Little Burmese Story – Part Two

 

Photo source: letpandailynews.com

The day had started like any other. Rain and traffic. Daisy Kyawwin opened the shop at 9 o'clock, after praying at the temple along Gabaraye Pagoda Road.

She arranged the new packages of sanghati and the price tags prominently displayed.

She sat in the red chair, puffing in the incessant rain, then she looked down and was pleased with the yellow toenail polish like the fabric of the longyi.

She turned on the radio, rocking it, tuned to the channel that was playing old Burmese songs.

 

This morning there was more movement on the street; small groups of people chattered among themselves in an agitated way in the pouring rain.

In the air, the hypnotic and grave chanting of the monks' prayers from the temple and the heavy wheels of the army jeeps racing along the road.

Daisy loved running the palm of her hands over the rough fabric of her blouse, on her hips – it relaxed her. Every now and then she tidied her long hair in a bun behind her head.

Since the army came to power, there was less business than before.

People were almost afraid to go out on the street, many shops had been forced to close. For better or worse, she had a specific clientele and the monks always needed new clothes.

Even tourists met a few by now.

This morning, though, the temple seemed more crowded. Usually, people pray more intensely when there is a premonition of something that will go wrong.

 

Ishu Patel. Yangon, Myanmar

 

Who knows what's going to happen, Daisy thought as she looked at her toenails swing under the table.

Time passed very slowly, in the gray of the rain. Hour after hour, more people were on the street, passing through the alleys.

She took a break to eat a plate of shan noodles, her favorite lunch of tossed rice and noodles with tomato sauce, chicken paste, nuts, and a tinge of turmeric, among the street tables, while out of the corner of her eye, she checked her shop with the “Lunch break” sign hung on the wooden panel that closed the main window.

As she ate her noodles, she listened to the dozens of interlocking voices around her, between private lives and forebodings of riots.

 

Ishu Patel. Yangon, Myanmar

The sky seemed to weigh on the profiles of the tall buildings and pagodas, like a sea full of darkness that slowly sinks, devouring everything it encounters beneath it.

Daisy was feeling weird, she didn't even finish the plate of noodles. She quickly walked among the crowd groups with signs with the face of Aung San Suu Kyi; she pushed through the crowd, what she wanted was only to reach her shop, to close inside her.

 

It was 3:34 pm.

 

She closed the wooden door, sat in the red chair and turned on the radio, turning up the volume to the voice of May Sweet singing the classic “Maung”.

By now the whole street in front of her shop was packed with screaming people, chanting Suu Kyi's name, with the rain that bathed the faces of the Burmese people.

She looked nervously at the clock, the crowd, and the curb corners.

She kept rubbing her sweaty hands on the fabric of the longyi, on the sides of her thighs.

Her heart was beating like a hammer; she didn't even know why.

 

It was 3.52pm.

 

The first army jeeps came bully, pushing through the mass. The military had taken to the streets and began to violently hit anyone in range.

By now the sharp sound of batons on the bodies and red signs of the demonstrators drowned out that of rain.

She looked to the left of the street; it was 4 pm sharp. The man in elegant clothes tried to make space in the crowd, protecting his face with the black leather bag; but the violent sway of the screaming people pushed him towards the row of shops that faced the street.

Daisy opened the small wooden door on the left side, put her head out, and looked at the terrified man who no longer knew where to go.

She motioned for him to run to the door.

He looked at her disorientedly, with his lips parted, as one shot tore through the black clouds.

The demonstrators screamed and raised their hand with the three central fingers joined in a sign of freedom, between those who fell to the ground and those who lashed out at the army, while the man ran breathlessly until he reached the side of the shop, entered and Daisy locked the door from inside.

 

There were only two of them standing in the small space between the counter and the wall behind it.

They both watched in terror the apocalyptic scene on the street, with the clashes between the army and the demonstrators – stones and batons flew, occasionally rifle shots.

Daisy without hesitation closed the wooden window panel with a quick movement of her hand.

Suddenly darkness fell. She hastened to turn on a small electric light that lit in yellow the interior of the shop.

The sounds of revolt now came muffled.

The man still had his cheeks red with fear; he tried to fix his rain-soaked black hair and elegant suit.

Daisy to her right was almost holding her breath, her hands spread down on her golden longyi. She feared he might hear her heartbeat pounding her chest as she, out of the corner of her eye, looking the man's manicured hands as he adjusted his blouse.

He looked down at her face down, her very white skin, and with a faint voice thanked her.

“Kyae Zuu Tin Par Tel...”

Daisy tilted her face slightly down on the opposite side of the stranger, and with her hands clasped across her chest, the greasy fingers almost touching her chin, she nodded.

“We no longer know where we will end up…” 

He said, calmer, looking at the dark wood panel that separated them from the world, as if he could see what was going on beyond.

More rifle shots rang out.

They both jumped.

Daisy instinctively turned up the volume of the radio. May Sweet's voice now occupied all the space of their lives.

He looked at the little radio above the woman's head with a half-smile.

“Maung ....” he started to go after the song.

“If you believe in your heart

you have to stay away from me, slowly...”

She took courage and looked into his face, but only from the nose to his chin, her daring did not reach his eyes, then she parted her pink lips and joined him.

“If you love me until the next cycle,

you can never forget me for a second,

I'm going to be away from you....”

“Maunggg ... (darling),” they sang in sync.

He smiled and Daisy quickly lowered her face with her lips set in her usual polite smile.

The man also followed her gaze and rested his eyes on her feet.

“Oh ... the nail polish the same color as the longyi!” he exclaimed with admiration.

Daisy had her blood bursting at her temples, her sweat had now stuck the red blouse to the skin of her back.

She had never felt her shop so small.

“Thank you ...” she only managed to say.

Then, they noticed that the noises beyond the panel had faded away.

Daisy with her right hand grabbed the tile on the side of the panel and began to slide it; her left hand above the packs of clothes to hold the body.

The man also wanted to see; it was late.

They both leaned over to watch the situation, in that cramped space, when the elegant man's right hand casually rested on Daisy's left hand.

It seemed to her that the entire army has fired all their ammunition into the sky.

Her white cheeks flushed with blood.

He looked at her in consternation, he did not have time to raise his hand that Daisy had already pulled hers away, while holding it on her chest.

“Excuse me... excuse me... I didn't mean...,” the man sincerely embarrassed repeated.

 

In an instant, her entire existence was rewound in reverse, to the moment when, still sixteen, her husband put his hand over her hand, as a marriage proposal, in Burmese custom.

“It doesn't matter, it was a coincidence...,” she said with her chin pressed to her neck, her eyes planted on the table where she jotted down the orders every day. She no longer knew what color her cheeks were: she would spend half of her monthly income on a bowl of thanaka that covered her entire face.

“So, I'm going...,” he said still embarrassed, “now the protest has stopped.”

She nodded, looking at his chin as she still gripped her left hand tightly to the chest.

“You were very kind, if it wasn't for you, who knows...”

Daisy nodded with a gentle smile.

She glanced up at him for the first time. His black eyes covered with a few damp wisps of black hair.

“The important thing is that everything is over...” Daisy said with a faint voice and a sketchy smile.

“Really?” He asked as he picked up the black leather bag.

“What do you mean?” she winced with big eyes, amazed at his question.

“Nothing, nothing... So, I'll go, have a good day...?” he remained with his voice suspended.

She looks down again.

“Daisy Kyawwin...,” she replied.

“Have a good day, Daisy Kyawwin.”

He opened the door and went out. She closed immediately and watched the man whose name she did not know walking fast among the few people left, the protest signs on the asphalt wet by the incessant rain.

 

“Maung...”

Daisy sang without thinking.

“Darling ...

you'll never forget me for a second…,” as May Sweet's voice faded at the end of the song.

Daisy dropped into the red plastic chair, looked at her left hand which still seemed to glow, and let out a long sigh, as if she had been holding it for years.

Then her gaze landed on her golden yellow toenails and she smiled.

A very long smile.

Like the rain that made the golden tips of the pagodas shine.

 

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