your dad’s house to say that, sobbing. That house was the nearest one where I roamed to sell kerosene. Your aunts who were selling other quarters ran to their relatives. No one dared to go back home. Three days later, your grandpa came back to the villages with wounds. Although your aunts came back home, but not me.
I asked, “So, you did not go back home but you stayed there?” before she had not finished her words. How would the neighborhood describe a girl who stayed at a lover’s house for three days and three nights. I knew the ending before my mom said.
“Yes, elders from that house told that they would send me properly to my parents with a gesture of formality. Your dad asked me whether I wanted to do that. But, I knew his condition. At our house, things were not settled well. The era was not good. Your grandpa shrieked in his dream. It took long to overcome it. They pointed with guns at their backs for guiding them. And, they asked them to shout out loud if they knew someone was before them. It’s lucky. That’s why you had a chance to see your grandpa.”
“It’s a kind of human shield?”
I uttered bitterly when my mom was searching for her strength to carry on. My mom said, “It’s a human shield or protection, I did not know it. You know more. So, I said it was fine if he did not hold that. Not only a wedding ceremony, but also a reception we did not carry out. I continued to live here then.”
“Sometimes do you feel repentance not to hold the ceremony?” I readily asked her. She put the flowerless coconut frond into the bamboo basket and looking at me with smiles.
“No, I do not feel remorseful. I feel envy when others wearing those beautiful outfits and come out to the ceremony. But I accept our situations are different. But, there is one thing. I felt like I was not belonged to this house until you two were born. Until this photo was hung here. Only when the photo was hung, I felt like I am a member of this family. So, I thanked him for that. It was not like that he knew my feeling and we took the photo. He felt like he was not dutiful enough concerning the wedding. And, he himself liked photos and memories. He liked to store photos and writing notes.”
Saying these, she thought up something and smiled. Her smile made me smile too.
“I remember that day. I am not sure you remember it. You started that story. On that day, we wore beautiful outfits and went to a pagoda festival. At the edge of the festival, there was a counter and when we reached an enclosed shop, you asked your dad. What is it? He replied that it was a photo shop. You have your father’s liking and you said that you would like to take a photo. So, he yielded you right away. While both of you were taking photos, your father who knew Myanmar language well talked with people from the shop about photography. I did not know what they were talking about. After you were taken photos, he said that we should take a wedding photo. They hired outfits and setting too. At first, I felt shy. I just feigned. I wanted to take a photo as a memory. I agreed to it. I felt like laughing up to now because of you. While I was changing clothes, you cried out because I was lost. So, we had to console you a lot.”
She said and laughed and so, her eyes became bright. After thrusting a coconut stalk, she turned towards outside of the window. I looked outside as my mom did. There were some pink clouds here and there on a pale blue sky. They were like cotton candy spiraling out of the blue machine.
“I think that I have a thing that is luckier than a bride who had a wedding ceremony. Do you know what? Other couples seem to separate after marriage. When they have kids, it is harder to see them both. We lived together because whenever your father goes, he brings me with him. It happens until you were born. Wherever I wanted to go, he accompanied me. Others did not do that. If I wanted to go to other’s village’s fest, if there were no one to accompany, he himself inquired about a car in a city and bring it with him back. That’s it.”
“You are like lovers because you two did not get married,” I told her with a laugh at the end of her sentence. My mom seemed to be shy although she was a grown up. She looked at me with a scornful look, hinting I was such a naughty kid. It became silent again because I did not have a ready question to ask her. My mom broke that silent with a question.
“Won’t you get married?”
I did not have a ready answer for that. As soon as I heard it, I became petrified as if I broke a coconut stalk in my hand.
“Can I get married?” I wanted to beat myself answering this. “No, I won’t. I will be a spinster.” I should have said that. But, I did not know what I had done. If my mom asked, “Why?”, I needed to answer it. In a few moments, I was in trouble. But, my mom did not ask a question. My mom looked at the pale blue void through the window. And, my mom said, “Ma Khaing is the third partner of your aunt. But they feel very happy. We are fine. One day, you will have someone like that.”
My voice trembled, “Mom!” My voice was louder. I faced the situation I did not want to confront. I decided I would not bring things concerning that onto this house. Now, I could not evade it. I felt shocked at the end of my mom’s words although I prepared beforehand because I did not want to face it. Sorrow surged up to the neck from the chest. Tears welled up in the eyes. My mom had already known my situation. How did she know it? It was her warmest welcome though she was not ready for that. No, I felt not sad. I had to be happy.
A wavy lock of hair on her forehead moved a bit because of wind or action. The black wavy hair that tied behind was bright in the evening light. My mom who was gazing far away, facing slanting towards the bright sky. She continued, “I did not understand what you are doing and demanding. But, I know what kind of person you want to be with.”
At the end of her words, I walked over to her and embraced her behind. And, I kissed her hair. I smelt thanakkha and hair oil. Although I held up my tears and sorrow, I couldn’t hold up my soaked nose. When I kissed her hair, I let out a sob. Hearing my sob, she placed her hands over my hands that embraced her. Placing my chin on her shoulder, I closed my eyes gently. My mom continued, “Nowadays, we have plenty of photo studios. You can take a photo like us although you cannot get married. It is not needed to be recognized by all. You yourself are the one who matters most.”
I opened my eyes, thinking that she would smile adding happiness and console. I looked at my mom who gazed and smiled. I found thin silver clouds instead of pink ones. I found a crescent of moon amid clouds clearly. I assumed that our view was the same, I said to my mom.
“The crescent seems like your eyebrow.”
“No, mine is more beautiful.”
Smiling, she retorted. Then, we both looked at the waxing moon and laughed together. I had a desire to hang a big photo in my room and I felt excited thinking that there would be another photo at the head of my bed. My heartbeats mixed with our laughs.
Believing that sounds never disappear and those who try to find them will surely find them. Our laughs in that evening showed how much we were happy and my heartbeats might be heard too.
Min Chit Paing, 2023
A Shop House
Will you believe if I say that a house carries memories?
“Stomp!”
The suppressed sound echoes to make loud and it becomes louder than it should be.
I realized that the afternoon was so quiet to this extent. It could be said that night time was less quieter than day time if you considered the buzzing of insects. The whole environ was engulfed with motionless air in the afternoon sunlight and it seemed that it was lazy to transport sound waves and every action seemed lethargic.
As if they were deserted by people, houses in the street lost their activities. Probably, dogs in the street forgot to bark or to play. Trees and flowers in the environ of the houses were very slow to stir. The house lizard on the wall of the house did not only try to prey insects but also to produce its regular squeak. Spiders that built their cobwebs on beams and thatch roof were static. Except the occasional vrooming of motor bikes, the whole environ was totally quiet.
I feared that amid the quietness, the loud voice might wake grandma up while she was sleeping in the adjoining room that was divided by a brick wall. But, when I found an iron loose from the iron ring, I felt happy.
Visibly, the rust on the big iron sheet stuck on it like fish scales. A rather square 3 by 3 feet iron sheet that was attached with a handle was used for a door. One of the edges of the iron sheet had a hole and that hole was fit into an iron ring that was buried into the concrete frame. That ring could hold a big lock. Instead of putting a lock into that ring, they put a long iron rod that was less size than the diameter of the ring.
It seemed that they did not try to dislodge the iron rod from that iron ring for many years. So, the whole iron sheet was rusty and the iron rod, the iron ring and the iron sheet were indivisible. It seemed that when they thrust the iron rod into the ring, they found it easy. But, because of rust, the iron rod was stuck in the ion ring.
The iron rod was immovable when I tried to dislodge it with my hand. When I hit it with a hammer, the noise was so unbearable that it could bother grandma’s sleep. So, I decided to take it out with a piece of wood. Not to produce noise, I hit it with less force. The rust on the iron rod peeled off a little bit and it shook a little bit. I thought that it would be effective if I hit it hard. As I thought, the iron rod had dislodged from the iron ring but the noise sounded louder.
When the noise died down, I pricked my ears toward the room of grandma. I did not hear any sounds from her room and the whole environ became quiet as usual. I cleared away the iron rod from the iron sheet and put the wood boulder on the floor. I heard an echo together with the harsh sound. I felt an echo when I placed the wood boulder on the floor. I became very interested in the iron door as soon as I saw it. The final blow produced louder echoes and that excited me. I really wanted to know what would lie under the door.
Standing before bending knees, and bending my back forward, I held the iron handle with both of my hands to lift it up. As I had thought before, the iron door was not that light. Although all the door was rusty, its hinge was still good. I exerted some force to lift it up and the door subdued readily. The way the door that was close tight with the floor opened was like turning the cover of a tome.
Looking down at the space where the door was open, a volume of darkness rushed into the bright scene. All the things became blurry because of the replacement of light and darkness in the vision and so eyes spontaneously shut down without any efforts. When I opened my eyes to blink one or two times, I found the concrete wall and floor in the dim light because full lights could not enter. The wall did not go down up to the floor but half of the way the wall had an extra block of flat brick. That extra wall block acted as a step towards the room.
Normally, I was hesitant to venture towards an unknown thing. I knew that it was a basement and what would be there in the room. That knowledge made my mind excited. I tried to go down into the room without hesitation this time. I sat down on the concrete floor and I was dangling both of my legs in the room. Resting both of my hands on the floor, sliding my body down before putting a foot on the landing. As soon as the foot touched the landing, I jumped down into the room.
Controlling my composure because of jumping down, I tried to stand up. At the same time, a hard object fell down from above and sounded thud that made louder with the echo of the room. I was suddenly startled and I blocked my ears with both hands, and knees bent down and squatted down. After beholding the whole room, a thought emerged in the head as if seeing a movie scene.
I was in the dim lighted small room. I remembered I was a kid. I did not know my age. Beside me, kids were sitting closely. I looked up at where the light came in. I found two legs of a kid coming through a ceiling hole through which light came in. Two big boys who were with me held the kid to get down. I found some clear plastic bags of fish chips dangling from the ceiling of the room apart from them. Gazing at the fish chip bag, there came out a loud explosion and I blocked my ears with both of my hands, I ducked my head among kids who had the same age as me.
I suddenly remembered this incident that had never appeared in my memories. I had been here before. It was a kind of deja vu. I did not have any memories about this place and I assumed that I had never been here. Although my mother said, “You have been here”, I replied, “I have never been here. If I have been here, I will remember.” Because of my denial, my mother thought that it was me who had been here or it was my brother who had been here. I replied, “It is my brother who has been here.” It was not an error in her memory but I totally forgot it.
When the bike driver said “Here, we are” and he halted before a house in the main road, I got off from the bike, placing a luggage beside and I looked at up the house. At that time, the house was totally estranged to me. It was a two storied house with the concrete foundation and the wooden structure. It had full of earth oil but it was dusty so that the upper floor was solemn. The color glass on the tightly closed windows had lost its luster because of dust and dart. The unpainted concrete foundation was so massive and it was not complementary with the wooden structure upper part. It looked like a fusion of two different houses combing upper and lower parts. I thought that it was out of proportion not withstanding I had been at this house before.
The facade of the house was out of dimension but also its interior was the same. The ground floor had three sections such as the ante-room, the middle room and the kitchen. The middle room was the broadest and largest place in the house. The width of the upstairs had the same size as the ante-room. If one looked at the house from its rear or its side, the upstairs of the house seemed to cut down. It seemed that the middle room and the kitchen were adjoining parts of the main house.
There were folded wooden doors that were used in bygone days in Chinese stalls, stowed away entrances, an iron folded door mounted on the middle entrance. Small wooden placard on which “Welcome”, “Mingalarbar” were written with colorful plastic bottons were seen in the ante-chamber. A vacant glass bureau, a signboard on which a handwriting stayed was put on the glass bureau. On that placard one could see “Oasis Cold Drinks”, “Ice Cream”, “Phaludar”, “Paythee Salad”, “Ice Salad” etc and a Disney character Duck holding an ice cream cone.” There were two bureaus buried on the walls of ante-room. A straight ladder that could lead to the tight upstairs from the ante-room. There were blotches of earth oil, and engine oil under the ladder. A rusty scale was dangling from a pole under the ladder. Under the scale, the dust was stuck and on the dirty and dark wooden bench there were weights that were placed out of order. In the middle room, there were the legs of the folding tables, the tops of the tables, Chinese folded chairs, a hand-driven ice crusher that was made of iron and it had an embossed Chinese character “Yay”. Wooden barrels that were controlled with iron rings. Tin cylinders for making ice cream. Thick paper containers for London and Triple Five cigarettes.
Before I got down to the basement, I thought that everything in the house was strange, out of dimension and uncomplimentary. I was not interested in them. When I climbed up from the basement, I got my childhood memory and some questions with me. I wondered why they put an empty basement together with the house. From glass bureau, to the placard with art handwritings and an iron scale. Why were they present in the house, I wanted to know. In connection with the basement, I became interested in the house, things in the house. This basement of the house helped me to bring back my childhood memory that showed that I had been here. This house was my memory. I believed that it could find more than these households, residents and memories.
What did you think of the concept that said a shop could tell its era?
Grandma answered, “Why did they build the basement for?”
“We have been selling things since we were engaged in smuggling.”
At the end of my question that was “Smuggling isn’t illegal?”, her dim eyes brightened and she made a laugh. I did not expect her to laugh like that. It seemed that she had this composure: even she had a thing for her amusement, she did not want to lose her composure.
“If smuggling is illegal, our livelihood will be that,” she said with a smile, looking at me. Suddenly, she could not retrieve smiles from her lined and flabby skinned face, her cast away eyes lost smile. Her eyes seemed to be ready for telling her opt-coped stories. Her hand clamped on my hand that was placed on the floor of a kind of bedstead. I felt warmness of less strong, but hard and flabby skinned fingers. Gazing at distinct green veins under flabby skin full of moles, fingers, I heard her voice.
“We haven’t bought cloth for all of my babies including your father from Co-operative stall. At that time, we used longyi that were from Penang of Malaysia if we did not have cloth for wrapping up babies.”
My grandma was a woman who studied up to fourth standard that was awarded by the government that received an international prize for their literary campaign. She became a widow when her hubby was shot dead at his forehead on his business trip and that time, their youngest kid was six months old. So, a woman of five kids under the title of widow found difficult with respect to legal and illegal ones.
My grandma did not know the era of Revolutionary Council in which she grew up. She also did not know the era of Myanmar Way to Socialism. She did not know the era of SPDC. She only knew the era in which the privatization carried out. Their painstakingly earned money became valueless on the next day. She knew the era of smuggling in which income may be illegal or buying for livelihood was illegal. She did not know which government ruled. She did not know in what time she strived to live. She really knew the era of smuggling in which she had to struggle together with her children for making ends meet.
From her stories, I tried to figure out the era of smuggling. Some villagers with their kerosene lamps were waiting for something at the bank of the village at midnight. Among them included my grandma and her children. They were waiting for boats on which goods were carried. Boats came with tides, switching off its generator and turning off lights. Being a village near the beach and near the city, it was the best place for loading off goods from boats that came from Penang, Phuket, etc.
To avoid surveillance from the city, they came to the bank of the village by switching off their motor when the tide came in at night. When they reached at the bank, they loaded off the goods for buyers from the village. My grandma was one of them who could run her own grocery store. And, there were other people who would send goods to the city. Porters took fees when they carried goods.
They carried out the transaction under the darkness and so, they called it “Taking cover of the darkness” era? Or the era in which the dogmatism and oppression of dictator were prevalent. That’s why it was called like that when people were struggling to survive? I all the time remembered the word “The Smuggling Era” together with my grandma’s stories.
“Once your father won a Thai lottery when he was a bachelor. With that money, we rebuilt our house. At that time, we put a basement.”
At last, out of her stories of the smuggling era, I got my answer from her.
The decline of economics since the Revolutionary Council to Myanmar Socialist Regime persisted and people became tight with their savings and gambling became rooted in their lives. At that time, Chel (Thai) lottery became a cancer among people. It became their hope including my grandma and my father.
If my father did not win the lottery, I wondered what our house would be because we opened a shop in a squalid wooden house. They did not take down the upper portion of the wooden house. But they replaced wooden beams with bricks and concrete. So, the downstairs and upstairs did not seem complementary. Because of a shop house, the ante-room on the downstairs seemed more like a shop than a house.
Mostly, they caught smuggling boats at sea, but they did not come, check and catch in shops in the village. But, when there were projects, they came to every shop in villages and cities, they confiscated imported goods without license. At that time, my grandma had to move goods to other houses or buried them in the ground. So when they rebuilt the house, they built a basement for hiding goods.
“We haven’t used this basement much. A year after the rebuilding of the house, money became liquidated. Soon, we closed down the shop. And then, the basement became useless.”
Gazing at the front of the house, she said these. At the end of her words, I put my other hand over her hand that gripped my hand. I felt warmness at the touch of flabby and tender skin. Glancing at the gripped hands, she looked at me. Looking at her dim eyes, I replied, “It is useful for us although we did not store goods in it. When battles broke out and explosions hit in the village, we came here to hide.”
“Yes, you remember that time? You and your father came to visit.”
“I did not know exactly because I was young. I remember our hideout when I got down there in the afternoon.”
“It was a close call. The shell hit the front of the house and the rear of the house. Luckily, it did not hit directly on the house”, my grandma said, gazing at the common well in front of the house.
The well included in her stories. She dug the well together with her children, nieces and nephews. She said that when she talked about the shop. In 1987, currencies became liquidated again. The goods in the glass bureau decreased in numbers as well as her children, nephew, nieces and siblings left one after another from home. They dug the well together. There was a photo of them taken at family noviciation ceremony and it was hung on the wall of the house.
After the closing of the shop, her son-in-law brough the art of making ice-cream to the house. He married my aunt. Later, together with ice-cream, cold drinks shop became a business for the house. After the uprisings, things were settled down. They could carry out the transaction without restraints. At that time, migrants came to live in the village that was near the beach. The cold drinks shop of the house became busy and the house enlivened again.
Although ice-cream and cold drinks were unchangeable, a price of an ice-cream became counter proportionate with the economics of the village. The social and economic conditions of the village effected the cold drinks shop and the cups of ice cream, the movement of the shop became gradually slow. This shop carried out catering for ice cream and its chairs and tables could be hired for events for free.
People liked to ask about a house such as how beautiful the house was, with what design it was built, it was the architect of what era? I also asked those questions too. But, they did not ask such questions such as what the house overcome, with what ways the households built it, what kind of era did the house experience?
The era a house experienced, the era a shop passed by, the stable price of a good on a shelf of a shop, the era the emblem changed. One era after another. They liked to reminiscence those memorable days especially such as “In those days. In those times. In our parents’ adulthood times. In our university days.” We did not experience those days. They liked to portray them as good old days. Some adhered to old days. There were those who liked to travel back to those days if a time machine was available.
When we considered the answer for the question that asked who received the best of an era or who carried the sufferings of the era, I felt paradoxical about the concept that said good old days were reminiscent.
I gazed at the well at which my grandma was staring. At the end of my words, her hands gripped tighter on my hands. I said, “Although we talk about the house, it is all about people related to this house including me. The house must know very well of us.”
Min Chit Paing, 2023
I Have Been Looking for You
My freedom was not only my own liberation but also the hope for someone.
At that time, I did not forget a set of eyes that showed worries for me rather than his own. I did not forget a hand that gripped mine tight. We had to exert all of our effort to run and to get liberated. To what extent did we have to run for liberation. We would be free if we reached a parking car that was not far away and within a few yards away. I did not know that kind of car it was in my vision and its color too and its design and its size. There was a car that blocked our way and it opened its slide door. Explosions, shouts, footsteps, our louder footsteps, and my almost exploded heartbeats. And more distinctive car engine’s revving. Those I had heard. My accelerated breaths dominated my senses and alertness. The sound of my usual breath and the opening door of the car, the sense of my running.
A morning was grasped by youths like us with various outfits. Through our various outfits and appearances, it could be seen that we found our different interests. We were different in colors, appearances, interests, fancies, we had a common hope that was freedom. What kind of freedom? I was not so sure what kind of freedom I wanted. Some seemed to know the freedom well. Some did not understand it well, they just only know its spelling. But, everyone tried to define its meaning in different perspectives. Is it the essence of freedom, isn’t it? Those who had already understood freedom came to get it. Those who had not understood freedom came to find it. Those who did not have their freedom more than three decades ago came to get real freedom.
I was quite excited because I had not experienced the situation over two decades in which I lived and I was born. I thought that friends next to me would feel the same. It was not the first day but I felt excited as in the first day. My strength was full and fresh as in the first day. Although I was lazy to wake up early in the morning but this morning made me active. The morning brighter with hope. We believed that the thing we hoped for would brighten our small or big hopes again. That hope was so bright that our brightened eyes showed our enthusiasm.
The hopeful eyes were brightened and our colorful, bright clothes and appearances that showed our existences. We should ask if the morning of Yangon was so colorful and bright. On that morning, in the colors of Yangon one should not suspect the inclusion of my color.
It was such hilarious if I said my color honestly. Though hilarious, it was truth. My color was the color that was found in a photo that was taken in ’80s, or a film scene or a video documentation. I laughed many times at my remarks of my friends, “You are as handsome as boys in ’80s.” “It is so sure if you are ’80s, you will be a hit.” “Sometimes, I thought that you are transported from ’80s with a time machine. Not only your appearance shows it, but also your action reveals.” Sometimes, I retaliated bitterly against their remarks.
In fact, their remarks were not wrong. Wavy and rather puffy hair that covered ears. That hairstyle was never changed no matter going to any barber shop or having hair cut with different hairstylists. Not only my appearance exhibited a long face with sunken cheeks, slender arms and limps but also my choice of clothes and colors revealed those bygone days styles. Sometimes, I looked at the mirror and laughed at my image, agreeing to their remarks. Imagine my image whenever I took a photo, I liked to change it into black and white and that was my monochrome addiction.
I knew their greeting smiles on their faces meaning more than that when they beheld me wearing a lead blue color Dawei longyi and a creamy color shirt with a hairstyle that propped against my nape because of lateness for going to a barber shop.
Gradually, the morning had more colorful. With the gradual rising of the sunlight our hope became brighter. We were more energetic together with our enthusiasm and hope. We all felt excited more. There came out same heartbeats among us. With those heartbeats, our proclamations became louder.
A friend who was eloquent said, “Brother from ’88, you should wear your longyi tight. Your duty of history has not finished yet. Your demand for Dawmawkarawsaw (Democracy) has not fulfilled. Come, quick,” he said, looking at me. The whole team that held signboards and flags began to guffaw. We shouted aloud as others shouted and got inside the crowd to add our colors.
“Don’t try to use ’88 methods in 2021!”
“Don’t try to use ’88 methods in 2021!”
“Don’t try to use ’88 methods in 2021!”
Our shouts became louder as well as our heartbeats. The signboards and flags that we raised moved higher and higher. Although I did not know the genuine freedom, I felt satisfied with our loud shouts and demands. I believed that in the self-searching journey freedom would help me to show what I really was. Now, I knew myself a bit. I knew who I was. What I believed in and what I did not believe in. What I liked and what I did not like. But, though I knew who I was, there were restrictions to show what I was. I could not describe the real me in my future. So, I longed for my freedom. I must have it.
I heard “Since ‘88” from the shout of ““Don’t try to use ’88 methods in 2021!” And I heard clearly “I have been looking for you since ‘88”. I could not help thinking who had been looking for whom amid proclamations. Those words were strange to me and amid shouts and heartbeats, those words attracted my attention. I heard them closely enough. Those were said with sorrow before I spread my senses further.
When I was about to look at the voice, I felt that the air engulfed me and the earth swallowed me. Where were the colorful morning of Yangon? My eyes saw the black and white of monochrome that I had been addicted. I knew that my whole body was stiff and I knew it through veins under my skin. Would I shed my tears? Would I stop my breath? I smelt the body odor of an unfamiliar person whenever I inhaled. The warm aroma issuing from a strange person. A hard and strong hand that gripped tightly the upper part of my body. Arms and a big bosom that made me feel submerged. Breaths that touched my hair and an ear of mine. I knew that I had not died yet. But, I thought that I felt as if I was in the inferno.
I believed in consoles but not in suspicions. Sweet foods were not my favorite. I preferred pungent foods. I preferred light colors to dark ones. I preferred choice to complacency. I could stand patience but not oppression. I liked men but not patriarchy. Although for me, intimacy with friends gave me warmth, I felt uneasy touching with strangers.
Things had happened quickly because of my friends who knew me well. It was me who would stumble and fell down unless two of my friends behind me did not support me. It was he who was pushed with force to stumble backward. I knew that it was an aged man who appeared to be taller than me with a stout body. But, I could not figure out his age. My friends who had not had any experiences in fist-fighting exploded with angry words towards him rather than inflicting something bad to him. I knew what they were trying to say. But, I had not heard what they said. Trying to stand on my own feet and to breathe, I heard the man’s drawl, “Bro.” Oh! It couldn’t be. Our age difference was not that much. It might be I had heard whatever I wanted to hear amid proclamations.
I knew exactly what I had seen it real. I saw his hopeful tearful eyes and his manners that brought back unwanted memories of me to me. His manners that would be charged with criminal codes for my friends. His weird manners seemed suspicious. But, his eyes need console. Were they pretentious? Or Real? I did not figure out.
Hustling among us was replaced with another one. As if I smelled acrid smell of pepper and frying chili, I tried to breathe regularly, feeling stinged in the whole throat after nostrils. The view of tearful eyes became blurry and my tearful eyes felt stinged. The crowd that moved in chaos pushed two of my friends away from me. If someone did not support me in front of me amid smoke, shouts and runs, I would stumble forward on the concrete road. Nostrils, throat, and neck felt stinging sensation. Pains because of being unable to open or close my eyes, I lost my mindfulness. The view became blurry I was not sure I opened or closed my eyes. I knew that someone grasped my hand, touched my shoulder to hold up and hurried me away.
A black and white photo on his phone screen removed my fear and uneasiness caused by being beside him. My fear vanished from me suddenly. Looking at the photo, I felt surprised and felt console. If my other friends saw it, they would ask me when I took that photo. A boy who completely resembled me wearing my usual shirt, and longyi and hair. Another boy with sunglasses placed his arm across his shoulder. Two of them stood in front of a big tree for taking a photo. I knew that I was not me because I did not have that memory. But, others would think it was me.
When I moved my stare at the photo to him, his sorrow eyes were replaced with console. Then, he swiped the screen with his finger. Another yellowish black and white flushed on. It was like a photo of 88 demonstration photo that was shared among themselves on social media or online. But, I was not sure I had seen it before. Amid the crowd brandishing arms and marching a boy of my age was present. He was laughing to show his teeth and another hand grasped his hand. But, except the hand, his holder was not seen amid marching crowd.
“It is the last time I had the photo with my brother until it was not seen. I found it online and I saved it,” he whispered and I looked at him. He used the pronoun “A ko/brother” and his face was not sprinkled but lines had already appeared. I thought that his age was to be my uncle. “The man with specs is me in the photo. But, I was not in this photo. The hand that held him was mine,” he continued. At the end of his words, I thought that the facial feature under sunglasses that covered chin bones was not the same as I saw now. A gap in age would change features.
He said unorderly about the present things as if he remembered the previous ones. I was not sure he was telling his or he was telling mine. I did not remember how many times he felt sorry or he felt shy or he was laughing. But, I remembered his unorderly words.
“At that time, I was with brother for the last time.” “You shouldn’t have released my hands for any other reasons.” “I wouldn’t have released my hands if I knew that I could not meet you again and that was more frightened than those happenings.” “I haven’t seen you then.” “You will not appear in the list of arrested persons.” “As well, not in the list of death.” “You have completely lost.” “Since then, I have been looking for you amid uncertain news and unconfirmed list.” “My brain knew that was not it. But, I couldn’t accept it.” “You are you, brother. At first I thought it is a hallucination because of my too much expectation.” “It’s has been over three decades I remembered your style and image.” “Although I knew that in the three decades things will be changed, I found you unchangeable.” “I believe that I have met a miracle.” “I can’t lose you again, this time.” “I might be out of my mind.” “In fact, I need to apologize you.” “You might be frightened too.” “I’m sorry. Sorry.” “But, it’s hard to accept you are not my brother.” “I want to end those days in which I have been looking for you in sense of not losing you.” “Really, I’m sorry.” “I know that you are not my real brother whom I have been looking for.” “I feel repentant, I feel guilty, I can’t find any solace too.” “You might think that if I am not a lunatic, I might be something.”
I did not want to interrupt his continuous talk as well as I did not want to divert my attention to others. His scattered words enchanted me. I was thinking how to console him. At the end of his words, I was ready to reply him. I happened to tell words that I had not said to others. I did not know where I picked up those words: from reading, or from memorizing or from hearing. Those words were really impressive and they seemed very grand to especially someone like me who liked to stay simple. I found myself surprised at those words. But, I told him because I thought that those words would console him.
“Uncle,” I started my reply. In fact, I at first thought that I should use “Bro” as he used. But, I did not want to use that pronoun because he was a stranger to me no matter how much I wanted to console him. I was not wrong to say like that because he was in the age of my uncle. At the end of my call, he seemed to ready to hear what I was going to say. Then, I continued to talk.
“It isn’t your brother you have been looking for since then. You are looking for certain news such as what happened to your brother or what happened to him. Based on that news, you wanted to feel sorrow. Or you wanted to blame yourself. You couldn’t find any solace on your repentance. You wanted to blame or hate someone who was related to him or an association. But, you have been trapped in the situation in which you can’t let it out. So, you may be tired looking for an unending hope relating to him. You should let it go and you should find for your liberation. I think that you need to find justice for him in terms of human rights, not him. If he died, you should find out the truth of how he died, where he had been buried, or lost or in what ways he was lost. Am I telling you the truth, right?
I was not sure that I could console him saying spontaneously words from my head. A grown-up man shed his tears and I found that.
Together with his sobs subsided, whisperings among groups also died down. A silent situation made them glance at each other. Gun shots attracted their attentions. Those who stayed near the front windows uttered uneasily, and so, almost all the people including me in the room approached the window for peeping through. What we had seen was really exclamatory. If I did not die, what I had seen was a hell. Splashing on concrete road was not damson fruit wine. They were blood. The blood oozing from a man whom was kicked and beaten cruelly. I wondered to what extent that would go on. Because of pains, there someone who could not get up. Another one. Three or four people.
This was my suicidal attempt. Or my liberation? It could be titled foolishness. I did not want to title it Bravery. I might be out of my mind. I became out of my mind seeing a hellish view. I became out of my mind because I did not want to see it. It was something. I was ready to leave for concrete roads holding colorful flags.
“I understand what you have said. At least, I felt relieved to know if something has not happened to you,” he said, grasping my hands and that made my steps halted. I looked around to see him. He continued, “I will come with you.” He gripped my hand tight deciding he would not let me go.
“Don’t try to use ’88 methods in 2021!” We both shouted out loud and that dominated the whole street, followed by military boots that left noises along the street. My flag was swaying in the wind as well as bullets in the air. Rubber bullets or real ones? We knew that they did not bore through our bodies. How close they would arrive at? We focused more on our speed rather than their aiming at us from behind. Our speed did not have to be reduced. We knew that we had to run for our liberation but we did not know when we would liberate.
White powder fell down from above on us. Snow? I knew it could not be. A tropical place like Yangon did not have snow. I used all my efforts to run. I felt hallucination? No. It was real. Any other devas did not help us, but people helped us. It might be they sprayed wheat flour or lime powder from a tall building apartment. I wanted to say thank you. But, I had to use my strength for running. They helped us to escape from our pursuers. We were not sure we could leave them behind. Their support encouraged us to speed up. We believed that they also wanted us to liberate.
While white powder was in the air, the next colorful powder fell down. It might be colorful powder of summer Holi fest of India. The air around us received colorfulness. In my speedy running, the rainbow flag that I was carrying was fluttering in the wind. In my view, a car halted and its slide door slowly opened. Our steps that were penetrating through colorful wind around us accelerated. We believed that if we got on the car, we would liberate. I believed both of us would get on the car.
Anyway, I preferred belief to suspicion in any situations.
Min Chit Paing. 2023
Dad’s Story
Thaw Dar. Will Thaw Dar be a son or a daughter of dad? It’s not sure? Or Will Thaw Dar be a human being who does not accept the being of son or the being of daughter? If that so, dad has to welcome.
So, dad give the name Thaw Dar. In Myanmar, the name Thaw Dar is given to both boys and girls. It is one of the names that transgress the boundary of gender and so, dad has chosen it. Even if Thaw Dar does not accept the being of boy or the being of girl or both of them, that name will be suitable for Thaw Dar.
The meaning of Thaw Dar in Myanmar is “Moon”. Dad really likes the existence of the moon. In terms of color it has cool color. The moon has gradual changes in on a daily basic. Dad likes the flexibilities of the moon based on days, without being rigid. Although the name Thaw Dar is Dad’s favorite one and Dad gives it to offspring, if Thaw Dar has conducted self-discovery and has found that the name does not represent the essence, Thaw Dar wants to change the name. At that time, Dad will not be hesitant to agree to change it. Up to now, Dad can call Thaw Dar, the name.
Dad and another Dad have probably adopted Thaw Dar.
Don’t you get upset with Dads because they are not my real blood relatives. Even real blood relatives, everyone is not ready to become parents. Having children, and being in the position of parents, there are lots of people who are trying to live as parents. Dad does not want to live, upbringing pains in his own child, saying, “It’s because of your presence.” Dad wants to being ready to be parents and then, he will choose to be parents of Thaw Dar.
There goes a saying, “Blood is thicker than water”. Dads do not want Thaw Dar to grow up as a discarded child with pains when the child is hoping for the relationship between people with the same gene. Among people with same genes the care is real, the love is real. Thaw Dar’s dads want a humane concept that believes care, and love among people can be nurtured from one generation to generation. They prefer this one rather than the concept of relationship based on genes. They prioritize Thaw Dar’s security and growth physically and mentally.
When Thaw Dar grows up, Thaw Dar will ask Dads, “Others have father and mother. But, why I have Dad and another Dad?”
To say exactly, Dad felt quite tired when Dad’s existence in a community was revealed for living. Dad once said to a friend, “Parents are not ready to accept our existence in this human society. They care more of the view of the society than our existence. Some parents have handled harshly this existence for suppression. I was lucky enough and I have not experienced it. There are lots of people who have experienced it. In that society, the kids chosen by us will feel painful for our existences and they feel unsecured and painful, won’t they?”
After understanding the existence, Dad has explained the existence to everyone. Dad has proved the similarity with other men and women. To gain recognition, Dad has tried very hard to show more workability and creativity than other men and women. Imagine how tiresome Dad would be that time. Dad wanted to cry aloud, smashing wine bottles and glasses against the wall, and Dad feared that others would think Dad a looser, Dad dug head against the pillow and quietly sobbed. At daytime, together with the sound of water spray in the bathroom, sobs came out. Some other times, in public toilets tears fell down at disposal. Dad could not express feelings freely but lived with belittled mind. But, now Dad stopped explanations, working hard, stowing away feelings, etc.
To tell the truth, Dad also does not know the word G-E-N-D-E-R. But, surely, there is not direct translation word for GENDER in Myanmar. Dad thinks that a Myanmar word ‘လိင်/Lein’ that is a direction translation of GENDER does not have exact meaning. Dad accepts that the Myanmar translation of GENDER is manhood or womanhood. Gender means male and female and that is a biological distinction. In the human society, manhood and womanhood mean more than male-hood and female-hood. Based on biological distinction, the human society regards male has to be man, and female has to be woman. In the society, there are norms both for a man’s behavior and lifestyle and for a woman’s behavior and lifestyle. In the society, when a child was born, before it does not have a change to figure out what it is, they look at its biological gender for regarding whether a boy or a girl. And they tend to put a burden of social responsibilities on it. And they mold it to live according to their norms. So, Dad says that according to gender, manhood and womanhood means more than male-hood and female-hood.
When Thaw Dar asks, “In that sense, do manhood and womanhood are a socially acceptance or is there any choice?”, Dad wants to answer that manhood and womanhood are a socially acceptance. In those days, those who deny to live according to their norms of manhood and womanhood in the society, they tend to suffer social punishment, legal punishment, psychological pressure, and even physical torture. These days, in some society, people can choose manhood or womanhood for living. But, it is not a simple process. Thought they have freedom to choose, those who live deviation from social norms, they need to try to convince their family, their surroundings to accept and not to discriminate. There are also some conditions in which their choice cannot convince their families and circles. Those who choose and survive deviating from norms of manhood and womanhood will find well in the community that accept them but in other community they will face discrimination and oppression.
Why does a person who has chosen freely on manhood and womanhood face discrimination and oppression until now? The reason is that there are still problems on manhood and womanhood that are regarded socially. The choice of one’s own to be manhood and womanhood will be under the frame of socially regarded manhood and womanhood. It is like one is changing one’s position. So, although one has chosen freely, one has to bear the effects such as unfairness and discrimination, with the accusation of unfitting in standard.
So, although manhood and womanhood that mean gender have choice, eventually they are under the frame of manhood and womanhood. So, Dad accepts that gender is still in the social assumption. Those who have chosen freely for their gender do not represent manhood and womanhood that are regarded socially. Their chosen gender still face oppression over them. If they want to liberate from that oppression, Dad thinks that they need to readdress manhood and womanhood in the social norms.
What about Dad? Dad wants to liberate from the gender frame. Dad is a person who wants to reject socially regarded gender. The gender for Dad has restrictions. Even gender assumption has oppression on Dad. Dad’s freedom of expressions deviates from the gender frame. That gender does not represent Dad’s existence genuinely. That gender does not fit him and another one from that gender assumption does not fully represent Dad. So, Dad has decided to deny gender assumption that does not let him free and does not represent Dad fully.
Dad who denies gender assumption has a right to see freely the society and living freely as a human being. Dad can do whatever Dad likes overcoming the gender assumption. Dad has a chance to like what Dad tends to like. Dad has a chance to be interested in what Dad likes to be interested. Dad has the right to express Dad’s existence freely. Dad has the right to choose what Dad wants to choose. Dad has chosen to live more than the perspective of a society. At that stage, fatigue and frustrations on explanations, and proofs for Dads’ existence and inferiority complex have ended.
And Dad understands that Dad’s parents are not ready to accept or deny Dad’s existence because they cannot deviate from societal norms and they do not assess oppression of those norms and they do not try to struggle out of that frame that is a standard for manhood and womanhood that are regarded socially. Dad feels painful when they try to mold, force or argue Dad not to deviate from norms. Dad grew up with insecurities in mind and with inferiority complex.
Dad comes to believe that if Dad denies socially regarded gender and Dad tries not to impose those assumptions on kids or overcome those assumptions to grow kids up, they will feel safe in mind and body and free from pains and inferiority. So, Dad will choose freely to live together with another Dad who readily accepts Dad’s existence, who gives security, who shows love and who can exchange learning. Dad will choose a family in which Dad, another Dad and Thaw Dar will be present.
Before going to bed, when Thaw Dar asks Dad to tell a story and to tell about Dad, Dad will tell what kind of person Dad is.
Dad becomes a tailor, having dreamt to became a fashion designer while working as a sale person in a fashion brand shop when Dad firstly works. Dad feels excited at dreaming to be a fashion designer and Dad’s choice to be a tailor makes Dad satisfied and happy. Learning when dreaming helps Dad a lot to a tailor. Dad knows that the fields of creating popular recognition or predicting future are not Dad’s type. Dad wants to do things that Dad wants to imaginatively describe. Dad prefers helping each persons’ imagination. Dad prefers helping other’s imagination materialize rather than making others to dream or dream falsely on things Dad has created in advance.
Dad is not a successful tailor in the world where numbers are essential to measure fame and popularity. Success is proportionately equal to happiness and freedom. Success does not have any inferiority but it is secured in mind. If success is defined in that way, Dad is a successful person.
When Dad realizes the illusion of the dream to become a fashion designer and when Dad denies gender assumption, it is the beginning of Dad’s success. Is it the reason for Dad’s success starting from obsession? Is it one of Dad’s stories?
I haven’t thought that Dad is addicted to a shirt design that is from Dad’s pre-birth age. It is an outfit of a woman in an old photo that has already lost its colors. Dad does not know what she wears together with that outfit because of the blotches of lost colors. At first, Dad thinks what will be fit with that outfit. Thinking that pair, he imagines what color it would be for that outfit and what color would be the best match for that outfit. He imagines what fabric would be the best for this outfit’s design and that would bring comforts to its wearer. Those thoughts overwhelm him.
Dad’s sewing room becomes filled with that outfit’s sketches. On the walls of the room, color cards that will be fit with that outfit have been scattered. The sample fabrics for that outfit have been pinned and they are in the room. Dad imagines fitting that outfit on the bodies of his familiar girls and he tries to imagines wearing that outfit on the bodies of women whom he sees every day.
Dad does not understand why that obsession is stuck up until he finds any satisfaction concerning his mission. A outfit design that cannot find its satisfactory pair dominates even in his dream. A dream seems to be a process that can open the deepest place of a person. In the blurry dream, an existence that Dad assumes is free from any restrictions and it is the most beautiful one with satisfaction. Dad wears the outfit of the woman in the photo and Dad feels comfortable and Dad feels as one, Dad finds it in the dream. It seems that Dad has lost satisfaction because Dad thinks that a woman’s outfit should be on the body of the woman. In the limitless dream, Dad finds satisfaction. Dad has decided to bring the dream to the real world when Dad wakes up from the dream.
The sketches become vivid in Dad’s sewing room. In the same way, Dad’s existence that is ducked in the restrictions of the society seemed more prominent. Dad removes color cards on the wall one after another and so also, Dad removes restrictions one by one. Dad can choose the most suitable fabric and Dad choose a life that can represent Dad-self.
Thaw Dar will find a photo in the photo album that will store Dad’s family memories and Thaw Dar’s childhood images. It is a photo that was shot before Thaw Dar came to live with Dads. An outfit design in the photo is the design that appeared before the birth of dad. Sapphire blue color textile, together with silk texture, with buggy shoulder and arms with V shaped neck, up to waist design outfit: creating white cotton lace trousers, there is a layer under the seam of the trouser, whenever walking the layer will be turned into a bell. Bluish green lady shoe, a handkerchief with little yellow flowers that ties the hair that is long enough to reach the shoulder. Instead of jewels, fronds of hair protruding before the ears. Neck bones distinct under the neck. Leather watch wrapping the slender wrist. Leather sling bag. It is the photo of Dad who denies the restriction of manhood and womanhood.
Dad will not forget that day. The outfit that has been created willingly is ready as well as Dad is ready to wear it too. Wearing it, Dad walked long enough proudly downtown. Dad boasted of Dad’s obsession, dream and outfit. Dad wanted to store that day and Dad went to a photo studio for taking a photo. Thaw Dar often looks at it, and it will become a photo in the album for asking questions.
A story of another dad will be revealed dad-self. Then, it will be the perfect one.
In the story of Dad, Thaw Dar, Dad and another Dad love one another very much. Is it a history that can tell about describing wrongly a human existence, loving kindness of Dad’s family including Thaw Dar. Or will it become a future, Thaw Dar will find it anyway.
Min Chit Paing, 2023
Esteract
Gazing outside the car, I asked him, “Why don’t you give up the book at the last minute?” Before going out of the studio, and after exchanging greetings, it was my first question until I got in the car.
In fact, he was the one who felt exhausted out of too many arguments in the meeting. He had to be a tired person but he was more active than me who showed much fatigue comparing to him. He managed to hail a cab on a less-frequented traffic street. He told the cab driver directions and fares. We had to go up to the street because it was already late and we could not book a cab.
We could go back home because infinite arguments and the final decision of a director terminated the meeting. I did not know to what extent he had been tired. I felt really tired after only listening to their arguments and just give some suggestions concerning visual attraction, availabilities of necessary things in market or not, sufficient time and not to be costly. I did not feel hungry because I had my dinner in the meeting. If not, I would be really tiresome with the additional starvation.
We did not have energy left to ask to switch on A.C in the taxi that did not switch on A.C at a hot urban night. Without prior consent, we rolled down the glass pane on each of our side. Via the fast-driving car’s window, we were facing the wind, being quiet in the car.
The wind, blowing harsh but reducing fatigue restored my scattered things in my mind and I was portraying thoughts on each theme. I was gazing at the roadside scenes along Bayintnaung Road when I was in reverie. When Victoria Mall came into my view, I asked him questions out of the blues. I did not know properly why I asked him after having contexts with thoughts and view. But, I did not turn towards him to raise the question. I had to speak up to overcome the rushing of the wind. Because I kept quiet for a certain time, my words became low a bit at the end of the sentence. So, I thought that I should ask him again. But, I did not carry out asking again and continued to gaze at the scenes.
I beheld PMG factory compound when he answered, “The front cover photo of the book is my grandma’s”. At the end of his answer, I turned towards him. And he also turned towards me. He seemed to be ready to speak about the book. I thought that the rushing wind and roadside scenes had already cleared his confused thoughts. The taxi-driver cast his quick glance at us from his rear-view mirror, I noticed. He seemed to be interested in our endless conversation because we had been silent and our faces showed tiredness and tense. Or, our tense features made the air inside the car tense and cold and because of that he felt uncomfortable. Our talk broke the silence and that made his mind ease and so, he glanced at us.
“I did not know my grandma’s photo was a front cover of the famous novel at first. When I found a F.B post, I felt wonderful”, he continued. He wore a white T-shirt and some hair attached to his full neck because of wind blowing. I envisioned the front cover that was shown in his phone, and I felt that the face of an eloquent girl in the photo did not resemble much with him, but some features on the face a bit looked like him. I noticed that his bushy eyebrows over his specs looked like the ones of the girl in the photo. Still looking at his face and giving attention to his continued words, the car suddenly swiped and so, I swayed with it without noticing its turn. Because of my imbalance and leaning against him, his words were disrupted.
The taxi-driver whispered sorry, noticing my situation, and at that time, the car had reached Strand Road from Bayintnaung Road. I thought that the taxi-driver who showed interest in our conversation said, looking from the rear-view mirror, but I did not look back his eyes. Instead, I read the white words that said “Sin Ma Lite Bazaar” over his face that turned towards me and through the car’s window.
Although it had been half of my life, settling in Yangon for work, I had never been to markets on the verge of Strand Road. Before Sin Ma Lite Bazaar was rebuilt, I had never been there although I had seen it. After the Bazaar, San Pya Fish market lied. Fish smell had already felt before the market reached. I had read the big signboard of San Pya Fish Market many times controlling my breath due to the smell of raw fish. I stopped my breath only when the traffic was less crowded. When I could not hold my breath, the stench smell of raw fish that I felt when I was young in the village entered fully into my nostrils.
After San Pya Fish market, Nya Bazaar that I had been there reached. Nya Zay (night bazaar) bus stop was on Strand Road, it was not on the verge of Strand Road. Then, Thiri Mingalar Market that was now an old and vacant one. When it was in its busy days, I had never been there. When it was closed down, I had not any other reasons to go there. I had walked on the other side of Thiri Mingalar Market that had a length of a distance between two bus stops. But, I did not want to go inside. It was so strange because I did not want to visit it and I loved flowers and I did not want to visit the market at which flowers were selling.
After Thiri Mingalar market, Sin Min Market lied. I had not walked in front of it. I had seen it on bus. I had a confusion about it. I did not differentiate the difference between Sin Min market and Theitpan Market. They were the same or not. If they were different ones, I had never been to Theitpan Market too.
My thoughts that were focusing on markets returned when he picked up his conversation, “About my grandma’s photo, I do not know that her photo was the front cover of the book. That photo is still at our home. It is not like a colorful one like in the book. It is a black and white photo that was taken at a studio.”
At the end of his conversation, I reflected the dim front cover photo of the book that was shown by him. The photo showed a girl who stood sideway was facing the front for looking down while she was putting two hands on the headrest of a wooden chair with the light brown background. She held up all of her front hair to get her M shaped forehead distinct and she made her hairdo a little bit like a fan. It was hard to see the style of hairdo because the background view was half visible. It could be the one I had never seen before. She adorned her hairdo with full of small white flowers. I guessed that the hairdo was the most beautiful one because it was done neat and tidy as soon as I had seen the photo. She wore a light purple long-sleeved blouse with orange sarong with black stripes. At that time, the exact color could not be developed and it could be probably turned back into its original color for cover photo. So, the sarong could be gold color or a silver tapestry design on the bright background. Because the front cover of the book was worn out, it was not sure that she was wearing an erring or not under her all up-turned hair. One of the hands that held the chair had two bangles with dangling ones. It could be gold although the photo was not so much clear.
Based on his words that said the photo was the black and white one, I imagined the color photo as black and white one. The hair was totally black. Flowers were white and so, they must be white in the photo. The color of face and hand was less white than flowers and it was lead color. The clothe had more lead color and the color of the sarong was fully lead color. I thought that one could see the distinct black stripes on the background of the sarong. The headrest of the brown chair was totally black.
“In fact, my grandma herself went to take a photo at the studio. I know it because the photo has already appeared on a magazine before it becomes the front cover of the book. Our family has a story to tell about the photo. My family told me that at that time she was about eighteen or nineteen years old. At that time, a photographer at a donation ceremony offered her to take a photo of her and she accepted it and so, she went to take a photo at his studio,” he said continuously, pitching softly his slender left fingers with his right fingers. He sat against neon lights that came into the car through the window and he wore a white T-shirt and he looked like an image in the black and white photo. His white T-shirt and glossy finger nails were as light as lead color and his skin tone was darker than his shirt while his hair was black.
His hands suddenly brightened sliver color. When I looked outside the window over his hands, two pearly oil storage tanks against the lead color sky were visible. I had a habit of looking at these elongated oil tanks whenever I passed Strand Road since I arrived at Yangon. I thought that it was because of my interest in geometry figures. I normally picked up parcels sent by my family around Pan Hlaing that is called Home Street that has Aung Yadanar Express Office in the street. The people from my native live here and so, I came. In that way, I came to be familiar with the environs of Strand Road.
When I looked ahead of the car, knowing Home Street was almost in the vicinity, I noticed the stare of the car driver from the rearview mirror. He seemed to be lost in our conversation on the photo. In a few minutes, we reached at this stretch of Strand Road. I looked around from the front seat view, I found few pedestrians. So, the car seemed to drive fast like this.
Normally, the road was not much crowed, but all the time used by containers trucks and trucks and it could not drive this fast. The road was not much used by small vehicles like taxis. Those days, this road was also used by timber loaded trucks. But, these days, they were not seen. Whenever those timber trucks passed by, whether I was in a taxi or on bus, I feared that those chains were ripped off to fall down on me. Until now, when the container trucks passed by me, I feared that those containers were unfettered and fell onto me. In fact, I had never seen or experienced the incident. I wondered why I feared like that.
“At first, my grandma thought that the photographer wanted to test his photography’s skills or he would hang her beautiful photo at his studio. Later, he sent her photo to a magazine that selected her photo to use. That was informed by the photographer. So, our family only knew about the photo to that extent.”
He submerged in his narration and I felt that his tension became at ease gradually. It seemed that his carefree vibe returned to him. The air in the car reduced the cool sensation and I felt at ease too. Even the cab driver seemed relaxed comparing to his previous condition when we were firstly getting in his car. He attentively listened to the story, occasionally glancing at from the rearview mirror while his attention was the road ahead of the car.
“How do you find out about the front cover of the novel? I haven’t seen its first edition. I think that the front cover is the photo of a railway track, when I read it. I have just seen this cover this time,” I asked him lightly my second question after listening to him and giving it a thought along the way.
“We haven’t known the photo was used for the front cover of the novel. I have read the novel. But, the edition of the book did not carry the photo and I didn’t know it. They used my grandma’s photo for its first edition. In fact, the year in which my grandma’s photo was taken and the year in which the book was firstly published was quite different. Under the post of the book, I wrote some comments and some of my F.B friends also did the same and I later found out how my grandma’s photo became the front cover of the novel,” he answered readily. It seemed like he was ready to reply although I interrupted to raise a question.
“One of my acquaintances knows the author’s daughter and I know about the book cover via her. Her father found the photo in an old magazine while he was rummaging in second-hand book stalls. Later, he decided to use the photo for his novel’s front cover. The novel is my favorite and as soon as I knew about it, I felt overjoyed. I think that my grandma’s photo matches with the protagonist woman in the novel,’ he said continuously. At the end of his words, his eyes looked over me and so, I readily cast my glance through the window. The whole surrounding was dark and I found the quiet six storied office in its façade lights.
I remembered my former job at an office in the six storied office. I remembered a narrow and long verandah to gaze away at Hlaing River or to take a stroll for stretching stiff limbs in my working days. I noticed the six storied office was a massive building with straight lines, using less concaves and convexes. Although some neighboring buildings were colonial ones, this six storied building could not belong to colonial era. Is it the building that was built in A.F.P.F.L era? I was not sure.
When the cab crossed Sule traffic lights, I found renovated Stock Exchange building with tall façade pillars. This building belongs to colonial era. I found a one-block long big building in the yellowish lights after the cab was passing over the traffic lights. The pillars of the building was similar to the ones of Stock Exchange and so, I wondered they were from the same era. That building was recently renovated and opened by an international hotel group. It was not officially open. I used to walk frequently under the portico of that building with long pillars and I found some securities and sweepers and I noticed that it was not running as a hotel.
Looking at the building, I remembered a flea market across the building and I looked through the window from his side to tilt my chin at him. “This is what I am talking about the flea market. I have bought some stuff that will be used in the movie from it,” I said. He looked through the window at it. We found the roof of stalls that were silent under the neon lights in our view. I thought that I had been to the flea market that was on Strand Road. But, the market was not long enough to establish and it seemed to be a temporary one but I needed to put it in the list of markets. Inside the cab that was passing beside the market there regained silence after termination of conversation.
After the market and passing Pansodan traffic lights, we were entering the silent environ in which some buildings were existing under the bright lights. It was the environ I liked much and I used to walk down often. It was the best place for strolling along in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening. After Pansodan traffic lights, next to the crossing bridge lied Myanmar Airways Office, Strand Hotel, Australia Embassy, British Embassy, and my favorite office: The Post Office. Whenever I came here, I felt excited. I did not know the reason but I felt quite pleasant having the good vibe of this environ.
The cab passed by the Post Office and Bo Aung Kyaw traffic lights, I felt pleasant because I was longing to see some buildings between Bo Aung Kyaw street and Theinphyu Road. On that block, old buildings such as Myanmar Red Cross Society building, News and Periodical Enterprises office were quite different from the ones on the same block of the Post Office. But, they also attracted me. After my favorite buildings were left behind from my view, the cab turned into Theinphyu Road to drive up.
I pointed out the possibilities and impossibilities as a suggestive person among film crew because I knew that if I put in much in the meeting, it would take longer time. I emphasized the beautiful scenes on the film screen according to the script and I stayed away from the arguments. I decided to put forward on another day with respect to time, resources, costs and some impossible things. I used to ask questions to the director who himself wrote the movie scripts with respect to the unimportant things in the scripts. This one should include, or this one should be left out. I used to point out in every meeting since the onset of the project. I believed that the stuff including in the movie scenes were inanimate characters that could help to say the story.
I liked the story of his grandma’s photo as a front cover of the novel. I did not want to ask him why he wanted to insert the book in a movie scene. I decided that the book should include in the movie no matter what. We did not need to explain why something was so important for us.
“Be sure. I will try to get the book with the front cover,” I said, gazing at some buildings on the roadside. When I looked at again inside, I found his usual carefree expression. I found the happiness on the face of the cab driver who seemed to understand things when I noticed his eyes through the rear-view mirror. I was sure that he said yes or he just revealed with a kind of facial expression. But, I felt he agreed with me.
Bright, massive and maroon colored Secretariat Building came into my view when I again cast my glace at the other side of the road. It lied behind the iron fences under yellowish lights. I wondered these lights could make this building marron color. My brain recorded again and again the color of the Secretariat was marron in the bright daylight. So, at night scenes, I thought that its color was the same. If not, someone who had never seen the Secretariat in daytime would think its color was marron at this time.
Without needing to wait at Theinphyu traffic lights, the cab turned into Bogyoke Road. As soon as the cab swiped onto Bogyoke Road, the rushing view into my notice was an old building whose address was No. 160 at which I had been working about five years for full time. It was the only building that was left in the whole street and it had three storied one with portico. The images of an energetic and hard-working youth came swiftly into my thoughts although it was long gone.
After reading Aung Thein Than Press placard, there came in my thought how I should get the book back. The shooting day was coming nearer. The time was enough? There were plenty of things to do. I was not familiar with literary circles and it was far away to contact with writer’s family. The book did not need to be a real one. The book with that front cover should be included in the movie. The duties of a production designer were to create things from accessible resources to include in the movie scenes. It was up to him how to create ways.
The cab passed by Yay Gyaw Bazaar and railroad over Yay Gyaw Street, and I turned towards him and talked.
“I like that novel. But, I do not like the story much”
“Yes, I also don’t like the ending,” he said, agreeing with me.
As soon as his words ended, we looked at each other and let out a whispering laugh. Although I could not see, the cab driver might smile at our laughs. I thought that we could get back our mental conditions that were on par with saying “Good Night!” for leaving.
