Nostalgia

Well passed the mark of half a century, I am now over sixty-five years of age in my season of autumn among with the trodden lifeless fallen dry brown leaves blowing here, there and everywhere that were in bountiful beautiful different shades of green. The leaves were once strong and healthy latching onto branches withstanding the hurling winds come what may whichever direction it blows. I am now at a crossroad stance, but thankful still not yet six feet down under or at that place where the chimney or smoke stack never stop bellowing leaving minute remains of human dust around the scene voicing out to everyone who would listen that life had gone one round circle, once there was breathing existence, now only eternal death, the very end and no more. With one more step in that direction while waiting for the calling of final withering winter, it is the best time to reflect how one have walked the life’s rocky pathways with shoes and without, stumbling with cuts and bruises forcing oneself to march on but sometime encountering straight roads and avenues, too few to mention at that.

While I idly sat myself on the sofa in the living room of our small apartment in East Coast, Singapore, at times gazing out of the twenty-first floor panorama windows without any specific purpose or reason, my mind would wonder on things, events and at times day dreaming on once personal experiences or simply wishful thinking on what I perceive to be in order rearranging situations with new scripts for a non-event movie. Never really appreciating the view outside or the weather, funny how chapter of events can flip through within split second in the annals of my aging mind, one might even term it as mind games I believe. With the television switched on to break the monotonous feeling of emptiness while the BBC newscasters would elaborate on the breaking news of the day in all earnest, I shifted my attention to the Facebook write-ups on my internet laptop. Some were news, while others were funny and educational and a few were down right ugly and rude at times, all in all in the sprit and biography of entertainment I suppose.  

As I surf the Internet with my weathered fingers, I would somehow without much of a thought latch on to one of my favorite website, that being MEHSA. This is so as I can reminisce those bygone school days in the wealth of photographs chest and read about my old school plus buddies and recall those happy days once more again. Somehow over half a century melted in a flash and nice to be at that age again where the only worry was keeping up the studies and playing with my friends and maybe also be a pest to the girls. My 4B class photograph in 1960 showed we were just a shade under fifty pupils in total and one could identify the innocence that shined through and through, those were the carefree days. I took solace in knowing most of us made the grade. The studious guys mostly became medical doctors abroad and at home. Some excelled in businesses while others did well in our civil services, with a few dedicated themselves in the world of academia. Those who ventured into faraway lands also were successful in their own rights, now with grown up children and a few are even grandparents with a string of grand children. A reunion of all together again is most unlikely as some are scattered and way off in the States, Canada, British Isle, Australia and the likes of Hong Kong etc. with their own families and roots established there now. I still do keep my lines open with the friends that I can recall and glad to say that they all are fine except graying like myself however a few are still strong and active I’m pleased to notice. I’m sure my classmates Dr. Kyaw Thin (Leo Tan) and U Harn Yawnghwe (Pyee Pyee Thike) would agree that not only are we the crème de crème of Burma, but also arguably the pedigree of achievers in our own chosen fields, also turning out Ms. Aung San Su Kyi, the only Noble Laureate from our country till date. Quite an achievement don’t you think?

There is no denying that our school MEHS played a major role in shaping us up preparing for later stance in life, what a foresight, yes? Then, we did not think much about it, but we all shined through to be sure. The credit without a shadow of a doubt falls on the Principal Mrs. Logie (diseased) and her dedicated team of teachers who not only taught us the academia subjects but also the fundamentals how to have scruples and defining values in our lives. After all, the school motto was ‘ Not for school but life we do learn’ and the lamp still burns bright in all our hearts till this very day.  Judging from the recent chain of events I am really feeling gratified in my heart that at least our sons, daughters and grand children now has a chance of living in a democratic country once again and looking forward to co-exist in a peaceful and tranquil nation that we missed and hungered since 1962.

According to records, our school was founded in 1882 and the building as we know it was constructed in 1952 and the first stone was laid by our first President of Burma, His Excellency Sao Shwe Thike in the same year on February 20^th. However, the school may be gone as we know it but today, because of our learned peers, we can dare dream of a long lasting peace in an establishment of a democratic nation once again, soon I hope.

Homeward Bound From The West

Homeward bound on return voyages from the western countries were a joyous affair to be sure. After being away from your beloved own land, a return was something all looked forward to without exception. This was especially so after rounding the Cape of Good Hope, some might term it as a calling. Even though over five and a half thousand nautical miles still yet to steam, at lest the ship was in the same ocean/water as Rangoon. All onboard knows this as the seas were always rough in spring, summer, autumn or winter: this is where the waters of Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet and our ship would roll twenty to thirty degrees from side to side and the waves outside were not a sight to behold, not mentioning the sharks in their wolf packs looking for easy meals.  Still, all bit the bullets and prayed for calmer waters that should arrive in a few days. Our dining experiences rounding the Cape were never eaten in style either, the tablecloths maybe white but they were purposely wetted and the tables were rimmed to guard our plates and cutleries remained on the tables that were battened down together with chairs we sat on to the deck. Sounds of creaking from don’t know where, doors slamming, pots and pans clanking and all sort of noises fill the ship while rounding. A stereophonic experience to be sure.

This was the time to switch on the saloon’s radio to listen to hi-fi transmission pop songs on FM (frequency modulated) from Cape Town Springbok Radio while eating and also search for our native BBS (Burma Broadcasting Service) on high frequency when the sun was no more and the weather was kind enough.  Even though we still may have been eighteen days away from our homeport, it was always nice to hear the faint on and off sounds of hsaing waing (Burmese traditional symphony) before the daily 2000 hours news broadcast in the evenings. Heads would be pressed together to the radio and the slight faint broadcast of BBS would put an anxious smile to our faces no matter the weather outside. No heads or tails were able to be made good on our ears: no matter, but we at least could hear and sense home was only in days now. After dinner periods when all officers left the saloon, it was the turn of the stewards who would do likewise and pass the news through out their aft quarters that home was within reach and the ship had passed midnight hour. Hallelujah!

This first faint sound of home on the radio would gel our own thoughts of our last port of call for the voyage and envisage what we would do on arrival there. From then on discussions would be tweeted and munched amongst ourselves on matters relating to leave, girlfriends, marriage, childbirth, house and a million other things playing on our minds. We felt that high rolling waves and strong cold winds from the east and west, all at the same time at the Cape was a small price to be paid, but felt good the ship was at last making for Rangoon. With an average speed of twelve knots per hour, another week would pass before passing Reunion Island, our last landfall before home port with only a glance of the said island from miles away. The dreaded west bound voyages were not liked by most as sea time of twenty-four days at a stretch subject to one day bunkering port on route was too long and European ports were expensive, not to mention the people, culture and the food. A few old seadogs do savor these long voyages view force saving of money and drawing large sums at home port was a delight to them.

The seas were calmer and no more horses on the surfaces of the water with the ship steaming calmly homeward bound. Days and nights were warmer meaning the rig of the day was white again coupled with more work and attention to our uniforms. We were posed questions abound whether the sea passages were boring. To the contrary, life at sea was full with respective responsible watches to muster and maintenance to be carried out, at times not enough hours remaining for oneself. Another week and a half passes by till abeam of Sri Lanka and crossing the Equator that called for a celebration. During my first voyage to the west, I had to ring the anchoring bell at the bow being the youngest onboard to let know King Neptune that our ship crossed the Equator. Eight bells I strike at midnight and the crew arranged an U Shwe Yoe dance troupe (Burmese traditional Chaplinesque comedy dance), that signaled for contribution of beer cans from Officers and Engineers plus also a party of our own to drink away the hot humid night with songs and dance.

By this time, the transmission from the BBS was clearer on the medium wave, however the novelty had worn off. We all still listen to the radio during meal times but not as eager as previously. Rangoon was about four days away once passing Sri Lanka, a stone throw away in seamen terms and other important things were on our young minds. We still had to make decisions on items we were going to include in our baggage and things we were willing to leave in our cabins. Goods in the baggage were prone to Custom duties depending on the examination officer and a few things in our cabins may over ride Custom duties, however also prone to ‘gifts’ to them or be seized at its worst. We would purchase a few items such as ladies Tricel sweaters and cosmetics from London for resale in Rangoon. The profit margins were not bad but unable compare to margins on the East run to Singapore, Hong Kong and Japan. The jokes onboard were shortage of batteries for our calculators due to insistence calculations on possible money to be made. Those were the days.

Usually we would arrive at Rangoon Pilot Station in the evenings for entry into the river early next morning in time for the flood tide at monkey point to free our draft of 27 feet 9 inches from the muddy bottom. The colour of the water here was chocolaty which was reassuring, however thinking of the ‘rats’ made us want to sail out again as the encounters were rather taxing while maintaining our plastic smiles at best. Rats were the names we gave to the rummaging Custom Officials boarding our ships in the river before berthing similarly to that animal that would seek and look at every small cracks and take whatever was on hand. Their uniforms were baggy khaki shorts always able absorb a few cartons of cigarettes or whisky bottles without changing its shape. I suppose it was a game of cat and mouse in the end. Should one does not leave anything in our something to hide. It does leave a distasteful pungent taste in our mouths while trying to maintain our cool. The horrid game continued …..

After safe arrival at home port, our jobs were not an end: the welcoming sea gulls and the sight of small wooden fishing boats were only flash in the pan. We still needed for the items to be landed and be sold. With the money obtained, buy back U$ Dollars and Pound Sterling from the black market in preparation for the next trip likely expenses, in addition to personal matters: all to be sorted out within a total ten days port stay. This type of commercial downturn for the general public does not happen anywhere else, even India. Thinking back, I have no alternative but to blame it squarely on our poor economic conditions led by bad stewardship of the authorities. Unknowingly we were slowly being turned into sailors cum traders, so once again we were back to square one of the beginning of shipping.

It seems history repeating itself.                   

QED

Life's Packagings

A dictionary short definition of packaging is material(s) used to wrap or protect goods, while it can also mean presentation of a person or things in an advantageous way. There are a few more meanings direct and some indirect but I am sure you already gasped its meaning, thus I will leave it at that. To me packaging is a blessing in disguise to be sure, but it is not all glory and one should view at it somewhat like Sherlock Holmes with a rather large magnifying glass accompanied with sensible thoughts. All of life’s packaging needs to be viewed with some degree of caution and not be taken in by their presentation or cloaks. That reminded me of an instance many moons ago in Bussan town, where two young shapely sexy girls clasped in their flashy flimsy bikinis dancing away merrily to the pop songs of the day, blaring from speakers in their cubicles beckoning drivers to utilize their supermarket car-park in the middle of full winter. This exercise goes to show what this world is coming into to ensure more catchment to their market. I’m sure the young beauties felt the freezing cold winds as I did in my thick overcoat and woollies, no doubt. However, their smiles never left their faces even though they may have felt otherwise. I also have heard of professional weepers in the deserts of Rajasthan, India, where their services can be got for a fee to weep and cry for the dearly departed while laying their history between sobs setting the mood of the occasion. Strange! These types of plastic imitations are too various to mention so shall we mum it as that?

I suppose these packaging in our everyday lives are slowly unknowingly swallowing and becoming part of us without a flicker of a thought. Should we step on the brakes for a moment and contemplate, one should dissect this and consider whether this ‘packaging’ are really a good thing or not so for us, finding our bearing as it were. While appreciating ‘packaging’ will always be part of our existence in one form or another, we should identify what should or should not be packaged and I am a strong advocate of this. I ask myself where would truth be, should we sugar coat it all or wrap it in beautiful coloured papers. A few important agendas in life needs to be the truth, nothing but the truth and not be packaged attractively, pure and simple to enable us gauge its impact upon us which would be for long term while changing or amending it might well be, but it does disrupt you, not even considering the finances and in some cases, one self esteem poses to be on the line. I personally find the wrappings are more rampant and rising in developed lands of Americas, Europe, The East and where not. Yes/No? Agree?

I regret to see more of our mankind are packaging most things with an alarming frequency and becoming more selfish in the process, must be the changing values of our times. I suppose this is the price we pay to be successful. However, the core essential must prevail in the long run to identify reality and the naked truth. This reminded of my wife for more than forty years comment saying             “ never judge a book by its cover ”. While we tend to upkeep our best form at the forefront, the wrappings must be unveiled and torn open in the end to reveal its true inner-self. There is an old joke going around where the girls of today will woo in their and hunt with packaging of some sort to secure their illusive five ‘C’, namely cash, credit card, condominium, career and car from the drooling unsuspecting guys. Should their aims be unfulfilled, short changed or falling short - bye bye & good riddance!  While not all girls are like that, there is some truth in the joke. All that glitters are not gold cuts both ways. However, it seems to be more of a regularity than the exception from the days of yonder up till this very moment to be sure, quod erat demonstrandum (Q.E.D.)

While we cannot escape these ‘packaging’ in what ever we do or where ever we go forth, the person themselves has the responsibility to identify this and discard what is irrelevant. Difficult I do agree, but regretfully the only way, sorry….. Saying is easy while in practice is a different cattle of fish. With so much artificial facades, padded bras, false eyelashes, corsets, added flavorings and genetic modified (GM) foods, not to mention plastic smiles, false comradeships, relationships, love, marriage and what not, there comes a time where we alone can only take stock of things and get the reins back on.

We at times enjoy the packaging of life to soothe us when we are down which sadly is becoming more of an everyday event that I regretfully have to admit. Some juveniles and a few grown ups even venture out further to drugs and stimulus’s to get that kick of a high and lost touch with reality. A sincere shame don’t you think?  We get so used to this presentation of an advantageous ways that we tend to loose track of the reality of life. In this regard I feel animals are more realistic and true to nature than us humans by a wide margin. They are honest to themselves and do not hold packaging to high esteem as we do.

Thus, we need not to loose touch with reality and seek out the truth in a manner that meant the most to us, and not put the blame on to others. Some turn to religion and meditation while others leave it to life’s luck. Whatever, the point I’m soliciting is that, we will have to unwrap the outer layer at one stage or the other to seek the inner truth. Face we must and tackle the resultant head on, good or bad. We should be able to differentiate what truth we require and what others we able coexist with artificially. This is the fact of life and the balance is solely in the hands of each individual.

In conclusion as we shall have to face reality in our life, as such may I suggest that you undo or unwrap what is important or valuable to one self and recognize it for what it is and accept or discard according to your discretion. No two ways about it.

Good luck!

Grandfather Wall Clock

In the stillness of a small town under the name of Kalaw, a hill station 1320 meters above sea level in the Taunggyi District, Western Shan State of Myanmar, the pace of life trickles at a snail’s walk compared to the other bustling cities such as Mandalay and Yangon. This hill station was set up during the British Raj era, for their tribe to escape the sweltering and daunting heat of the Burmese (Myanmar) plains. The temperature there was cool and comfortable, around 23 degrees Centigrade on average, while the temperature in the plains could sour up to 39/40 degrees, depending on the season with more than 80% humidity, was not too nice or comfortable I’m afraid. The Honorable Major Richard Radcliffe (better known as RR by his counterparts) from the 37^th Welsh Guards, was posted to Yangon as part of a contingent of the British management hierarchy just before the Second World War in 1937.  Similarly to some of his matrimony mates, he brought along Marjorie, his beloved better half, eight years his junior, to keep at bay the infamous dreaded British weather. She being a Scottish lass from Stirling quickly agreed to her husband proposal and joined him in Rangoon looking forward to a life of warm tropical bliss, while he took up his post in the Secretariat under the auspices of Colonel Tomlinson Cartwright.  

Soon after Marjorie Radcliffe arrival at Rangoon, she noticed that the weather was too hot, stuffy, humid and at the same time totally did not agree with her. To journey back by steamer alone would have meant seasickness yet again and more than 30 days at sea, which she did not fancy in the least: To fly back in her family way condition was not an option either. After much deliberation with her husband, he purchased a small chalet in Kalaw and followed the tribe as it were. The chalet was on a hilltop overlooking the small town with an adequate garden and pine trees all around and yet still walking distance to the railway station which was similar to her native Scotland under the tropical circumstances. Marjorie fell in love with the place and anchored there mostly, venturing to Rangoon when called for only from October to January when the weather there was cooler.

Of all the household utensils Major Radcliffe shipped out from Rangoon included a grandfather wall clock bought from Rowe & Company there. It was about three feet long and twelve inches in width, with a pine housing that chimes on every hour. They hung it onto the sitting room wall near the fireplace and there it stayed majestically till their last day. She was very much at home there with her society of British expatriates while RR was busy in Rangoon. He did journey there at every opportunity and she bored him three beautiful children. The elder girls were lovingly nicknamed Pudding and Dessert, and the latest addition a bonny boy was called Crayon as he radiated sunshine to their clan. When Burma gained independence on 4^th January, 1948, their days were numbered and in February 1949, the Major made the following statement to their dutiful butler U Pu and his wife Daw Hla, their faithful maid.

“Since Burma gained independence, we have been ordered back to the United Kingdom and as such shall be leaving Kalaw for good next week. As a token of our gratitude and appreciation, please accept our wall clock as a gift to remind of us.”

U Pu replied, “Thank you Major, the wall clock shall have a place of prominence in our humble house and may we also wish all the best to you and your family and for sure shall always remain in our hearts.”

The Radcliffe’s sold all their furnishings at a discount to the locals and gave away what they could not dispose off and boarded the train back to Rangoon with bare essentials, as they would be starting afresh back home. Their departure was timed so that they need spend only a day or two at the most in Rangoon, before boarding on their final voyage to Tilbury by Bibby Line’s s.s. Warwickshire with the three children in tow, thus one chapter came to a sad close.

U Pu passed away in 1953 at the age of 62 due to a bout of tuberculosis and his daughter Daw Saw May also left this world in 1995 at the age of 74 due to heart complications. However, her daughter Daw Mya Mya, age 51 is still well, alive,  kicking and living with her only son San Pe, age 23 in the northern outskirt of Kalaw, a stone throw away from route 54 leading to another small town of Yin Mar Pin. Burmese names do not have or follow surnames, thus rather difficult and can be confusing at times. Their small wooden structure was two stories with the shrine room on the top floor. There, the mother, son and his wife Hla Hla together with their 7 months old daughter lives a simple uncomplicated life. The old grandfather wall clock was hung in the top floor shrine room left wall, a place of respect and prominence. The Smiths Enfield clock’s chime tubes were of brass, the pendulum of stainless steel and brass, the mechanism were hard to distinguish whether of brass, copper or steel for a layman, while the winding key was made of steel. Not too far from their small house there exist three small distinct villages, Pa Oo, a tribe of the region, Nepali and Gurkha, reminisce of the once British Army soldiers and rail workers who settled down there for good and a Shan village. All coexisted peacefully and tended to their crops, lands and went about minding their own businesses. In the stillness of the night and early morning, its resonance chimes can clearly be made out through the valley and surrounding hill villages when it strikes each hour, number of chimes signifying the hour concerned. The strikes of the chimes were considered as gospel by the region and all chores carried out accordingly. San Pe would wind the clock weekly, every Tuesday and accuracy of time was checked by his mother with the announcement of the hour from their transistor radio, and the clock corrected may be weekly due to its excellent time keeping.

The nearby monastery Head Monk is risen at four every morning by the grandfather wall clock chimes and the serious business of running a monastery begin, so as the boiled beans seller who cooks her delicacy to sell in the market commences too. The sound of the chimes travels to the surrounding villages around the hilltops, and they also start their daily rituals with that. The chimes of the wall clock are not loud but its low distinct resonance sound seems to have reached the nearby villages in the quiet stillness of the countryside. San Pe is  aware the grandfather wall clock is a family heirloom but does not know the extent of its full history. It’s been in his family for over sixty years and still walking as the Jonnie Walker Whisky advertisements. No repairs had been made as far as he is aware of, maybe service its mechanics every ten years or so at the town’s clock and watch shop on Merchant Street. San Pe works as a clerk in Ah-Wan’s produce agency house dealing in fresh garlic and all sort of rice including black sticky rice. There has been many a time when he was complimented by the customers for the chimes the wall clock resonances from their house. All walk of life around the house seems to rely on the chimes of the grandfather wall clock for their times which made him rather proud as though he is the town’s time keeper. The market at Kalaw is every five days and the coming and goings of town folks in their warm clothing and woolies amidst the puffing from their noses and mouths are truly a heartwarming sight. The morning scenes were colourful as the vegetables, souvenirs and knick-knacks they sell painted a breath taking sight to be sure. At times he would daydream and wanted to see and hear in person the Big Ben’s bell chimes in the Palaces of Westminster at London, some commented that the chimes were similar to that of their grandfather wall clock.

LIFE

We journey through avenues of living valued with many titles,

Some were negative, while others more on a positive note.

Sensing in awe accordance to the ups and downs of nature’s cycles,

To suit us best in all situations enabling us to cope.

Forgive and forget much are penned in scriptures and Dhmma summons us,

For their misdeeds showered onto our fragile souls.

Easier said than done to be sure, but endure we all must,

To secure that peace inside us before we grow too old.

 Sail and march to this drumbeat of righteousness,

Into deep valleys and oceans of our simple minds.

With that spring frolic into autumn and winter whilst trying our best,

Six feet down under and crossed that bridge, still we yet to find.

A few lucky souls do unlock the wonders of life,

What else must we muster to win this fight?

Soul Of The Rains

The roads were nearly knee deep with dirty brown water that snail down from higher ground and joined the overflow outdated drainage system built for the nineteenth century. For that moment in time, our city’s streets were a never-ending sea of rushing, roaring water with islands of stopped vehicles in the middle of the roads, with traffic lights taking a ‘pause café’ due to short circuits. For us, the insistent rains were a normal state of affairs in the mist of monsoon, which might seem a little out of place to most westerners comparing to their usual standards.

In Yangon (Rangoon), the overflowing drainage systems are a part of everyday life in the rainy season that is repeated year after year even though the municipal would clean them in the dry season, to prepare for the approaching rains months ahead. It is clearly evident that their measures were insufficient or something wrong somewhere to be sure: whatever, the scenes were repeated yearly as far as I can remember, nothing new really. We Myanmar are very forgiving people, must be the Buddhist religion, with a few mumbles and quiet grunts, we would go about our usual businesses at the end of the day, thus a never ending cycle repeating itself.

As I stepped down from the bus at downtown 52^nd Street stop, my right leg plunged into a tepid liquid, actually it was neither cold nor warm, just wet, maybe a wee bit on the cold side at times, followed by my other leg. The colour of the overflow sea of rain reminded me of my coffee that I had that morning prepared by my loving wife, sweet condensed milk with coffee and a spoonful of sugar, just to add that punch of extra sweetness. With my tiffin box in my right hand and upholding an umbrella in my left, I navigated the pavements to my workplace, which was still a good another half hour walk. The rubber slippers on my feet felt quite secure and I could not sense any mud underneath which was a blessing as it made my walking reasonably more secure. Mary bought me the rubber flip flops last year so that my normal leather slippers need not be worn during the monsoon and would last longer, specifically no further need to face the challenges of our monsoon downpour.

At least the buses are still working, after all they were purchased as second hand or as reconditioned from Japan, Korea and China and no telling how robust and sturdy they all are, we Myanmar importers like cheap, cheap things, profits for the rich few are name of the game. I am quite sure the weather there is somewhat unlike our monsoon and may not be built to withstand such punishment. Out of the whole lot, the buses from China are the worst with low power, slower, frequently breaking down and not so well constructed as their contemporaries.  The tires diameters are all above one meter, thus negotiating our monsoon seas are not much of a problem with their engines higher than the water levels. I live in Thaketa, a township with nineteen wards and about half a million of us are located in that eastern part of Yangon where working classes like my goodself live and cocoon there. Without the buses, I’m sure Yangon will come to a stand still. There is the alternative Yangon Circular Railway, however afraid it does not touch our satellite town in the east, which would have been nice as it is the cheapest form of transport around. In our ward, being the furthest from Yangon, our house or more correctly dwelling was built on stilts of hardwood poles, similar to those from the deep countryside to overcome and counter such an occurrence. The roads are still dirt tracks and far from being tarred: afraid we are not in the VIP list. Some households do own a laung hlay (narrow wooden boat), which they use for commuting but not too many around.

The southwest monsoon graces its yearly entrée by May or June with dances of thunder, lighting bolts and high winds till October and the five/six months are full of contradictions. At times it may pour down with such force that roofs, trees, telegraph poles and what not are totally displaced or destroyed. Sometimes the rains would continuously drag for days on end or maybe weeks without a break. Should the Rain Gods be kind, it does give a few hours recess during the day. One thing is for sure though, it does not only rains but it pours creating temporary lakes, rivers, streams and seas.

Our monsoon rains are a blessing if we know how to appreciate it. Take for instance the young couple I saw on my slow wet slog to work; he would balance his umbrella in one hand while shouldering his beloved with the other, sharing it while she snuggled close to him, holding her drenched cane basket with tiffin box and folded automatic umbrella in one hand. What a wonderful sight and I’m sure this frame would not be repeated after bearing a few children by her. I also would witness children playing in the rain on their way to school while others have a dip as though it was the sea.  Some just sat outside their apartments watching the going on unfolding in front of them.  Each time I have a meal with my family, I quietly thank the farmers and peasants for the rice we were eating and all this would not have been possible if not for the monsoon rains. Heavens opening up is really a Godsend, a ritual we go through every year and at least we do not need the long and heavy overcoats. City dwellers may curse but in fact we must thank the Rain God, for he is lending us a helping hand for our daily meals, we city folks sure can be complacent at times, are we not?

My house is of a wooden structure and the roof is of galvanized wrought iron sheets. All five of us; I, my wife’s mum and dad, Mary and our pride and joy little Ma Pyone (Miss Smile) three years old resides. Mary’s dad looks after the four ducks, who all enjoy a field day quacking in the rains and shelter beneath our house when they so desires. Her mum and Mary has a small stall selling puns, sweets, cheroots, cigarettes and a few knick knacks in front which pays for our kitchen needs and the replenishments of their rickety stall.  The hatched duck eggs does fetch a fair price in the market and my salary runs the household. During the weekends, I would hold my mug of coffee in the mornings and gaze out onto our dirt street filled with rainwater while the peddlers and passer bys negotiate the temporary stream. Inside our house may be dry but with over 80% humidity, all one touches is a bit damp while I listen to the symphony being played by the heavens above on my galvanized roof. I often wonder do the monks with their shaven heads without umbrellas or raincoats get pneumonia collecting elms in wet robes and bare feet daily  ………….

Thingyan (Myanmar New Year). My Perspective.

Title  : Thingyan (Myanmar New Year). My Perspective.

Style :  Short Essay

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Our Golden Land as some would author, has been shrouded by a wall of teak for nearly half a century and just reopened its doors. As such the tourists and visitors alike, young and old in their doves are flocking to discover one of the last virgin tropical paradises in this world. Every country or land has its auspicious day(s), and Myanmar (Burma) is no exception to the rule. Even though Myanmar is a multi-religious country, 90% of its over 54 million population practices Theravada Buddhism.

The origination of Thingyan can be traced back to ancient India. Born out of Hindu myth, when King Sarka of Devas beheaded as agreed to the looser King Arsi of the Brahmas after a battle and replaced it with a head of an elephant, later to be known as Ganesha. It was said that if King Arsi's severed head was thrown into the sea, it would dry up, if left on land, the earth would be scorched, and if thrown into the air, it would turn in flames, thus it was decided the head be carried by a princess devi and change turn yearly. From it, the ritual of changing yearly was formalized and with time the washing away the old year ceremony was born.

Thingyan in fact is a Burmese Buddhist holiday by any means and the dates calculated by following the traditional Burmese lunisolar calendar. However, today like many other things, it is followed and fixed according to Gregorian calendar from April 13^th to 16^th or 17^th depending leap year or otherwise:  as such Thingyan or Myanmar New Year is an important date and it’s festival second to none in our year’s calendar. One would not be wrong to say that this is the time for the younger generation to let their hair down as the saying goes. It also is the only gazetted public holiday where all major offices and outlets are closed for a total of 10 days continuous spread in the heat of full bloom summer.

The eve of Thingyan day is known as A-Kyo-Nai, followed by A-Kya-Nai, A-Kyat-Nai, thence by Knit-San-Ta-Yet-Nai, meaning the new-year day itself. In Myanmar calendar, this important festival falls in the first month of Ta-Gu (April). Here, all education establishments from junior to higher are closed for the summer holidays and thus the children would have a field day and be out in force on the roads. Most toddlers up to middle school children plays water around their houses or in their areas utilizing bowls, cups, water hoses or make shift water pumps avoiding monks, passerby in religious clad attires and uniformed personnel. They all feel accomplished should the sprays be successful and the other person get wet or drenched. Budding young teenagers, mostly girls to young ladies join in the festive fun by being a paying member of a pandal or marquee, especially built on slits of wood or bamboo for the occasion beside the roads, spraying water jets from a commanding position with small plastic pipes pressurized via portable water pumps from near by pond, lake or river. In Yangon (Rangoon), it is rather prevalent around the Royal and Inya lakes. Chocker block cars, vans, trucks and what not, filled with people of all ages laughing and singing, queuing for hours on end awaiting their turn to be sprayed by the beauties on the pandals while passing all sort of remarks from their vehicles. Some were nice, complementary, confronting, bad, sarcastic proposals and also a few down right rude sentences. The fair ladies could thrash back or just maintain their cool: this being Thingyan and all comments are relaxed and permitted except down right dirty or otherwise swearing words. The trick here is to keep out of the kitchen if you cannot stand the heat.

I would be the first to admit that this type of Thingyan celebrations are somewhat well off the bull’s eye, but there you are, no holding back the winds of change through the ages: Same sadly also can be witnessed in Bangkok, and in some cities through out South East Asian Buddhist countries. Some would don on loud clothes or minimum wears that does not leave much to immagination, mascara their faces and dye their hair with strange styles to attract attention, not too a pretty sight in my opinion. Traditionally, water was put in a silver bowl and sprinkled with the sprigs of Tha-Pyay (Jambul), quaint and rather touching. Fear not, all is not lost, this scene can still be observed in the rural provinces. Take the Rakhine (Arakkan) State capital city of Sittwe (Akyab) for instance, water is stored in a laung-hlay (traditional slim boat) on table in front of a pandal, and people queue and take turn to sprinkle the water from it gently onto the fair maidens standing behind the boat and they would return the compliments, a far cry from the cities, nice though. During this period streets would form teams offering moak-lone-yae-paw, that is glutinous rice balls with bits of jaggery inside are thrown in boiling water and when it resurfaces, taken out and served with a garnish of coconut shavings on banana leaves to all passerby without discrimination as a charity deed. Yummy !

When the sun is no more, the mood swings to songs and dances, stage shows, traditional and rock concerts, entertainments galore, free of course and stalls catering all things consumable by mouth and what not, merrymaking in general. At every street and quarters, something exciting would be happening for the whole family to enjoy. Pagodas would be well lighted, attended and offerings of candles and incense sticks to Buddha made too. A well deserved rest before the next day of throwing and spraying water yet again. Some years, there would be a shower during the Thingyan period and the Padauk (Pterocarpus) flowers would blossom in full glory on the trees, proudly displaying its yellowish gold colour and sweet smelling petals, a wonderful sight to be sure. Soon maidens would be wearing onto their hair and offerings made to Buddha at shrines and pagodas also.

Not forgetting our elders and religious minded folks, they would be taking their eight precepts for the whole period and on new year day itself, would be washing granddads and grandmas hair plus trimming their nails, sharing good merits to the poor in their quarters, magnificent deeds indeed. The younger generation would also visit the old timers and pay obeisance to them, truly heart-warming touches. Some also would make a journey to large lakes, rivers and streams to release fishes, as a gesture of saving lives: young boys would enter monkhood for a short period of time and be immersed in the teachings of Buddha called Dhamma. This ritual is somewhat also akin to coming of age in some areas. All in all, a good fun time indeed.

Me? I’d be wearing something light and loose with my cotton longyi (Burmese bottom half attire), walk to the top of our lane and find a shady spot and sit myself down by the kerb with a small cane fan in hand, just soaking in the wonderful spectacle unfolding in front of my eyes and grinning from side to side.

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By/- Myo Thant