This Translation Tuesday, let the three-time National Literary Award winner Nay Win Myint take you through the things that go unsaid and untold through the lens of a small Burmese family. First published in the January 1990 issue of Dream Blossom Magazine, translator Kenneth Wong brings us a moving story that courses through the past and its memories like a clear and wide river. Dive in!
1
The view from the Irrawaddy River revealed the towering cliffs. The goldish brown seawalls peered down at the river from their high vantage point. The clear green waves, the river’s vanguard, charged at the cliffs, encircled them, then continued to flow further. Full of bumps and humps, the ragged ancient layers of the cliff looked like a soft piece of cake sliced off with a jagged knife. The water didn’t touch the base of the cliffs. It left enough space for a rough, sandy footpath, leading to the villages along the river.
Coming up from Than Kaing by boat, once I spotted the high cliffs, I could tell I would soon reach Ye Nan Chaung—or, that I was approaching Nyaung Hla port. When the boat began to decelerate alongside the cliffs, all the emotions associated with this place, my mother’s hometown, became more intense. Walking up the slope from the water’s edge, I set foot in Nyaung Hla port, and soon all the scents of upcountry Burma came rushing towards me. Horse carts and cars awaited there, ready to take me to Ye Nan Chaung.
The road from Nyaung Hla to Ye Nan Chaung was quite scenic, passing by the hills and valleys, pump jacks, golden grasses, reddish-brown pebbled grounds, oil rigs in the distance, silvery lakes, and little bamboo huts. I didn’t like taking the shared car rides, even if it was the cheaper option. Hemmed in by the passengers and cargos, I wouldn’t be able to experience a thing. Just to save a small sum in the fare, I’d be missing the beauty of the land I rarely got to visit. I’d rather hire a whole horse-cart for myself. Going downhill, we hobbled ahead with white knuckles; going uphill, we craned our necks as the horse strained and struggled. These were the land’s characters that I wanted to take in fully. Along the road, the Irrawaddy River sometimes revealed itself in sudden flashes. In downhill turns, the cart’s wheels creaked with a series of tok, tok, tok … This was the pastoral music I associated with this region.
Mom was born here; she lived here for many years. Whenever she talked about her childhood, this land, this air, this water, and these rows of houses invariably came up: the Irrawaddy, the Burma Oil Company’s (BOC) staff quarters, the gas pipelines, the wild acacia and margosa trees … she would speak of them endlessly. I could only come back once every couple of years, and whenever I passed through it on a horse cart, I remembered her. When I thought about her, I also remembered the photos she showed me especially …
2
There wasn’t a lot I could say about my mother. She was born into an ordinary poor family, just one more leaf in a forest. Perhaps she was a bit like the acacia leaf from upcountry, prone to turn bristling red during the hot season. She was born in Nyaung Hla, but years later, she moved to Yangon where dad’s work was. That was her life’s journey in a nutshell. Mom was not talkative, the exact opposite of dad. She had silky brown skin, also a pair of large round eyes. I inherited from her the tendency to feel sorry for others, and to tear up easily. I was her favorite among the five siblings (at least, I believe so). The older brothers and sisters had all left the nest.
“Living with your mom is not a cakewalk. She’s stingy with her words, and with her money. When she dies, she’s doomed to become a possessive spirit watching over her belongings. Look at that key jiggling around her neck,” dad sometimes said.
Dad liked to make fun of the key pinned to mom’s shirt with a large safety pin. Ever since I could remember, she had kept that key close to her bosom; not a single day was she seen without it. Dad was a reckless spender; mom was a spendthrift. Dad also liked to gamble and drink. I remember an episode mom related to me.
One day, dad lost all his money in a card game, and came home drunk. He demanded the necklace and bracelet mom was wearing. When mom refused, he struck her, then went after the key pinned to her blouse, and the little chest it would open. Mom wouldn’t let him touch the key. Instead, she tore the necklace off her neck without bothering to unhook it, then thrust the bracelet into his hand. Dad was stunned. He didn’t expect his penny-pinching wife to part with her jewelry that easily. Afterward, he lost her gold in a card game. Mom said when dad left the house that day, she cried.
“But why did you give him your gold?” I asked. I wasn’t even born at the time, but I felt the sting of her loss, and wanted to blame her.
“They were bought with the money he made, so I felt he had the right to take them from me.”
“Did he treat you like this again, mom?”
“No, that was the only time your father did that. I think he felt horrible. He never played cards again after that.”
Mom tended to address me with the casual pronoun nin. When she felt like it, she’d recount her childhood to me. Dad, however, liked to poke fun at mom. When he did, mom would look at him with a faint smile. This was how they strengthened their marriage bond of many years.
“Your mom was a Nyaung Hla girl, born in the town’s BOC compound. I was the engineer of a dig. Whenever I had a free evening, I’d ride my bicycle to Nyaung Hla. The BOC staff quarters where she lived was quite far from my town. I was the one who had to woo her. She was a bit of a snob.
“I serenaded her with my mandolin, singing that song. Hmm, let me see. It goes, Hey, proud lass, I know you really love me, but you turned me down because you’re too proud. Too proud so you turned me down. But I’m clueless and can’t walk away from you. I’d sing it from below the Bunyan tree in the compound. She wouldn’t even turn around to look at me.”
When dad sang the old tune in proper pitches, mom laughed till her eyes were nearly shut. In elaborate details, dad went on to recall how proud mom was; and how, after finding out his honest character, her parents persuaded her to accept the marriage arrangements; and how she relented only out of obedience to her parents.
By then mom was past seventy. Dad was two years older. The other children had left the house, leaving behind only the youngest, me. But through the years, one thing remained unchanged—the key pinned to mom’s chest.
3
That day, only mom and I were at home. Most memorably, the yellow padauk flowers were in full bloom before our house. It was a late summer day, with the scent of the coming rain wafting in the air. Mom was staring at the padauk-filled scenery from the window. Then she began talking about something she’d never done before.
“How long has it been since the Japanese occupation?”
“More than 40 years now, mom.”
“More than 40 years has passed since, eh?”
Then she became silent. Entering her room, she removed the key from her bosom to unlock an iron chest, dating back to the days before she was married. From beneath the clothes, she pulled out an enameled black box. Opening the lid, she revealed little silver cups, a silver betel quid holder, a silver lime container, the fine laces and embroideries she made when she was a girl, knitting pins, multi-color thread balls, silver coins, copper coins, and Japanese currency notes.
I’d never seen this black box before. Neither had dad, come to think of it. It measured about eight by five inches. Mom tenderly took out the items one by one. Finally, removing the paper at the bottom of the box, she retrieved three old photos. She showed me one with a woman standing next to a 10-year-old girl. Behind them was the BOC staff quarters.
“The one standing, that’s your grandmother, my mom. Her name was Daw Thaut (Ms. Key), in fact. She was very fair, quite a beauty.”
“Who’s the girl standing next to her?”
“That’s me, age nine, taking a photo with my mom.”
The two women in the photo didn’t look like they were getting photographed. They seemed to be staring at the lens as if it were a strange phenomenon.
“The row of houses you see behind us, that’s the BOC staff quarters where I used to live in my youth.”
She handed me another photo, that of a pubescent girl, ready to abandon a child’s close-cropped hair. She was a beauty, with hands below her chin, wearing a blouse with loose-fitting sleeves. The painting behind revealed the setting to be a living room. Her smile wasn’t convincing.
“That’s my best friend Mya Sein. I loved her the most, also fought with her the most. She doted on me. We took this photo on the same day. We had to travel to Ye Nan Chaung to do it. We had to keep it a secret from your dad. I came home too late, so he beat me that night.”
Mom was recounting the episode deliciously, like some happy memories. At the same time, I also saw the sadness in her face. The padauk’s aroma was in the room. The wind brought in the moisture—the rain’s harbinger.
“Look at this one, son.”
It was a photo of a man. The edges of the photo were frayed and discolored. Not exactly handsome, but he had bright brown eyes and determined tight lips.
“Who’s that?”
“Look at the other side.”
On the back of the photo was an ink inscription, already fading from the many years it had had to endure.
To Mya, who I love as much as life itself. March 13, 1945
I looked at mom in confusion, but she merely gave me a faint smile.
“That was my childhood sweetheart, Ba Aye. He got involved in the revolution against the Japanese. He didn’t come home.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“The three of them went off together, Ba Aye, Kan Maung, and Pike Tin. After the war, Pike Tin resettled in Yangon, or so I heard. Kan Maung came back to the village, but he’d lost his mind. He couldn’t tell us anything. Ba Aye died in Thayet, or Pyinmana, not sure.”
“Did he give you this photo before he went to war?”
“That’s right. He gave it to me before he left. He also took a photo of mine with him, the one I took with Mya Sein on the same day. He said, if I don’t come back, please keep my photo with you forever. My photo must have gotten lost in battle.”
“Did you see him off on the day he left?”
“Of course, I did. Mya Sein came to get me. By the time we got to the cliff above Nyaung Hla riverbank, the boat carrying the three of them was already leaving the dock. They waved at us from below the arched roof on the deck. I stood on the cliff until they disappeared. That was the last I saw of them.”
“What did dad say about this photo?”
“No, your father doesn’t know about this. I never showed him that.”
Mom put everything back into the enameled box, affectionately tucking away the photos. The scent of Padauk was drifting in the wind.
4
Mom had been gone for quite a while now. She passed away on a rainy day. During one anniversary, dad said he wanted to offer alms to the monks in her name. He asked the children to come back and join him. He was also planning to give away mom’s old blouses and sarongs to the poor folks. That day, for the first time in 40 years, he unlocked mom’s sacred chest. Finally, he opened the enameled box and found the photos inside.
“Who’s that?”
“Mom said it’s her childhood sweetheart.”
“Really, who told you that?”
“She did.”
Without saying anything, dad put the photos back into the little box, then put the box back into the chest. Only after a long pause did he speak.
“You should have told me about them on the day we buried her.”
“What do you mean?”
“About these photos. She would have been really happy if we had buried these with her.”
Dad’s words were solemn. Outside, the dark rain clouds were gathering. I began to miss mom, thinking about the little key pinned to her chest, her photo lying somewhere in a battlefield, and her eyes that would easily well up with tears.
Translated from the Burmese by Kenneth Wong
Nay Win Myint is the pen name of Win Myint (or) Khin Maung Win, a three-time National Literary Award winner. He was born in Pwint Phyu Township, Magway, Myanmar (Mergui, Burma). His wife is the author Khin Khin Htoo.
Kenneth Wong is a Burmese-American author, translator, and language teacher. Born and raised in Rangoon (Yangon), Burma (Myanmar), he currently lives in San Francisco, California; and teaches beginning and intermediate Burmese at UC Berkeley. His essays, short stories, articles, and poetry translations have appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, AGNI, Grain, The Irrawaddy, Myanmar Times, Two Lines Press, and The Journal of Burma Studies, among others.
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Read more from Translation Tuesdays on the Asymptote blog:
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- Translation Tuesday: An excerpt from Acharya Chatursen’s Bride of the City
- Translation Tuesday: Two Poems by Marie-Célie Agnant