Little Burmese Story – Part One

(c) Ishu Patel. Yangon, Myanmar

The rain had not ceased to fall on Yangon for weeks now.

The black clouds seemed to envelop the tops of the golden pagodas.

The Moe Yarthi period, from June to September, was like this every year, gloomy and rainy.

Daisy Kyawwin would spend hours in her monk clothes shop on the side of the road watching the rain peel off the outlines of buildings and cars.

By now she had adapted to the slow passing of the days. Even if there were no more riots of the first days of the revolution, people could still be seen occupying the streets until the army managed to disperse the crowd.

Once, it was a small group of protesters with signs praising Aung San Suu Kyi. Other times, it was a huge crowd that occupied the whole wide street.

 

 

When things got bad, Daisy would lower the wooden panel in front of the shop window until the riots ceased.

Now there was only rain and a few monks walking on the sidewalk.

The transistor radio hanging from a string rocked to the left of Daisy's black hair bun, sending old songs.

She was tired of listening to the news. Always the same aggressive proclamations of the army that ordered the population to stop the protests, threatening to cut the internet connection.

And so it happened, as with the electric current.

So, she preferred that old radio that belonged to her father, to pass the time, with her elbow on the plastic packaging of the sanghati, the robes of the monks, in front of her.

Every now and then a monk would appear in front of her, smiling, in his orange robes dampened by the rain. “These are the latest arrivals, saya,” Daisy said to him with respect and her sweet half smile.

She didn't have much to do, the weather was thick as it turned towards sunset.

Daisy loved looking at her toenails painted the same color as the longyi, the traditional fabric worn to cover the legs by women and men in Myanmar. It was the only habit of hers: every morning she chose the color of the enamel combined with that of the fabric.

At four o'clock she was looking at the sidewalk where a handsome man came home from work, always at the same time.

She looked at him with her chin on her hand, with his quick walk and gentle, elegant face. From left to right and he disappeared beyond the edges of the shop window; like a parrot.

She would then go back to listening to the songs on the radio and writing the inventory in the large black leather notebook on her table.

 

Often her daughter Cherry Oo would pick her up from the store to go home together.

It was only 7 miles on Gabaye Pagoda Road, where they stopped at the Shwedagon Pagoda to pray before arriving.

 

They liked to walk embraced, under a single umbrella, and Daisy always pinched her hips, reproaching her for not eating a lot, then her young daughter would pinch her side too, “... and you eat too much!”

They laughed all the way to the home door, where they lived with their elderly mother and a dog. Her husband had gone away a couple of years ago, she didn't miss him.

Cherry Oo loved preparing lethoke for her mother, Daisy's favorite dish of rice, chili, dried shrimp, and onions. All three women ate while watching television.

Then Daisy went to do the bath while her daughter made thanaka, which they both would apply to their face and body after the bath.

She looked at herself naked for a long time in the bathroom mirror, with a mixture of melancholy and tenderness.

She had always been proud of the white color of her skin, like silk. Now her skin was no longer soft and in the arms, above her elbow, it was starting to soften.

The rain beat incessantly on the glass of the bathroom window.

Her daughter came in with the thanaka wooden bowl. Seated one in front of the other, they smeared their cheeks and body with the cream-colored pigment, like a feminine ritual that spanned the centuries.

 

Bark for making thanaka

 

She put her elderly mother to sleep, after massaging her feet, then lay down on the sofa, tired, while her daughter sat on the floor with her back to the sofa.

The television showed the clashes that took place in Mandalay, Minbu, Mawlamyine, and in some areas of Yangon. The army had violently dispersed the demonstrators. Many were arrested, including women and monks, with blood on their faces.

There were also notices from the American Embassy in Yangon, on telephones, assuring reports of army violence with civilian casualties. The situation was not improving.

Daisy took the remote and changed the channel.

“May May, why? I wanted to hear!” She looked at her frowning from below.

“Always the same things!” Daisy burst out with a sweet smile while she ruffled her hair with her left hand, making her even sulkier. She loved it when the daughter called her May May, the sweet way to call the mother in Burmese.

The day was over now.

“I'm going to sleep,” she said while her daughter, agile as a cat, had already taken possession of the sofa and the remote control. “Yes, yes, I'll be there soon,” Cherry Oo replied.

Before closing the curtains, she looked out the window. The colored lights of the city seemed to be trapped inside the raindrops, she followed with the tip of her index finger pressed on the window the sunlit trail that zigzagged downwards into the darkness.

She took a deep breath and went to do her evening prayers amidst the smoke of the incense. She lay down on the bed, on the left side, looked at the empty pillow on the right, where her husband had slept for years, and now her daughter slept there. Before closing her eyes, she lifted her face and saw the tips of her toes, thinking what color she would choose tomorrow morning.

This made her sleep with a smile on her lips.

Outside came the muffled sounds of rain and traffic.

Somewhere in the city, the army occupied the streets, while the tips of the golden pagodas rose above the city night.

 

(c)Ishu Patel. Shwedagon Pagoda. Yangon, Myanmar

TO BE CONTINUED...

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