“Have you heard anything from the voice?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. She’s had nothing to say, not even about Maung Tun’s story.”
“Curious. I would have thought she would have spoken up by the time we learned that her son was still alive, if not before then. Perhaps it is enough for her to know that he survived it.”
“Either that or she’s just as anxious as you and me to see whether we’ll find him.”
IN HSIPAW WE sat down in a teahouse near the train station. My brother ordered Burmese tea and struck up a conversation with the waiter. Patrons at nearby tables quickly joined in, and a few minutes later he turned back to me, very pleased.
“They all know him. He lives with a dozen children and youths in an old monastery that had long stood empty. It’s just a few kilometers from here in the direction of Namshaw. We have to follow the main road and turn right at a white pagoda. The waiter will take us there on his moped.”
Half an hour later the three of us were squeezing ourselves onto a Honda Dream II. I sat at the back with the luggage wedged between me and U Ba. The waiter opened the throttle. The first few yards were a wild zigzag all over the street until he finally got control of the moped. By the white pagoda just outside the town we turned onto a dirt road. In my excitement I was shifting so restlessly back and forth on the seat that the driver had difficulty keeping the moped on the track. Were we about to meet Thar Thar? What might he look like? Would he be willing at all to talk with us? Had he really survived that hell in the jungle? What marks had that time left on him? Nu Nu’s decision? His father’s early death? What kind of person would we find? What had become of Ko Bo Bo?
We climbed a hill and saw the monastery in the distance, a large, dark wooden structure, standing on pillars, with a tin roof and several turrets on whose gables bells and flags were hung. It was situated among trees and protected, it seemed, by a large bamboo grove that towered several yards above the turrets.
The young waiter stopped and pointed to it, as if it were our last chance to turn back. U Ba coughed briefly, gestured to him, and we rolled down the hill.
A few minutes later we pulled into the sandy courtyard to be greeted by two barking dogs and dozens of hens cackling vociferously and running about excitedly. We dismounted. The driver turned around, and we thanked him, but my brother nipped in the bud my attempt to pay him for his trouble.
“He is happy that he could do us a favor.”
We looked around full of curiosity. The courtyard was teeming with flowerbeds and hedges blooming in stunningly beautiful colors. I saw rosebushes, yellow and red hibiscus, oleander, violet bougainvillea, gladiolus, and amaryllis.
The monastery itself was not in very good condition. Many of the pilings looked rotted, there were boards missing from the walls in several places, brown rust was eating through the corrugated tin roof, and one wing of the building was partially collapsed. A broad staircase with crooked railings led up to the entrance. At the back of the courtyard reddish brown monks’ robes hung to dry on a bamboo framework. U Ba called out, but there was no answer. The chickens and dogs had settled down. We heard nothing but the gentle tinkling of the bells on the roofs.
A boy and a girl appeared at the top of the stairs. They wore the red robes of novices and looked at us inquiringly. A moment later a monk appeared behind them. He put his hands on their shoulders, whispering something to them. They laughed. He descended the staircase slowly and approached us with deliberate steps that had, at the same time, a gentle spring in them. I felt my heart pounding. Could that be Thar Thar? Of whom I knew so much, and then again almost nothing? He was even taller and more muscular than I had imagined. His hair was closely cropped, his teeth as white as the jasmine blossoms of the day before, a shapely head, full lips, powerful arms reaching out of his monk’s robe. I immediately recognized the birthmark under the chin. The scar on the upper arm. The missing finger on the right hand. He welcomed U Ba with a friendly “Nay kaung gya tha lah,” then turned to me. He offered me his hand and looked me straight in the eye, speaking English with an accent similar to that of an Italian friend of mine: “Welcome to my monastery, Signora. How are you?”
Chapter 4
THAR THAR LAUGHED. Apparently I was not the first visitor to be caught off guard by his greeting. He had a wonderful laugh. A laugh he had no right to, given his past.
The next thing I noticed was his eyes. I had never met anyone with eyes like that. Unusually large, dark brown, focused on me in a calm way, a way that I found pleasant. More than pleasant. In them dwelt such power and intensity that I got goose bumps. He was someone in whose company I would feel at ease without being able to explain why.
My brother would have called it intuition.
Our hands touched. For one moment we stood silent, face-to-face. I had no idea what to say.
“Do you not speak English?” he asked, perplexed.
“No, I do … of course.”
“What brings you to us?” Thar Thar looked first at U Ba, then at me.
My brother looked at me with a question in his eyes. I hesitated.
“We have come …” U Ba began.
“Out of curiosity,” I interrupted.
Astonishment in my brother’s eyes.
I did not want to tell Thar Thar the truth. Not yet. Maybe because I feared it would mean the end of our journey. Or because I didn’t know how he would react. Would he think we were crazy? See me as some kind of medium through which he could quarrel with his mother? Turn away from us, send us packing so that he would not have to be reminded of his past? I really didn’t know what was holding me back.
“Did you hear about us in the city?” asked Thar Thar, apparently oblivious to the confusion between my brother and myself.
“Yes, exactly,” I quickly confirmed. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Just as I thought. We have …”
He was interrupted by my brother’s coughing fit. U Ba turned away. Thar Thar regarded him with concern and waited until he had recovered, then carried on: “We have curious tourists visiting us from time to time. They hear of us in Hsipaw. But you are Italian, aren’t you?”
I shook my head, surprised. “No, I’m American.”
“Che peccato.”
I was stumped. “I’m sorry …”
“How unfortunate.”
For a moment I doubted it was Thar Thar standing there before us. Why should he, who as far as I knew had never gone to school, why should he know two foreign languages? “Do you speak Italian?”
“Un poco. A little.”
“Where … where did you pick that up?”
He was tickled by my growing confusion.
“From an Italian priest. He taught me English, a bit of Italian, and much, much more.”
“Where? Here in Burma?”
“Yes. But that is a very long and regrettably also rather uninteresting story that I would not wish to bore you with. I’m sure that you did not come here to hear my life story. I imagine you’ll want to see the monastery and meet a few of the children, no?”
U Ba nodded, embarrassed.
“Follow me, then.”
Thar Thar led the way and we followed. My brother seemed to be just as irritated as I was.
I kept expecting to hear from the voice. Here we were, face-to-face with her son. Why silence now? Shame? A guilty conscience? What does a mother say to the unloved child she sent to his death, but who beat the odds and survived? Maybe it was enough for her just to see him alive. To see that he was doing well. Would she find her rest here? Without another word? Without asking for forgiveness?
THE GROUNDS WERE more expansive than they initially appeared to be. Behind the monastery was a well with a walled creek, a shed with a stack of chopped wood in front of it, and a soccer field with two cockeyed homemade goals. Beside the field was the bamboo grove. In the distance I could see a couple of people working in a field. A gentle wind brushed the bamboo stalks against one anoth
er. Their creaking groans mingled with the bright tinkling of the bells into a singular song.
In the other corner of the monastery stood a grayish-white stupa with a gilded steeple. Large chunks of plaster had broken off. Two novices sat in front of it among dried leaves and branches, weaving baskets. Thar Thar called to them. They put down their work, rose with difficulty, and came over to us. One of them walked with slow, tentative steps, head bowed, as if looking for something. The other walked bent beside him, a large hump in his back. Both were barefoot, their feet and legs riddled with scars and scratches. When they stood before us, they put their hands together and bowed politely. On top of his other difficulties, the younger one had a severe cleft lip, and when the older one lifted his head a shiver ran down my spine. His eyes were milky white. He was blind.
U Ba took my hand.
“This is Ko Aung and Ko Lwin,” said Thar Thar. “No one can weave baskets like they can. I used to have clever hands of my own, but I was a klutz by comparison.”
They whispered something in chorus that sounded remotely like “How are you?”
“I instruct them in school subjects every other day,” Thar Thar explained with a hint of pride in his voice. “Including a bit of English.”
I answered that I was doing well and that I was happy to be here. Inscrutable smiles crossed their faces; they bowed and went back to their work.
Thar Thar explained that the other novices were in the field and invited us to join him for a cup of tea in the monastery.
We climbed a rickety staircase and entered the main building. I stood frozen in amazement. It was a spacious hall. Across from the entrance a dozen diverse Buddhas stood on a podium. Some of them glinted golden in the light of the electric bulbs; others were made of a dark, almost black stone, and still others of a light-colored stone. There was a reclining Buddha, head propped up on one arm, an erect and also a sitting Buddha, one hand raised in admonition. Another statue had him plump and clownish, like a sumo wrestler laughing himself silly. In vases were red gladioli, jasmine, hibiscus boughs; rose blossoms floated in a bowl. Above the altar hung paper lanterns and a yellow valance with colorful stones stitched onto it. Offerings lay on plates—rice, tiny plastic packets, candies, batteries, pastries. Smoke from incense drifted across it all, mingling its perfume with the fragrance of the fresh flowers. On the wall behind it, two crucifixes caught my attention. On one column there was a gilded poster of the Virgin Mary, and on another column a similar poster of the Magi. I wanted to ask my brother about it, but he was crouched on the wooden floor, coughing and spent.
“I believe your companion is exhausted. I’ll make us some fresh tea,” said Thar Thar, disappearing into a room at the end of the hall.
I sat down beside U Ba.
“I’m sorry. I need a little rest,” he said.
“Did you see the Christian crucifixes?” I whispered.
He nodded. “Surely presents from the Italian priest.”
“But why would they be hanging in a Buddhist monastery?”
U Ba shrugged his shoulders and smiled wearily.
Thar Thar returned with a tray, a thermos, and three small cups. He fetched a flat table and a pillow for me.
The tea was hot and bitter.
“I would be grateful for an opportunity to rest, if it’s not an imposition,” U Ba said softly.
Thar Thar rose immediately, fetched a mat, and draped a blanket over my brother.
“Do you have a hotel in Hsipaw?”
“No,” I said.
“You are welcome to stay with us.”
Skeptical, I looked around for beds or anything that resembled a place to sleep. “Do you have room for us?”
He laughed again. “Ample. We roll out mats in the evening. If you want your privacy, I can set up a sleeping area in the corner for you. There’s a curtain. Sometimes tourists stay overnight. That’s where they sleep. We even have two sleeping bags that someone left here for us. I think it would do your companion good.”
“He is my brother.”
He faltered briefly. “I don’t see any resemblance.”
“My half brother. I live in New York and am visiting him here.”
Thar Thar nodded, accepting my explanation without further questions.
Dusk was falling outside. I heard voices under the building. Rustling. Rattling. Cheerful, rollicking laughter, as only children can produce, I thought.
Soon afterward they came up the stairs. Ko Aung and Ko Lwin I knew already. They were followed by two young men, both hobbling. A girl with a staff that served as a crutch. She was missing a leg. A girl with only one hand. Another girl accompanied by a boy, neither of whom bore any physical injury that I could discern at first glance. All of them greeted me earnestly but warmly and disappeared into the kitchen. Soon enough I could hear the crackle of a roaring fire, the clatter of crockery.
“How many are you altogether?” I asked.
“Thirteen.”
“And you are the abbot of the monastery?”
“No. Strictly speaking we are not a Buddhist monastery.”
“What then?”
He pondered. “A family. We live together. My twelve children and I. All of them have, how should I say it … all of them are different from other children. Ko Aung is blind, Ko Maung deaf. Ko Lwin has a cleft lip and a hunchback. Ko Htoo limps, Soe Soe lost a foot. Moe Moe is missing an arm, Toe Toe has seizures, Ei Ei a rigid leg. Whatever the difficulty, their families could no longer care for them, and the other monasteries in the vicinity would not accept them.”
“Why not?” I wondered.
“Many Buddhist monasteries are loath to take in novices with disabilities. The monks believe they have bad karma. Only physically and spiritually unblemished individuals can become monks. That is why these children have come to me.”
“And what do you do with them?”
He refilled my tea and regarded me, puzzled. My question seemed not to make sense to him. “What families do: caring for one another, no? I instruct them as well as I can. We grow vegetables, weave baskets, roofs, and walls that we sell. We pray and meditate together. We cook and eat together. Don’t you have a family?”
I swallowed and gestured to the sleeping U Ba. “Of course I do. My brother.”
“And in America?”
“No one I live with.”
“No husband?”
“No.”
“No children?”
I took a deep breath.
“None.”
“You live utterly alone?”
Not since I was a little girl had anyone looked on me with such pity.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, and I like it that way.”
He tilted his head to one side and rocked his upper body slightly without making any reply.
A girl’s voice called us to the table.
We sat around the fire on three wooden beams, twelve children, Thar Thar, and I. Each of us got a bowl of rice with some vegetable curry and a fried egg on top. Some of them stole furtive glances at me over the tops of their bowls; others were too hungry to give much thought to me. The curry tasted somewhat bitter, but good. The rice had not been cleaned thoroughly. Now and then I felt a bit of sand or a small stone between my teeth.
A satisfied silence spread throughout the room. The crackle of the fire, the rustling of the bamboo outside.
Only now did I notice that one of the girls trembled as if she had Parkinson’s. She raised the spoon to her lips, but before it got halfway there it was empty. She tried again, and again some of her food fell off. She held her hand, but that failed, too, which only aggravated the trembling.
Beside her sat the one-armed Moe Moe. She was clenching her bowl between her knees. She put it aside, took a spoon, and started to feed her neighbor, who at once felt calmer. Moe Moe and I exchanged looks. She was the only one who did not avert her eyes. With a gesture I indicated that I would help her. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. A smile flashed across her f
ace, and she thanked me with her eyes. Hers was the most beautiful, the saddest smile I have ever seen.
I brought my brother a bowl of rice, but he had no appetite and wanted to go on resting.
We decided to spend the night.
Thar Thar arranged our sleeping area. He swept the floor, dug several mats out of a chest along with several blankets and the two sleeping bags. He spread them out in the corner behind the curtain. He made my bed doubly thick because I, he suspected, was not accustomed to sleeping on a hard floor. He took the bowl with the rose blossoms from the altar and placed it between our mats. They would drive off bad dreams and ensure a sound sleep, he claimed.
The thoughtfulness of this gesture touched me.
I went to my brother and sat down beside him. He smiled, exhausted, took my hand, and fell asleep within minutes.
I went outside and sat on the steps. Darkness had fallen over the yard. Above me stars were twinkling. So many that it took my breath away. From inside I could hear U Ba coughing in his sleep.
After a short while Thar Thar joined me on the steps. I was struck by his broad, powerful feet, which did not seem to match his long, slender fingers. He had brought a candle, tea, and two cups.
“Care for some tea?”
“I’d love some.”
“Your brother has a terrible cold,” he remarked while pouring for us.
“I hope that’s all it is.”
“What else would it be?”
I told him about a doctor with sad eyes. About a dark spot on a lung. About medicines that do not heal.
“Are you blaming yourself?”
“Mostly I’m just worried.”
“I understand, but it is not necessary. Your brother is not dying yet.”
“That’s what he says, too. What makes you so sure?” I countered uncertainly. “Are you soothsayers? Astrologers?”
“No. But I recognize his cough. It sounds familiar. Many people here cough that way when the cold weather sets in. And in his eyes, in his face, there is no sign of death.”
“You believe you can recognize impending death in a person’s eyes?”