Short Story:
A RUDIMENTARY SUBSISTENCE
Forward
The life of a bottom-tier Burmese labourer, going through its paces, focusing on the quiet struggle of survival.
Scene A: The dawn of a modest beginning
Scene B: Seek and ye shall find
Scene C: Passage to an enigma
Scene D: Towards a new Dawn
Scene E: A Sicilian in Rome
Scene F: Hope
မြန်မာမှုဇာတ်ကြောင်းလေးကိုရပ်ဆိုင်း၍ တဖန်အင်္ဂလိပ်ဘာသာဖြင့်မြန်မာပုံပြင်လေး -
Scene A: The dawn of a modest beginning
Wearing a handed-down ex-army green cotton singlet and a faded longyi that had long seen better days, Cho Too looked up at the sky and cried out in anguish, “Lord, why have you forsaken me?”
Tears streamed down his prematurely lined face as he shook his head in despair. A man of modest means and little standing, he had been born into humble circumstances—and had never strayed far from them.
At the well-ripened age of 34—give or take a vague shrug and a questionable calendar—honestly, it’s more of a ballpark figure than a fact. My mother and I never really did birthdays; she always said they were just “rich men’s folly with frosting.”
So, exact dates? A wee bit fuzzy. Think of my age as more of an evaluation than an actual timestamp.
Our rickety home—a 10-by-10-foot, one-room shack cobbled together from bamboo matting with a roof of dried palm leaves—stood on the outskirts of western Magwe town, near the riverbank and just off the main road. We had plenty of fresh air—along with an unwelcome closeness to nature: cockroaches, rats, snakes, ants, and all manner of pests. During the cool season, it got surprisingly chilly, and mosquitoes were the least of our worries. As for a toilet? No problem—the Irrawaddy River was just a stone’s throw away, with a magnificent view to behold.
My mother worked tirelessly, seven days a week, as a helper to a cook—herself a daily-wage labourer—at a food stall in the central marketplace of Magwe, a small town nestled along the banks of the Irrawaddy River, not far from the ancient royal city of Mandalay. The stall’s leftover vegetables often helped stretch our meagre meals.
When she passed away—just a young lass of about 25 or 26, may God rest her soul—after a severe bout of flu, I was around nine years old: helpless, alone, and with no one to turn to.
As fate would have it, a passing Buddhist monk in his sixties took pity on me, seeing that I was a freshly orphaned child, too young to fend for myself. Through one of his devotees, he arranged the funeral and found me food and lodging in Rangoon. The monk, on his way to Mandalay to continue his religious studies at a teaching monastery university, was known by his monastic name, Shin Pandita—for his Ph.D., perhaps? God knows.
Fostered to a teashop owner along with others, I was employed as a waiter, helper, and general “odd-job” boy—all rolled into one. In return, I received food and shelter. The café fed and clothed me, providing two sets of second-hand nylon singlets and baggy midi-pants, which were expected to last at least another three years.
Open daily from six in the morning until the last customer left, the teashop became both my workplace and my home.
My sleeping quarters were makeshift: tea tables pushed together after closing time, shared with the rest of our eight-member gang, using spare longyis as pillows. Mosquitoes? What mosquitoes? Sleep came instantly and without qualifications.
The café—called a “tea shop” in Burmese—was named Moon’s Shadow.
It was a bare existence—character-building, as they say—but I had a roof over my head and wasn’t exactly starving. The teashop clung to life near Parami Railway Station in Mayangone Township, strategically wedged in a not-quite-bustling strip just before South Okkalapa. Some might call it suburbia; others might just squint and say “outskirts of Rangoon.”
I didn’t know when or where I was born, nor did I have a proper name, as such things were never discussed. As for my father—well, I never knew one, at least not that I can recall. The nickname Cho Too, lovingly given to me by my mother, stuck with me ever since.
I’m not illiterate. I can read and write, thanks to the free education I received at a monastery on the outskirts of Magwe, along the road to Mandalay, by the paddy fields, during my early years. I can read a newspaper just as well as the next man.
Sadly, that was the pinnacle of my academic education.
My existence followed a simple ritual: start work at 5:30 in the morning and continue till around midnight—with time for simple meals, a bit of play, sleep, and everything else in between. Bathing meant a bucket of cold “natural” water drawn from a well behind the teashop. Soap was carbolic, a common item shared by all, and it doubled as laundry detergent.
A toothbrush was simply our first finger, and our toothpaste was a mixture of powdered charcoal and ash from the outside kitchen—with the cook’s permission, of course.
We had one common toilet behind our compound—a deep pit in the ground, shielded by bamboo mesh for privacy and a plastic awning to keep out the weather. On average, the pit lasted about two to three years. When full, it was filled in with mother earth and a new one dug nearby—but not too close, to avoid the risk of collapse.
The digging? Free labour—courtesy of us kids.
Thoughts of joining a monastery did cross my mind. Even then, vacancies weren’t exactly abundant.
However, here at the teahouse, we had some connection to the outside world—of sorts. Local pop music blared from morning till night. There were more newspapers and magazines than one could absorb, and the television stayed on from opening to closing.
In a way, I was lucky.
Pocket money came once in a blue moon—during Thadingyut, the seventh month of the Myanmar calendar, marking the end of the Buddhist Sabbath, or Vassa. The Thadingyut Festival lasted three days. If there happened to be an all-night pwe(theatre), it meant a real treat for us boys.
The celebration spanned the day before the full moon, the full moon day itself (when Buddha is said to descend from heaven), and the day after.
Christmas? The teashop owner was a staunch Buddhist.
Households lit up with coloured lights after dark. People visited the Shwedagon Pagoda, paid respects to elders, wore their best attire, and enjoyed plenty of free food from neighbourhood stalls.
Since I didn’t have much to spend—no parents or relatives to send me money, nothing I wanted to buy, and no interest in fashion—I saved mine with my “bank”: the cashier.
The cashier was the owner's eldest daughter—a plump, spinster of a woman often seen with prayer beads in hand, quietly chanting, murmuring, or reading religious scriptures by the counter. In her fifties, with silver streaks at her temples, she was, like it or not, the closest thing I had to a mother.
Should the bad karma of sickness befall us, it was an hour’s walk to the nearest Yankin District Free Clinic—or about twenty minutes to the monastery’s free clinic, if it happened to be open.
Better still, as a first line of treatment, there was always a free consultation with the cashier, available 24/7—medicines included.
A spot of bright news: nobody had crossed over to the other side during my entire tenure. We were all vigorous, robust, strong young lads—whether due to resistance to illness, natural immunity, sheer protection, invulnerability, plain healthiness, or just dumb luck—who knows?
(To be continued on 18/09/25)
Scene C:
Scene D: Toward the New Dawn
Being monsoon season, the morning was still dull and wet, but I managed to make out a few things in the vague morning light. It was drizzling, so under the shelter of my mother’s blue-flowered umbrella, I made my way toward the National Express Highway No.1.
By the time I reached it, the morning had broken, though the occasional drops still fell here and there. This time, I took the dirt road on the right. There were no signboards, nor any signs of life along the way. I walked, enjoying the panorama but feeling apprehensive about finding some sort of work soon. There were plots of estates, plantations—many of them—and a few fish farms too. Regretfully, all were quiet, void of labourers and with no reason to make enquiries.
My eighth attempt brought me to a sizeable estate and plantation, with a few fish-spawning ponds, neat rows of white turnips, and bushes of sabae-jasmine flowers. The grounds were expansive, stretching far beyond what I could take in at once. I followed a soggy pathway that led to an old, crumbling wooden house. On the porch sat a woman in her sixties, holding a string of prayer beads and softly murmuring prayers. I approached and asked if she might be in need of a labourer. Before she could respond, three women—who appeared to be her daughters—emerged from the house. Standing in the drizzle beneath my blue-flowered umbrella, I repeated my inquiry.
The second youngest, her hair unkempt and attire careless, said, “We need a watchman for our estate and plantations. Our old watchman passed away a few weeks ago. Are you interested?”
My heart skipped a beat. Hiding my ecstatic, euphoric, jubilant feelings behind a straight facade, I replied, “I am.”
She then fired a barrage of questions while the others looked on accessing silently. Her final statement was:
“You will have to deposit your National Registration Card (NRC) with me. It will be returned when your employment ends. The salary is about 100 Kyats, depending on the number of days worked, and will be paid on the last day of each month.”
At this point, it’s high time mentioning how I secured my NRC.
A lifetime ago when I was around thirteen or fourteen, my ‘mom’ arranged with the district Immigration staff for all of us in our ‘gang’ at the tea shop to receive NRCs. The staff were regular patrons of Moon Shadow. Without such an identification card in Burma, one could not legally be recognized as a Burman, nor could secure employment or travel freely—it was that stringent and essential.
Two or three officials from the district immigration office came to our tea shop to help us. In front of a plain brick wall covered with a bedsheet, they took individual passport photographs and collected our biographical data. When it came to my turn, Cho Too was the only name I knew, so that became my official name. The place of birth was easy—I confidently said, “Magwe.”
When asked for my date of birth, I was blank. My ‘mom’ then stepped in and explained to the immigration staff that, as an orphan, knowing the exact date was difficult. She suggested 04.01.1968, in commemoration of Burmese Independence Day/Montth. This date was recorded accordingly.
A week or two later, the immigration staff returned with all our NRC cards. It was an important milestone that officially made me a Burman.
Back at the crumbling house, I felt like an accused standing before judge and jury—much like a scene from a Perry Mason episode—as the rest of the family continued to scrutinize every comment I made. She continued, “Since you will be working for us, please address my mother as A Phwar (grandma), 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.
As Part Two, Daw Latt then continued launched into her precise cross-examination:
“We need to know everything about you—your trade, your most recent employment and reasons for leaving, your place of origin, current residence, whether you have a family, any health conditions, and whether you can read and write. In short, we want a complete picture of your background from the beginning.
And still standing in the drizzle beneath the dull sky, sheltered by my mother’s blue-flowered umbrella, I presented my case to the best of my ability. After a few moments of silence—accompanied only by the sound of raindrops on my brolly, leaves dancing in the breeze, and crows crowing from treetops—Daw Latt finally commanded me to report for duty at 0800 hours the next day.
The case was adjourned.
That part completed, I journeyed back to the monastery. Each step felt heavy. I wondered how the cows and buffaloes trotted along this path so effortlessly—they seemed to enjoy this kind of weather. I certainly didn’t.
All told, my inquisition had spanned nearly the whole morning, and it was past noon by the time I entered the monastery grounds. The monks’ lunch—what we call soon—was already over. The drums in my belly had begun their roll, but I was just grateful to have landed a job; hunger could wait.
I headed straight for the Abbot’s shack. It was hastily constructed from all kinds of wood. There were no glass panes, just a wooden window propped open by a plank of bamboo, with no hinges to speak of. When he saw me, the first words he uttered were, “Hope it went well.”
I knelt before him and informed him that I had secured a job as an estate-plantation watchman, not too far from the monastery. He nodded, saying he knew the place. The old watchman, he mentioned, had died only a few weeks ago. He also said the “ladies” there were peaceful, fair, and just-minded folks. The plantation had been started by A Phwar’s husband donkey’s years ago. Like much of the community, they were struggling due to the economic downturn, but still surviving—making ends meet.
Due to my predicament, I requested an extra night’s stay, as the job would only commence the following morning. The Abbot gave his blessings and wished me well. I thanked him, got up, and walked over to the open kitchen, where U Kyauk Lone was attending to leftover food for the five mongrels—the four-legged guards of the monastery.
I regurgitated to the cook about my morning’s trials while helping him clean and wash the pots and pans. The washing-up soap was in a sorry state—a small, soggy lump, much like the weather outside. From the open space of the makeshift kitchen, I scooped a dollop of mud and used it as a Brillo pad, followed by some ash from the fireplace. This method I had learned by observing an Indian lady during my younger days while out on my bazaar duties. The pots turned out shining. I then applied just a little soap to remove the remaining oil and grease.
The balding, grey-haired U Kyauk Lone beamed with satisfaction and stacked the clean pots beside the fireplace. Then, with a glance of his eyes, he directed me to a small pot of rice and an earthenware bowl containing some leftover dishes. It was truly a joy to witness the modest spread. I relished the sight—my dry mouth and drumming stomach finally finding peace.
For the rest of the day, I swept and cleared away the soggy, dried leaves that had fallen into the small yard, taking advantage of a brief recess in the drizzle. After brooming the earthen floor of the small bamboo shack for the other monks, I rewarded myself with a well-earned rest by the kitchen entrance, which had no doors. There, for the first time in my adult adventure, my mind was at peace. With a full belly, sleep came without resistance.
When I opened the windows of my eyes, U Kyauk Lone was already preparing the outdoor kitchen for the next day’s cooking. Judging by the light, it was already late afternoon, and the sight of a simple bowl of plain rice porridge was truly appetising. Later, the cook gave me a general overview of Hhawga District, along with a brief history lesson about my soon-to-be boss’s social and economic background which was a repeat of the Abbot’s dialog. Meanwhile, my clothes had been washed, dried, and neatly folded on top of my white plastic shopping bag. With pots of Burmese tea between us, we talked into the night beside the makeshift kitchen, until sleep overtook us. I was a contented man.
All in all, those two days had been quite momentous. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Perusing job hunting had been extremely difficult—especially for someone like me, without any formal academic qualifications. On top of that, finding a roof over my head and keeping my stomach full was just as challenging. That was my first real experience of looking for a job—and it scared the hell out of me. Still, like everything in life, there was a silver lining. That terrifying episode taught me never to venture into anything again without serious thought and thorough preparation for the worst.
Luckily, I got off lightly this time with just bruises. Apart from spending a few kyats on train fare and going hungry a couple of meals, I was still standing.
Scene E: A Sicilian in Rome
I arrived during the wet season, and now that the cool season has set in, things have settled into a steady rhythm. The job? Not bad—let’s just say I’ve gotten into the saddle with only a few incidents.
Each morning, at first light, I sweep the path leading to the old house, keeping it reasonably clear of overgrowth. The peace and quiet suit me. My bosses haven’t raised any complaints—
in fact, they supply me with sturdy bamboo brooms without me even asking. I must be doing
something right.
The dried leaves and twigs I gather serve more than one purpose: they keep me warm at night and during chilly mornings. They also provide fuel for cooking and hot water—a welcome bonus. Still, I take great caution to keep all burning activities well away from both my shack and the old, crumbling house.
From time to time, drowsiness creeps in while I’m keeping an eye on things, but I always make sure to stay alert until every last ember is out—burnt out, extinguished, and cold.
That’s my way of keeping a fire watch—simple, consistent, and safe.
On a few rare days, usually in the early afternoons, I would spend my free time at the nearby monastery. I often found myself in conversation with my friend, U Kyauk Lone—the cook. Sometimes, if there were any leftovers, he would serve me a late lunch, always accompanied by endless pots of Burmese tea. Those moments felt like true freedom—free from pretence, filled with laughter, jokes, and endless yarns. Looking back, I wouldn't be wrong to call it my first true friendship in adulthood.
I was never particularly religious—I didn’t devote much time to such pursuits, nor was my mind inclined that way. Still, I deeply appreciated the peacefulness, sincerity, and quiet sense of fulfilment that came from simply observing the monks' way of life. They seemed genuinely content with their being and their status quo.
Me? I can’t say the same.
Even U Kyauk Lone appeared content with his modest role as a cook at this small, isolated monastery—one that few knew or cared about. He had long since walked away from the rat race. Over time, he opened up to me about his past, letting slip a grimace of a former life.
U Kyauk Lone was once a qualified lawyer, educated at Rangoon Arts and Science University (RASU). He had practised criminal law from a partnership based on Barr Street in Rangoon. By his account, he had been quite successful—with a wife, four children (three girls and a youngest son who, he said, took after their mother).
Then came the case that changed everything.
He was defending a young man charged with murder. Though the law was arguably on their side, he lost the case—unable to match the prosecution’s forceful presentation. The loss haunted him. The realisation that life is a struggle—regardless of whether one is right or wrong—began to weigh heavily on him. He came to feel that all the striving for fame, fortune, and recognition was ultimately futile, as none of it would matter in the end. For the young man he had defended, life had barely begun—and yet it had already ended, with a sentence of life imprisonment.
That unshakable image stayed with him. He decided to leave it all behind—his profession, his wealth, his family, and every worldly possession. Twelve years ago, he found his way to this monastery, seeking not material well-being, but mental peace for the rest of his days.
He told me, with an expression that rarely smiled, that he was a contented man now—even though he had no real experience in cooking when he arrived. The head monk had understood his plight, and the rest, as they say, was history.
As for me, I wouldn’t call myself worldly in thought, or in much else. But I valued his friendship deeply—for its sincerity, for expecting nothing in return. Unlike U Kyauk Lone, I live for today, and for tomorrow—in every sense.
Back at the estate, the mongrel—a he—struck up a quiet friendship with me and chose to make his home just outside my shack. That dog became my unassuming companion; he asked for little—no pampering, no upkeep. His name? He had none. I just called him “Dog.”
Though my bed of sawdust bags kept me warm at night, I wasn’t always alone. Some nights, unwelcome guests disturbed my beauty sleep. So, on quieter days, I took to cleaning out my shack. That’s when I discovered, buried beneath the sawdust bags, a family of six small rats—no sign of their mum or dad.
My first thought was to send them straight to the rats’ kingdom. But after a moment of reflection, I carefully gathered them and placed them by the gate. I figured their parents would find them—unless the crows or my four-legged friend did first.
During that same clean-up, I stumbled upon a discarded Horlicks jar, missing its lid. It was dark in colour, looked like it had been there forever. After a rinse, it sparkled under the sunlight, though the rim was chipped. I fancied myself a bit of an Inspector Clouseau—it was clear how it had met its fate. Still, I saw potential in it. The jar deserved a second life, so I kept it.
My weekly schedule was full, including the regular task of cleaning out the sawdust bags — a chore that nicely complemented my much-needed rest at night. I've become something of a self-made chef, albeit of the most basic kind. To save time, energy, and avoid using too many utensils, I cook a simple gruel: rice, vegetables, and a small amount of fish paste, all in one pot. I add a little oil, when I have any. One gets used to the taste — as they say, necessity is the mother of invention. After all, only two souls eat this humble fare, and neither of us complains: myself and my associate, the mongrel.
The cool season was the most pleasant of our three seasons. By now, the ladies were at home with me, I believe, and I felt equally at home with them. Though the economy was still in the doldrums, we were all riding out the storm with quiet pride. I had to be content with my meagre daily wage of 3.15 Kyats — the best I could earn at the time. Running errands for the ladies took me deeper into Hlawga’s district, where, quite unexpectedly, I ran into the young lady fishmonger again, returning from the market after selling her catch.
To me, she embodied a strong, business-minded young woman with a dark complexion, unafraid to voice her opinions. She might not have resembled the ladies in the movies or magazines, but she was a well-proportioned young woman nonetheless. A refreshing presence in those trying times.
After I complimented her on her business acumen, she bade me farewell and walked briskly
home. Letting out a sigh of quiet satisfaction, I realized that, slowly but surely, I was becoming accustomed to the rhythm of life in Hlawga.
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, and the sky sparkles with millions of stars. Temperatures hover around a pleasant 18°C in the mornings and rarely exceed 23–24°C at midday. Once the sun has done its job, the evenings and nights are refreshingly dry, free of humidity—perfect for cuddling under a blanket.
During this season, our lady bosses usually host a Htamane Pwe—a traditional Burmese festival held on the full moon day of Tabaung, marking the end of winter and part of the harvest celebrations. This festival falls in the 11th month of the Burmese calendar and is a yearly highlight for us. Estate and plantation staff, along with their families, are invited for a communal cookout and celebration.
The preparation of Htamane, a savoury glutinous rice dish, is a collaborative affair involving both men and women. The ingredients include glutinous rice, fried coconut shavings, roasted peanuts, toasted sesame seeds, groundnut oil, and ginger. Traditionally, three men are involved in the mixing process—two handle large wooden spatulas, while the third directs the process. As the stirring is intense and continuous, teams of men take turns to keep the mixture going.
As the rice is cooked and stirred into a dough-like consistency, the fried coconut, sesame seeds, peanuts, oil, and ginger are gradually added and thoroughly mixed in. More of these ingredients are added again at the very end. The finished Htamane is then served on banana leaves rubbed with edible oil.
Large quantities are prepared—enough for the whole community. The first portions are offered to the Buddha and the monastery (my responsibility), and the rest is distributed to everyone, including neighbouring friends, as a festive gift. It’s truly a time of feasting and togetherness.
This once-a-year celebration brings together all our estate and plantation staff, their families, neighbours, and friends, who gather late into the night, enjoying endless pots of Burmese tea and the joyful sounds of traditional Burmese music—a cultural treat and a cherished tradition.
Though the mother who brought me into this world has long since passed, I still think of my "Moon Shade" tea shop mom and my gang of waiter friends—precious memories that linger.
Now, my task includes cleaning, sweeping the yard, and making sure everything is back in its proper place once the festival is over. It's taxing on the body, perhaps, but good for the soul.
Scene F: Hope
The dry season was oppressively hot, with humidity often reaching 80–90%, making the heat feel twice as intense and sticky. Work became doubly exhausting. One longed for a cool breeze, though such relief was rare. I couldn’t sleep in my windowless shack, and sleeping outside turned me into a gourmet meal for thousands of mosquitoes. My only consolation was lying under a mosquito net, fanning myself with a bamboo hand fan until sleep finally came.
The Water Festival was a festival in name only—everything remained bone dry. The estate was deserted; not a soul in sight. The relentless sun blazed from morning until night, making the days nearly unbearable. Shade under a tree, a bamboo fan in hand, and a pot of Burmese tea became essential comforts. Everyone prayed for rain, but the sky gave no sign of mercy.
One day after the so-called Water Festival, four men appeared outside the rickety wooden gate. As the watchman, it was my job to enquire about their purpose. They claimed to be carpenters, so I guided them to Daw Latt, my boss. They seemed to have chatted for about two hours, occasionally pausing to survey the crumbling wooden building. My acquaintance the “dog” could not care two hoots about the carpenters.
About a week later, the same four men returned early in the morning. Behind them were two bullock carts loaded with dry palm leaves and bamboo poles. The first day was spent mainly unloading the materials and storing them under the shade of a banyan tree.
The following day, they discussed among themselves and selected a clearing where they erected a large, wall-less shed. Eight main bamboo poles were reinforced with smaller ones, and dried palm leaves were used to create an awning. A temporary shed—completed in just one day.
The next morning, the same four carpenters and Daw Latt circled the crumbling wooden house, pointing here, there, and everywhere. They must have gone around it more than eight times—after which I lost count. In any case, it was well beyond my pay grade. I simply kept company with my trusty bamboo broom, making sure the pathways were swept clean, free of dried leaves, debris and presentable for my employers.
Around noon, the carpenters paused for lunch. Beneath their newly hoisted shed, they sat on the ground with their tiffin containers, enjoying their meals. Laughing and chatting, they filled their bellies. I walked over and offered them a hot pot of freshly brewed Burmese tea. Since I had no glasses, they used their empty tiffin cans as makeshift cups and thanked me warmly for the gesture.
Their survey continued through the afternoon—this time without Daw Latt. Just before sunset, they called it a day, leaving their tools in my shed and made their way home.
The renovation was a major one. I wondered whether it would last the entire hot-weather season. With only a crew of four, it didn’t take rocket science to estimate the schedule.
After some time, the carpenters and I began sharing lunch together under their make-shift shed, eating from their tiffin containers. We’d strike up conversations during their afternoon tea breaks too.
One day, I mentioned, “A young fishmonger lady crosses the estate grounds every morning on her way to the market, and again just before noon on her way home when the market closes.”
One of the carpenters, a man in his late fifties, replied, “That would be my niece, Ma Chaw. She’s one of the breadwinners in our large family. A good girl—works hard and never complains.”
In my mind, I thought: I’d like to know her better.
“Back to work, comrades!” the head carpenter barked.
While the renovation work continued, I collected the leftover bits, pieces, and unwanted wood, piling them up for potential future use. My daily rituals carried on as usual. Due to the heat, the most pleasant time of day was pre-dawn, when both the temperature and humidity were at their lowest. I eagerly looked forward to catching sight of Ma Chaw on her way to the market, balancing a tray full of fish from the ponds to sell.
I enjoyed her company immensely. Her optimistic outlook on life never failed to amaze me, and I would happily accompany her until she stepped outside the estate grounds. The same ritual repeated on her return, as she made her short-cut way back home through our estate. That was my priority. Her outspoken nature made her fun to be around.
Then one hot morning, during our usual walk back through the estate, she suddenly turned to me and asked, “Are you making a pass at me?”
Caught completely off guard and at a loss for words, I responded with nothing more than a Mona Lisa smile. For once, she walked the rest of the way deep in thought, unusually silent.
I performed my daily routines with diligence. However, the thought of Ma Chaw lingered within me. I was a labourer—no longer young, and with no qualifications to speak of.
On my fortnightly pilgrimage to the nearby monastery, I sought the wisdom of U Kyauk Lone, the cook and my learned friend. I opened my heart to him. U Kyauk Lone listened with undivided attention, and when I finished my monologue, he said:
“Matters of the heart are delicate and complicated,” he commented thoughtfully. “There are no absolute rights or wrongs. However, your decision must be resolute. One thing is certain—a woman will weigh her options. One of them is judging whether you are man enough to undertake this monumental task, and to consider the likely outcome of such a union.”
I thanked U Kyauk Lone, paid my respects to the head monk, and walked back deep in thought.
I am a nobody—no spring chicken either—well passed the expiry date with nothing to offer. So how was I to woo Ma Chaw?
A million-dollar question, to be sure, but I had no dollars.
I decided to keep my distance. If she had even a little interest in me, I hoped she would sig- nal some kind of hint. At least, that was what I was hoping for.
Deep in thought, I buried myself in work. The renovations took more than a month, and I still donated Burmese tea to the carpenters—the least I could do.
I watched them go about their tasks and asked questions when something piqued my interest. There was so much to learn about wood: teak, hardwood, plywood, softwood, jungle wood—they all had their uses.
“Does Ma Chaw still strike up a conversation with you?” U Lwin, one of the carpenters, enquired out of the blue.
“Maybe a few times,” with a non-committal response I replied.
“Ma Chaw is of age, but her fiery speech and temper tend to put men off,” U Lwin said as he worked on the wooden frames for the windows.
I was not born of wedlock, want or need, but merely as a biological consequence. Now I wander the earth—a lost soul, existing in name only, uneducated, penniless and forgotten. No one would care, not even give two hoots; my absence would pass unnoticed. How, then, can I win Ma Chaw? Much food for thought to be sure.
I responded with my usual 'Mona Lisa' smile.
It seemed U Lwin had no negative comments for my part. At least there was hope. I’d need to work on that!
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