Essay:
Forward
A short fictional essay on a life of a bottom tier Burmese laborer in going through its paces for survival.
Scene A: The onset of a humble beginning
Scene B: Trials and challenges
Scene C: And so to a new beginning
Scene D: An existence of sort
Scene E: A Sicilian in Rome
Scene F: Hope
Scene A: The onset of a humble beginning
Cho Too looking up the sky and shouted in an uncontrollable anger, ”Lord, why have you forsaken me” with tears running down his untimely weathered face.
A man of humble beginnings to be sure. I am now 34 years old (I think). That being so, as my mother and I never did celebrate our birthdays. Our place of residence was a 10’ x 10’ shack of bamboo matting (one room) with dried palm leaves as roof on the very outskirt of North Magwe town by the riverbank (close to the main road). A lot of fresh air and close to nature to the likes of cockroaches/rats/snakes/ants and what not. A wee bit nippy in the cool seasons though and mosquitos were our least problem . My mother was a cook helper’s daily waged helper, at a food stall in the central marketplace of Magwe, a small town by the banks of the Irrawaddy River, close to our old kingdom of Mandalay. When she passed away, may God rest her soul due to a bad bout of flu , I must have been then about nine years old. As fate would have it, a passing Buddhist monk in his 60’s took pity on me being an orphan and still too young to fend for myself, arranged food and lodging in Rangoon, as he was on route there to attend a teaching monastery in Mandalay to further his religious studies, the monk’s name was Shin Pandita, For his Ph.D.?
There in the teashop, opened daily from six in the morning till the last customer, I was employed as a waiter, helper, and as an ‘odd job’ boy, all rolled into one. Food and shelter I got. The café fed me, clothed me, i.e. two sets of second-hand nylon singlets and baggy midi-pants to last for at least more three years. My sleeping quarters were makeshift tea tables joined together at night after closing together with the rest of our eight ‘gang’ members. The café, called a ‘tea shop’ in Burmese was named ‘Moon’s Shadow’. It was an existence, at least I had a roof over my head and not go hungry. The tea shop was in proximity of Parami Railway Station, on the left side before South Okalarpa, and a slight throughfare in the suburbs, if one can call it that.
I did not know when or where I was born, nor did I have a name as such, as that was not discussed. Father? Not known one as I can recall, however the nickname ‘Cho Too’ lovingly called by my mother that stuck with me. I can read and write, thanks to the free education schooled at a monastery outskirt of Magwe, during my young, young days. Read a newspaper as the next man can. My existence was a ritual of 5.30/ around midnight work, eat, play, sleep and all else. Bath was a bucket of cold ‘natural’ water from a well behind the tea shop. Soap was “carbolic” a common item for all, that also doubles as a washing soap for our wears. Toothbrush was our first finger, and its paste was powdered charcoal and ash from outside kitchen. We had one common toilet, right behind our compound. A deep pit in the ground with bamboo mesh for privacy and a plastic awning to keep the weather at bay. On average, the pit lasts for about two years, after which land filled and re-dug with free labour per kind contribution of all of us kids, somewhere close by the old toilet, but not too close for fear of collapsing.
Thoughts of joining a monastery did cross my mind, even then vacancies were not that abundant, however, here at the tea-house, at least we are in touch with the outside world (a sort of). Here, music was morn till night in-keeping with the latest trend, plus more newspapers and magazines one can absorb. Television was on from beginning till end of transmission. In a way I was lucky. Pocket money does happen once in a blue moon, e.g. Thadingyut, the seventh month of the Myanmar calendar, the end of the Buddhist sabbath or Vassa. Thadingyut festival that lasts for three days, and should there be an all-night theatre (pwe), it would have meant a treat for us boys (the day before the full moon day, the full moon day (when Buddha descends from heaven) and the day after the full moon day). It was celebrated by lights after dark by households, going to the Shwedagone Pagoda, paying respects to elders, donning our best attires and lots of free eateries in the wards. As I did not have much to spend it on, no parents or relatives to remit funds to, nothing to buy, nether was I into fashion, as such, I saved it with by ‘bank’, the cashier. The cashier was the owner’s eldest daughter. A spinster, a plumb lady with prayer beads by her side or chanting/reading religious scriptures at most times. She was the nearest thing to my ‘mom’. Should we fall sick, it was a hour walk to the nearest Yankin District Free Clinic, or twenty minutes’ walk to the monastery free clinic, or better still, a free consultation with the cashier with medicines included.
Waiting tables, helping in the open-air kitchen, cleaning duties and anything in between was my job. After 11/12 years there, I became somewhat of a head waiter, in-charge of all young ones. A customer service to our patrons too. One day, I overheard a group of fellers discussing about latest agricultural techniques and growing methods at Hlawga plantations.
“Seriously, going about it in a mega way, they are” they commented.
The man in a blue sport shirt concurred, “Big investors, and long-term projects for sure”.
I was much energised and taken in their commitments. To my mind, there must be various vegetable plantations in need for labourers. After all, Hlawga is the vegetables and floral supplier to the city of Rangoon.
During one of the slow business Mondays, on my rare daytime off, I took a bus ride to Hlawga town, Mingaladon district, only about an hour drive from ours, stopping here and there picking up commuters. Reaching there, I made haste to the town’s main market tea shops. There were many, I chose the one with the most patrons. It was not as spacious as ours, tea- shops being a gossip source, I had a leisurely pot of Burmese tea (free of charge) there and conducted a friendly enquiry about their town with the waiters.
“What a lovely place. Hlawga is. No wonder people love this place” I commented sitting down.
The waiters and patrons alike were only too eager to promote their township. The young waiters must be around 12/13 brightened and said, “Yes Sir, young and old, all enjoy it here”.
One of its patrons, a man in his 40’s added, “Here, the vegetables are always green and fresh. You must be not around from here”.
I quickly added, “Correct Sir. I could tell by the happy appearances, not seen in Rangoon”.
We all had a praise for the land and after about half an hour I excused myself. Afterwards, I made a leisurely walk about around the agricultural zones. True enough, there were fields and fields of watermelon plantations, rows and rows of mangoes bushes awaiting to be grown to its potential, vegetable and floral gardens etc. As it was around noon time and the sun was overhead and too hot to be continue my fact-finding stroll without a hat. However, I pushed on with a sweat bath. Along the way, I made a another stop at a nearby teashop. Resting my laurels, thankful for a shade, I requested for a cup of Burmese tea being a standard and accepted free item. After striking a conversation about their greenness of plantations, they fully concurred my observations and added that due to actuate labour shortages prevailing in the plantations, otherwise it would have been much better economically. Being versed enough, took a bus ride back to my ‘Moon’s Shadow’ in time for my lunch, should there be any left.
Thingyan, water festival was fun alright. As per tradition, we would pour water amongst ourselves, our patrons and passers-by. However, business was slow for our tea shop. Being a national holiday for several days, patronage was a minimum. Young attractive ladies in their wet longyis left nothing to imagination. It was truly a welcoming sight for our budding hungry eyes. Other than that, water on our wet clothes was somewhat a natural air-condition, but too much could prove a hazard to health too. In moderation was the ‘mum’ word here. I was getting on in age and the water festival fun were better suited for the young ones.
In reality, I was out outgrowing my ‘shoes’ as it were. Being there 20/21 years of my life, I needed to move on to greener pastures, prior they gave me the shove. In this line of work, it is better suited up to the late teens, where accepted as part of the ‘clan’ by the young ‘tea’ boys. I felt that my usefulness contribution had run out and was on its last legs, thus I decided to move on and seek other suitable employment elsewhere, view my education level was zero. The tea shop had been kind to me in many ways, it was the only ‘home’ I knew. During the middle of June/July wet season, I withdrew my savings held in stock with the bank, my cashier. By that time, my slash of cash had blossomed to a sizeable a few thousand Kyats. As I bided my farewells to one and all, the tea shop ‘the owner also gave me a parting gift, so also did my ‘gang’. My ‘mom’, the cashier holding back her tears gave me two thousand Kyats, it was a big windfall those days. All told, I had nearly ten thousand Kyats as my kitty, all in hard cash.
Cho Too bided “Adieu, sayonara, audios” to his gang and made haste out of the tea shop. With the words “Please don’t forget to contact me should you need help’, my ‘mom’ uttered, handing her bule flowered brolly at the entrance, I ventured my way out into the unknown world …….
Scene B: Trials and challenges
With my plastic supermarket shopping in bag in one hand and a lady’s umbrella in the other, I slowly walked in a drizzle that was turning into rain on my walk to Parami Railway Station. Where was I going? I had not the foggiest. I sat by the yellow plastic seats beside the tickets office. The weather had turned from an overcast sky to a dull dark rainy day. Two trains passed by, some alighted while a few souls climbed onboard. Me? Come to think of it, I had nowhere to go. North? South? East or West? I had not an inch of clue. My mind was in overdrive mode. Back to Magwe? Nobody there, besides it’s been a sometime time ago, in fact over twenty years ago. The monastery? Which one? I had not an idea. I had not kept touch with U Pandita, the monk who brought me to Rangoon. In many respects it sure was a bad move to leave ‘Moon Shadow’ tea shop. On the Parami main road, the busses were full to the brim as usual, while some clinging, standing and squeezed like sardines and all its patrons seemed eager to reach their destinations.
The station master in his mid-fifties donned a starched white uniform saw me as quite dejected, sitting alone with my yellow plastic shopping bag and an umbrella folded beside me. My head matched the weather, bowed down only supported by my two hands.
He smilingly asked, “Where to, son?”
I stared back blankly. I had nowhere to go. Somehow, Hlawga popped into my head, being a discussion point I once heard by the patrons of the tea shop and declared as such.
The old station master smiled and said “By bus would be faster, however you shall have to walk to the junction of Parami Road and Kabar Aye Pagoda Road. That’s about twenty minutes walk from here. However, since you are here and the heavens opening up, if you so desires, you can take the circular train to Daknyingone in about ten minutes, and change there on to the Pyay train. Hlawga should be three or four stops from there.”
As such, I paid for the ticket, thanked him graciously and off I went on my mysterious journey.
My stomach was grumbling, empty, yet more priority issues were at hand, more importantly than quelling my hunger. A place to kip, finding a job and fa place to stay were currently at the top of my agenda. By early afternoon, the skies still sheading its non-stop tears, I had arrived at Hlawga Railway Station, and station master knew his stations alright, however unwilling to venture into other topics . At times like these, I cannot thank enough to my ‘mom’ for her blue flowered umbrella. Not to be noticed of my plight, with a brisk pace I made for the main road. It was not that difficult for a small town, nor does it take rocket science that the main road would lead to a highway express road. The main purpose was to be alone, away from crowds and to be able to be lost in my own thoughts. The brolly kept my head reasonably dry. Apart from that, my body was soaked to the skin. As I approached the outskirt of the town, the surroundings were mostly plantations with pockets of residences dotted here and there. Liked it or not, walking any which way seemed to be only my aim under the circumstances.
In the late afternoon, my gaze was fixated to a monastery by a dirt road on the left of the express highway. After following it for about twenty minutes, I saw an old paunch man with thinning grey hair, slightly balding in front, sitting on a bamboo bench, reciting Buddhist prayers from a worn down dogeared book by the makeshift gate post.
On facing him. I managed to squeeze a few words ‘Sir, how do I secure a night rest at this monastery? I do not have much money. However, I am willing to donate a few Kyats that I have”.
He then paused his reciting and looked at me squarely in the face and said, ‘I’m only the cook, you shall have to make your case to the head monk (Abbot) inside.”
He got up and I followed him to a small wooden structure and there sat a monk sitting crossed legged on the floor writing something on his small rickety desk (someone must have donated). “Anything, U Kyauk Lone?’ (Mr Round Rock)”
Both of us kneeled in front of the Saryardaw (head priest) and U Kyauk Lone said, “Saryardaw, this gentleman requests a night at the monastery and willing to pay should he be so charged.” Saryardaw shifted his focus to Cho Too, who was soaked to the skin and awaited an explanation.
Cho Too pleaded, ‘ Saryardaw, may I humbly request for a night’s rest at this monastery. I am but a poor man, however, am willing to donate for my lodging if so charged. I am also new at these parts and am seeking any manual work, as just moved from Rangoon to venture out my fortune. I am not hiding away from the law, nor possess a police record.”
Saryardaw was then lost in thought for a while. After a short moment, which seemed forever, replied ‘No my son, we do not charge. This small establishment is but a monastery and not a place of lodging. Granted, you may shelter here for the night.”
That said, both men made their way to another small wooden structure where a few monks resided. U Kyauk Lone guided him to a makeshift kitchen, a roofed open space with pots and pans and where stood a small earthen stove. The somewhat slightly bald grey-haired cook said, “You may rest your body here, sorry it’s not to standard of a lodging house. We are just a poor monastery. Indecently, you may wish to take a stroll around the plantation areas and try your luck.”
I laid down my yellow plastic shopping bag besides a pile of cooking wood. The only place reasonably dry. The floor was solid good mother earth, a bit wet though. Afterwards, I was out again with my blue flowered umbrella. I did not journey back to the express highway. Instead, I followed the red dirt road. After about an hour, the dirt road was more of a track, for our four-legged friends to steer in a single file. The track was soggy with mud and what not. Further inside, there were panorama of more plantations. Soaked I maybe but also felt a freedom which not experienced before. Job, I had none and a stomach with a marching band inside playing non-stop. Irrespective, I ploughed on step by step. After about the eighth plantation, I made a reverse course, maybe due to the insistent rain, I then sighted not a soul working nearby a fallen tree, maybe a watchman. Walking slowly towards a bamboo hut, I spied on some matured ladies, maybe 2 or 3, others were retired old men, amongst them was a young lad in his teens, merrily playing his bamboo flute in near his uncle, down with a fever, so declared.
Smilingly, trying to strike a dialogue, I commented “This monsoon is endless, I wonder when it will end?”
“Due to an economic downturn, all plantation slowed down, if not, stopped for the time being.” Muttered the old man under a blanket, beside the flute player.
Self-survival in the most basic elements were foremost on their minds .
By the time I was back at the monastery, it was already dark. I took a shower under the rickety monastery roof water drainage. The flow of its force was still strong due the rain dragging on. As a sense of habit, I washed my wet clothes without soap, at least the body odour would have somewhat disappeared. My towel was a spare longyi from my yellow plastic shopping bag, to which I changed into after drying. By the glow of a single candlelight in the outdoor kitchen, there I witnessed a semi-porridge in an earthen bowl placed on top of an extinguished clay stove. It was still warm to the touch. U Kyauk Lone said that it was the best he could concoct given the circumstances. It was more of a gruel of leftovers, rice, uneaten dishes and plenty of water. However, for a hungry man, it was heaven. The plot I intended to lay myself now had a ex-army ground sheet. After the meal, I felt warm and laid down with a few pieces of cooking wood serving as my pillow. Sleep came at an instant.
Early next day, the monastery’s serenity and silence were broken to the sound a hollow tree trunk being struck by a club about nine times, thud, thud, thud, some kind of an alarm clock I believe, thus was also woken. Rubbed my eyes and when I opened them it was still very dark. Sitting up, I noticed U Kyauk Lone already was a stirring a large pot of rice porridge for the few monks there. I quickly got up and helped with the preparation of their meagre breakfast. My own toilet affairs took backstage. By around five, all monks, maybe 4/5 including the Saryardaw were walking out clutching their black lacquered bowls, in a single file for their morning alms. It was still dark, and the rays of morning sunlight had not still arrived. Completing my morning chores, U Kyauk Lone offered me a bowl of plain rice porridge. With something in my tummy, the beating of drums fell silent.
Scene C: And so to a new beginning
Being monsoon, the morning was still dull and wet but was able to figure a few things in the vague morning light. It was still drizzling, thus under the shelter of my mom’s blue flowered brolly, I made for the express highway. Reaching there, the morning had broken even though with drops here and there. This time, I took the dirt road on the right. There were no signboards nor any of sign of life from there either. I walked enjoying the view but rather apprehensive of securing some sort of work. There were plots of estates, plantations that many of them and a few fish farms too. Regretfully, all were rather quiet void of labourers and no need to conduct enquiries. My eighth try was a sizeable estate/plantation with a few fish spawning ponds, plots of ‘sabae-jasmine’ flowers bushes and rows of white turnips. It was quite big alright. I followed up the soggy pathway which led to an old and crumbling wooden house. On its porch sat a lady in her sixties with praying beads in hand and reciting some prayers. I enquired whether she might be needing a labourer. Before she could make an answer, out came three ladies, seemed to be her daughters. Standing in the drizzle with my blue flowered umbrella, reposed my enquiry.
The second youngest with much unkept hair and without much regard to her dressing said, “We are in need of a watchman for our estate/plantations as our old watchman died a few weeks ago, are you be interested?”
My heart skipped a beat and with a straight face I replied, “I was.”
She thence continued with a barrage of questions. Others watched on without any comment. Her closing statement was “You shall have to deposit your national registration card (NRC) with me and will be returned on your termination. Salary of Kyats about 100/-, depending on worked days, will be on last day of each month.”
At this point, it is worthy of a mention as to how I secured a national registration card (NRC). When I was about thirteen/fourteen, my ‘mom’ made arrangements with the district Immigration staff for all our ‘gang’ at the tea shop to have a NRC. The staff were patrons of ‘Moon Shadow’. Without such identification card in Burma, in the eyes of the law, one cannot be said to be a Burman, nor could travel . It was like that. 2/3 staff from the district immigration office descended upon our tea shop for the benefit of ‘us’. There, in front of a plain brick wall, covering with a bedsheet snaped photographs of us individually and collected our bio data. When it came to my turn, Cho Too was the only name I had known, thus became my official name. Place of birth was easy. I confidently said, ‘Magwe’. When it came to date of birth, my answer was blank. As such, my ‘mom’ stepped in the impasse and explained to the immigration staff that being an orphan, date of birth would be difficult to fathom, as such, she suggested 04.01.1968, in commemoration of our Burmese Independence Day and month. Thus, it was recorded accordingly. Came a week or two, the immigration staff returned with all our NRC cards. It was an important milestone that made me a Burman officially.
From the steps of their crumbling house, while the rest of continued to give me the eyes accessing my every comment, hearing as an accused in front of judge and jury similarly to a Perry Mason episode.
She continued “As you will be working for us, please address my mother as ‘A Phwar’ (old lady), my eldest sister as ‘Daw Gyi’ (eldest aunty), me as ‘Daw Latt’ (middle aunty) and my youngest sister as ‘Daw Lay’ (youngest aunty), understood?”
I nodded in agreement.
Daw Latt continued her precise cross examination “We wish to know about yourself, trade, last employment, reasons for termination from last employment, where from, your current place of residence, family man or otherwise, any illness as such and possible commencement of this watchman job.”
Still standing in the drizzle under a dull sky, beneath the shelter of my mom’s blue flowered umbrella, I made my case to the best of my ability. After that, a few moments of stillness under the sound of drizzle on my brolly, the leaves dancing in the breeze and crows passing comments from trees tops, Daw Latt commanded me to report for duty at 0800 hours the next day. The case was adjourned for the day.
That part completed; I journeyed back to the monastery. Each step was heavy. I wondered how the cows and buffaloes’ trots on it. They seem to enjoy this type of weather. Not me! It was passed noon, thus ‘soon’ (lunch) for monks were over. The drums in my tummy started their drum roll, however, I was just glad to land a job and hunger took second place. Once entered the gates of the monastery, I headed straight for the head monk’s shack, hastily constructed with all types of woods. There were no glass panes, just a wooden window supported by a plank of bamboo without hinges.
When he saw me, the first words he uttered was, ‘hope it went well’.
I knelt in front of the head monk and informed him that I secured a job as a estate/plantation watchman not too far a distance from that monastery. He ‘knows’ of it and commented that the old watchman passed away not a few weeks ago. He also said the ‘ladies’ were peaceful, fair and just minded folks. The farm/plantations were started by A Phwar’s husband many, many years ago. Today, due to the economic downturn, they are suffering like the rest of the community but surviving and making ends meet.
Due no alternative, I requested for an extra night as the job would only commence the next morning. The head monk gave his blessings and wished me well. I thanked him, got up and walked to the open kitchen where U Kyauk Lone was attending to left-over food for the four mongrels, the four-legged guards of the monastery. I told the cook of my morning’s trials while helping him with the cleaning and washing of pots and pans. The washing up soap was in a sorry state of a small soggy lump just like the weather outside. From the open space of the makeshift kitchen, I scooped a dollop of mud and applied it as a Brillo pad, after which ash from the fireplace. This I learnt with my eyes from an Indian lady whilst my duties for bazzaring during my younger years. They all turned out shining which then only applied a little soap to rid the oil. The balding grey-haired U Kyauk Lone beamed with satisfaction and piled them up beside the fireplace. He then pointed me with his eyes to a small pot containing rice and an earthenware with some leftover dishes. It was truly a joy to witness the spread. I relished my dry mouth and made peace with my drumming stomach. For the remaining of the day, I sweep and cleared away the dried leaves soggy that had fallen into its small yard while the drizzle allowed a recess.
After brooming the earthen floor of the small bamboo shack for the other monks, I rewarded myself with a welcoming rest by the kitchen entrance with no doors. There, for the first time of my adulthood adventure, my mind was at peace also with a full belly, sleep came without a nudging. When I opened the windows of my eyes, U Kyauk Lone was already preparing the outside kitchen for the next day’s cooking. By the look of it was already late afternoon and a sight of a bowl of plain rice porridge was truly appetising. Later, the cook gave me a general assessment of Hhawga district and some history lesson on my imminent bosses social and economic situations. My clothes were all washed and dried and back in my yellow plastic shopping bag. With pots of Burmese tea, we talked into the night by the makeshift kitchen till shut eyes. I was a contented man.
All told, those two days had been rather momentous. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Job hunting had been very hard, especially for someone like me without any formal academic education as such. Furthermore, a roof over one’s head and keeping the stomach contented was equally difficult. This was my first experience towards looking for a job. It scared the ***t out of me. Like everything, there was a silver lining. This scary episode taught me to never again to venture into anything without deep, deep aforethought and preparing for the worst. That time, I was let off lightly. Apart from minus a few Kyats and went hungry a few times, I was still standing.
Scene D: An existence of sort
To me, monsoon meant just rains incessantly, cats and dogs in our neck of the woods, at times accompanied by thunder, lightning and strong winds from after Thingyan to Thadinkyut. That morning was no exception, it had been raining since before I left Rangoon. Under a dull sky, it was still raining as I crossed the express highway and made a right turn at an unmarked dirt road path. To my mind, I understood the rice farmers, cows and buffalos being happy with rain, however as for me, the going was tough and no uplift of my sad soul. Each step was laborious, however the prospects of a job, somewhat uplifted by sad soul to a point somewhat.
I closed the rackety wooden gate which was in much need of tender, love and care (TLC) and silently prayed that the job would prove to be worthy. Whether a day labourer, plantation helper, general worker or whatever did not matter. The main issue was earning an income. As I approached the crumbling house, the damn mongrel dog barked alerting its occupants. Daw Latt, my boss came out in her usual style, unkept hair and much to be desired dressing.
“So, you made it. I presume you have no living quarters. You may reside at the small shed between the house and the gate. I shall also give you some rice and fish paste. Okay?” Without a smile she uttered.
I nodded in agreement, and she continued “Get settled in and I shall walk with you around our plantations in about an hour” and disappeared back into the house.
Even though the shack’s frame was of wood, some sides were patches of different size plywood planks, asbestos sheets and mostly bamboo meshing. It seems a construction of unused materials. The size must be around 10 feet x 6 feet, quite large. However, lack of windows and the roof was of dried palm leaves. No electric lighting as such but does have a small kerosene lighting beside the bamboo door. The floor was good mother earth. There were some sacks of saw dust, some were charcoal and two or three sacks of sand. It was quite clear that the shack was once used as a storeroom. Utensils wise. an earthen water container and a pot, a cracked mud stove, porcelain mug and one wooden spoon, one butter knife in a very sorry state which had seen better days, in fact quite a spartan furnishing. Lack of bed, chair or couch. It was evident the previous occupant used saw dust bags as bedding and not too well into cooking either. For me, no complaints, at least a place to rest by body, dry and roof over my head. The toilet was about ten yards away, usual hole in the ground with some bamboo meshing for vanity’s sake and bare of roofing. The well was close to the house and water was plenty. I tried to make it as comfortable as could be and put my yellow plastic shopping bag on top of the saw dust bags which able serve as my pillow too. Clock? What clock? Mine was nature clock, free of charge and maintenance.
Daw Latt did came bearing gifts. Small paper bags of rice and fish paste, mighty generous of her. She was dry under the safety of a wide ‘turkey brand’ made in Burma man’s umbrella. the cover was made of durable black cloth, the stem was wood, and the spokes were of iron, not the modern aluminium type. It may be heavy, but it does serve its purpose for our Burmese monsoon. Daw Latt took the lead, and I followed a ‘shade’ behind. The woman was a speaking machine, a non-stop gramophone. I gave her, my boss, an undivided attention, what cannot drop out from the other ear. Their land was big. It had a few watermelon plots, a few ‘sabae-jesmine’ white turnips, ‘chinbaung-roselle’ acres and mangoes trees too. Four or five fish farms and a few buffalos enjoying their daily dips in ponds that produces milk I believe. Daw Latt accepted the mud and sogginess as a fact of life. Me being from Rangoon, a city boy, was hard to come to terms with it. Still, she walked and talked, talked and walked. It must have taken a good three to four hours. She said that the tour was a ‘gist’. Her (their) estate was massive to say the least. On the return walk, she was quite dry except for her feet, whereas my head was reasonably ‘unwet’ and the rest soaked to the skin.
Daw Latt concluded by “ While I appreciate, it is an impossibility to oversee the estate in totality, keep an eye, we do not want any poachers, free loaders or that sorts, you know what I mean. In a week or two, you’ll get the hang of it.”
With that, she turned her back and proceeded to their crumbling residence.
She handed to me a hundred Kyats as advance to stock whatever was needful and to be made good at the end of the month with my salary. How was I going to survive? These are hard times, what to do! Pressing unknowns for sure, however, at least I am still alive.
Each time I went to do my no.2, grateful was I to my ‘mom’ for her flowery folding umbrella, that I sheltered under when the weather calls for it . Meantime, I decided to dissect each part of the estate into seven sections. I would patrol daily sector by sector. I just prayed no dire cases emerged for my dismissal. To be utterly honest, the sawdust bags were not that comfortable. My immediate attention was to buy a new pair of rubber slippers as my soles were no more on both feet. On my first Sunday sojourn, I journeyed to the central market close by to the Hlawga Railway Station. There, I purchased by new pair and wore it. I also bought brown rice (being the cheapest), Burmese Tea, dried beans, half a bottle of vegetable oil, some curry and chili powders, all-important additional fish paste, some kerosine oil and a box of candles. I had to advance it from my savings which hoped to make good by end month. For the time being no remedy for my sawdust bed.
I enjoyed my security walks around the plantations as some labourer’s would donate me small quantities of vegetables which was a great help to my meals. Depending on the quantities, some lasted me for three to four days. By about a week, the job was not too bad. There were fringe benefits of free vegetables and fruits, at times some fish from their farms, in a blue moon also milk, should there be any unsold amount left as they do not last overnight and turn bad. To me, nothing went to waste. Bad milk turned to yogurt, stale vegetables to fermented ones etc. Soon I began to recognize the estate’s workers and labourers. They all now knew me as young Cho Too, the watchman. One early morning, I spotted a young female fish monger with her tray of fishes balanced on her head, taking a short cut through our estate land to the market. Not bad looking either. No harm done thus I made nothing of it.
The lady bosses of our estate may not be wealthy, I prefer the term ‘comfortable’. They very much kept to themselves and would donate to the Buddhist monastery in terms of ‘items’ from the estate, in lieu of money. I knew this as one of my chores would be to deliver their donation items to the monastery’s cook U Kyauk Lone. My other job was collecting saw dusts from nearby sawmills ‘free of charge’ every fortnight. I soon became to understand the Daw Latt was the cook of the family, manager and the voice for the whole family too. Daw Gyi was the accountant and the Phwa holds the family, more correctly daughters together. Daw Lay? She was the youngest, thus only acts as advisor in some cases, doing odd jobs. The wet season turned to cool season. I was now thankful for the saw dust bags. Due to my shack being air-conditioned with the whim of the weather, and the sawdust bags kept me warm and dry. The reason for saw dust was that Daw Latt uses a mixture of charcoal and sawdust for ease and economical cooking. After all, saw dust was free of charge. I was getting accustomed to this lifestyle, for better or worst.
Scene E: A Sicilian in Rome
From the wet season that I came, and now the cool season had arrived. The job? Not bad, shall we just say, getting into the saddle without much incidents. I managed to keep the approach to the old house reasonably free of vegetations. I swept it come light every morning. I enjoyed the peacefulness. My bosses had no complaints and supplied me with coerce bamboo brooms without demand. Thus, must be doing something right! The piles of dried leaves and twigs kept me warm at night and in early mornings too. Furthermore, cooking and hot water came with it as an added bonus. Except, I kept my burning exercise well away from my shack and the old tumbling house too. At times, while keeping an eye, slumber came without invitation. I also made it a point to be there until all the fires were well burnt out, extinguished and died. My way of keeping a fire watch.
My free times on a few rare days, usually in the early afternoons were spent at the nearby monastery. I would be talking with my friend U Kyauk Lone, the cook. At times he would serve me late lunches should there be any left with endless pots of Burmese tea. Those moments were of real freedom and without pretence for me. With smiles and laughter through jokes and endless yarns. I would not be wrong to term it as my first friendship at adulthood. I was not that versed religiously as did not cater sufficient time for such indulgence, nor my thoughts were that way inclined. However, I did enjoy the peacefulness, sincerity and sense of fulfilment just by observing the monk’s lifestyle. The monks seemed to be contented with their beings and status-quo. Me? Afraid not! Even U Kyauk Lone was contented being just a cook at that middle of nowhere small monastery not many were interested nor knows about it, forfeiting what the rat race had to offer. With time he did let me into a grimace of his previous world. U Kyauk Lone was a qualified lawyer hailed from Rangoon Arts and Science University (RASU). He practiced as a criminal lawyer from a partnership in Barr Street, Rangoon. According to U Kyauk Lone, he was quite successful with a wife and four children, three girls and a youngest boy, who takes after their mother. Understand that one day, he defended a young man for murder. He lost that case as unable to argue sufficiently, due to forceful presentation by the prosecution, even though the law were on their side. That realization of life being a struggle whether right, correct or wrong played on his mind. He felt that life’s struggle was tiring, taxing for fame, fortune and everything attached with it, climbing and toiling was for nothing as all would be left behind at life’s end . Whilst for that young man, life had not actually commenced and already was at the end of the road for him with a life imprisonment. With that unshakeable picture in his mind, U Kyauk Lone stopped participating in that rat race, left his family, fortune, profession and all materialistic worldly things. One day, twelve years ago, he found his way to this monastery to exist a life of material wellbeing and be at peace mentally up till the end of his days. Materialistic things had no more meaning for him. U Kyauk Lone with an unsmilingly face said he was a contented man now, even though real cooking experience was zero. The head monk understood his plight and the rest was history. I was not that worldly in thought or be it anything else but found his friendship to be sincere and not expecting anything in return. I live for today and for tomorrow in every sense unlike U Kyauk Lone.
Back at the estate, the mongrel, a ‘he’, strikes a friendship with me and preferred to anchor a home outside my shack. Thar dog became my welcoming associate as not much attention, pampering or maintenance required. Dog’s name? He had none, I just called him, ’dog’. Even though my bed of saw dust bags kept me warm at nights, I also had unwelcomed guests in my shack. Some nights they would disturb my beauty sleep. As such, on uneventful days, I cleaned out my shack. Underneath the piles of saw dust bags, there lived a family of six rats without their mum and dad. My first thought that came across was to send them to rats’ kingdom. However, seeing and reflecting to myself, I picked them up slowly and placed the small rats by the gate. I was sure their mum and dad would find them unless the crows or my befriended mongrel found them first. I also found a discarded Horlicks jar less it’s top. It was dark in colour, being there for did not know when. After cleaning with a dose of water, it sparkled in the sunlight, however its lip was somewhat chipped. I should have been Inspector Clouseau, it came abundantly clear the reason for its demise. Still, it was worthy of a second life, thus I kept it.
My weekly programme was full which included the cleaning out the saw dust bags on regular basis that complimented my much-needed rest at night. I’ve turned out to be a self-made chef of the elementary kind. To save time, energy and usage of utensils, I cook a kind of gruel. Rice and vegetables and a wee bit of fish paste all in a pot, a wee bit of oil should I had any. One get used to the taste. As they say, ‘necessity is the mother of invention’. Afterall, only two souls eat the cuisine. And no complaints at that. Myself and my associate, the mongrel.
The cool season was the nicest period of our three seasons. The ladies were at home with me ( I think) by now and I likewise with them. Even though the economy was still in the dumps, we all were riding out the wave proudly. I had to be happy and contented with my Kyats 3.15 per day meagre pay, as that was the best I could command. Running errands for the ladies makes me venture more deeply into Hlawga’s district. Unexpectedly, I met again the young lady fish monger on her return from the market after selling her catch. To me, she represented a young, strong business minded, not too shy to shower her views person. She was a joy to watch in these hard times. While complementing her business skills, she bided me farewell and walked briskly back to her home. Letting out a sigh of contentment, slowly but surely, I was getting used to the Hlawga’s lifestyle.
The months from September/October to February/March are the nicest, coolest and crispiest in our calendar. Mornings are filled with dew; evenings are dry too, and the sky filled with millions of stars. Temperatures dances from about 18 degrees centigrade and the hottest noon that does not exceed 23/24 degrees centigrade. Once the sun had done his job, the welcoming evenings and nights were also dry without humidity, sweet and a situation that calls out for a blanket to cuddle in. Our ladies’ bosses usually do a ‘Htamane Pwe’, (glutinous rice savoury snack festival), a Burmese tradition on the full moon day of Tabaung as part of a harvest festival. This harvest festival occurs on and around the 11th month of the Burmese calendar to celebrates the end of winter. My bosses usually invite the estate and plantations staff with their families, a yearly get together cook out if you will. The cooking preparation involves both men and women. Htamane is a traditional savoury Burmese dish which is primarily made out with a mixture of Glutinous Rice, fried coconut shavings, roasted peanuts, toasted sesame, ground nut oil and ginger. Traditionally, three men are involved in the mixing of the Htamane. Two of the men mixes with large woods spatulas and the third man instructs the men on how to mix the dough. As it involves stirring throughout, group of men takes turns. Eventually, fried coconut shavings, toasted sesame, roasted peanuts, ground-nut oil and fried ginger are added into the pot and mixed in with the dough. At the very end of the process, more of the previous ingredients are added. Htamane is served on banana leaves that have been rubbed in oil that is safe to eat. Huge portions of Htamane are made enough for the whole community. First, a portion of it is delivered to the Buddha, the monastery (my job) and the rest is delivered to all including neighbouring friends and as a harvest festival gift. A feasting time to be sure. This once-a-year event ensures all our estate, plantation staff, their families, neighbours and friends congregate well into the night accompanied by non-stop pots of Burmese tea. Tradition Burmese music was a bonus.
While my mother that brought me into this world have long gone, I still think of my ‘moon shade’ tea shop mom and my gang of waiters, memories. Now my task included cleaning, sweeping the yard and ensure all were back in its proper place once the festival was over. Taxing for the body maybe, but good for the soul.
Scene F: Hope
The dry season was really hot coupled with humidity, at times 80-90%, thus making it twice
as hot and sticky. Work was doubly hard. One yearns for a cool breeze, which were rather scarce. I could not sleep in my windowless shack. Sleeping outside meant gourmet meals for the thousands of mosquitos, thus under the protection of a mosquito net was the only consolation with a bamboo hand fan until sleep came. Water festival period were by definition only. All were dry. Not a soul to be seen from the estate. Under the full blast of the sun from morning till night was most unbearable, thus under a shade of a tree was always sought together with a hand fan plus a pot of Burmese tea. Everyone prayed for rains, however there were no signs of it from the sky either.
One day after the so-called water festival, four men appeared outside of the rackety wooden gate. My job as watchman enquired their purpose. They claimed to be carpenters, thus guided them to Daw Latt, my boss. They seemed to have chatted for about two hours, while at times surveying the rickety crumbling wooden building now and then. About a week later, the four men appeared early in the morning again. Behind them were two bullock carts full of dry palm leaves and some bamboo poles. The first day was mainly spent on unloading and storing them under the shade of a banyan tree. The following day, they discussed and chose a clearing where a large shed was erected without walls. Eight bamboo poles were reinforced with smaller bamboo poles and dried palm leaves were covered as awnings. A temporary shed, all completed in a day.
Came the next morning, the four carpenters and Daw Latt circled their crumbling wooden house, pointing here, there and everywhere. They must have circled more than eight times, after which I lost count, Besides, it was well beyond my pay grade and I just befriended by course bamboo broom and made sure the pathways were swept clean, free from dried leaves and presentable to my owners. Around noon, the carpenters stopped for lunch. Under their newly hoisted shed, they sat on the ground with their tiffin containers, enjoying their meals. Laughing and yapping, they filled their bellies. I walked over to them and offered a hot pot of freshly brewed Burmese tea. As I had no glasses, they used their empty tiffin cans as cups and thanked me for my generosity. Their surveys continued for the rest of the afternoon without Daw Latt. Before sunset, the called it a day and turned back for home.
The renovation was major. I wondered whether it would take all hot weather season. With only with a force of four, it does not take rocket science to figure out the schedule. After a while, the carpenters and I ate luncheon with their tiffin rice containers together in their shed and would strike a conversation during their afternoon tea breaks.
I mentioned “A young lady would daily cross the estate grounds early in the mornings on her way to market and thence again after before noon when the market closes.”
One of the carpenters, in his late fifties said “That would be my niece Ma Chaw, she is being one of the breadwinners of our large family. She’s a good girl, works hard and no complaints.”
In my mind, I said, would like to know her better.
“Back to work, comrades” the head carpenter barked.
While the renovation work continued, I collected the bits, pieces and unwanted wood and piled it for future use, if any. My daily rituals went on. Due to the heat, the best time of the day being pre-dawn, when the temperature was at its lowest including the humidity, I eagerly looked forward to sighting Ma Chaw on her walk to the market with a tray full of fish to sell. I
Enjoyed her company and her optimistic outlook of life amazes me. I would merrily accom-
pany her till she was outside of the estate grounds. The same ritual was undertaken on her return to her house through our estate. That was my priority. Her outspoken attitude was fun to be with.
One hot day, during our ritual walk back through the estate, out of the blue she uttered “Are you making a pass on me?”
Bewildered, lost for words, I gave her the Monalisa smile. For once, she was lost in thought all the way back.
I performed my daily routines with diligence. However, the thought of Ma Chaw lingered in me. Labourer I was and not too young either with no qualifications to show for. On my fortnightly pilgrimage to the nearby monastery, I requested the wisdom of U Kyauk Lone, the cook, my learned friend. I opened out my heart. U Kyauk Lone gave his undivided attention and on completion of my monologue ……...
“Matters of the heart are a delegate complicated matter” he commented, and continued “There are no rights or wrongs. However, your decision must be resolved. One thing is for sure. A woman will fathom her options. One of them is judging whether you are man enough to undertake this monumental task and likely outcome of the union. “
I thanked U Kyauk Lone, gave my respects to the head monk and walked back with much in thoughts.
I am a nobody, not that young either. Nothing to offer and how am I to woo Ma Chaw?
A million dollars question to be sure, but I had no dollars. I decided to keep my distance. Should she be a wee bit interested in me, I am sure she would trigger out a hint, at least I was hopping for. I immersed myself with work. The renovations took more than a month and I still donated Burmese tea to the carpenters, the least I could do. I watched the carpenters going about their chores and imposed questions that I wanted to understand, there were a lot to be learnt about wood. Teak, hardwood, plywood, softwood, jungle wood etc. they all had their uses.
“Does Ma Chaw still strike a conversation with you?” U Lwin, one of the carpenters enquired.
“Maybe a few times” was my reply.
“Ma Chaw is of age, however, her fiery speech and temper puts men off” said U Lwin as he worked on the windows.
I replied with my non-committal smile.
At least there was hope. I shall need to work on that.
