name, but when he turned he saw only unfamiliar faces and at some distance on the dock a cluster of men gesticulating excitedly. A child had fallen into the water.
Each month that passed without any trace of Ma Mu or her mother left U May more desperate and furious. It was a vague, ill-defined fury he felt. It had neither name nor face and was directed largely at himself. He took to drinking, frequented the brothels between Calcutta and Singapore, and earned more in a month in the opium trade than his father made in a year, only to lose it again in illegal gambling. On a passage from Colombo to Rangoon he made the acquaintance of an odd and loquacious Bombay rice merchant who told him one evening on deck of his former Burmese cook and of the tragic death of her daughter and the daughter’s little boy. They had fallen into the harbor and drowned when the young woman tried to follow a man who was boarding a passenger ship. According to eyewitnesses she had mistakenly taken him for an acquaintance from Rangoon. The cook’s meals had subsequently become inedible, leaving the rice baron no choice but to dismiss her.
U May never told Su Kyi, or anyone, what he went through that night. When the ship reached Rangoon, heleft his baggage on board and went from the harbor directly to the Shwegyin monastery at the foot of the Shwedagon Pagoda. He spent a few years there before journeying to Sikkim, Nepal, and Tibet, seeking tutelage in the teachings of the Buddha from several famous monks. He lived for more than twenty years in a small monastery in Indian Darjeeling until deciding to leave for Kalaw, Ma Mu’s birthplace. The young lovers had dreamt of Kalaw during their trysts in the cellar, in the rambling garden, and in the servants’ quarters. They planned to flee there with their child. Afterward, when he was wandering ceaselessly from place to place, U May never dared visit. Now he felt the time was ripe. He was over fifty, and Kalaw was where he wanted to die.
S tanding before U May now, Tin Win held Su Kyi’s hand. He followed her across the room and they both knelt down. Tin Win let go of her, and they leaned over until their hands and foreheads brushed the floor.
The old man listened attentively while Su Kyi related Tin Win’s story. Occasionally he rocked a little with his upper body and repeated isolated words. When she had finished, he said nothing for a long time. At last he turned to Tin Win, who had crouched mute beside Su Kyi the entire time.
U May spoke slowly and in short sentences. He described the life of the monks, who knew neither home norproperty aside from robe and thabeik, a bowl they carried when gathering alms. He explained how the novices walked the streets every morning, just after sunrise, how they stood silently in front of a house or paused in front of a doorway, accepting with gratitude whatever offerings they were given. He described how, with the help of a younger monk, he instructed his pupils in reading, writing, and arithmetic. In essence, however, his principal aim was to pass on the lesson life had taught him: that a person’s greatest treasure is the wisdom in his own heart.
Tin Win knelt motionless before the old man, listening intently. It was not the words or sentences as such that transfixed him. It was the voice. A gentle and melodic intoning, subtle and well-tempered like the soft ringing of bells of the monastery tower, bells that needed only a breeze to set them singing. It was a voice that reminded Tin Win of birds at dawn, of Su Kyi’s quiet and even breathing as she lay sleeping next to him. He did not merely hear the voice; he felt it on his skin like two hands. He wanted nothing more than to entrust the weight of his body to that voice. The weight of his soul. Something happened then for the first time that would happen ever more frequently in the future: Tin Win saw the sounds—saw them as smoke rising from a fire into the air and spreading throughout the room, wafting
Each month that passed without any trace of Ma Mu or her mother left U May more desperate and furious. It was a vague, ill-defined fury he felt. It had neither name nor face and was directed largely at himself. He took to drinking, frequented the brothels between Calcutta and Singapore, and earned more in a month in the opium trade than his father made in a year, only to lose it again in illegal gambling. On a passage from Colombo to Rangoon he made the acquaintance of an odd and loquacious Bombay rice merchant who told him one evening on deck of his former Burmese cook and of the tragic death of her daughter and the daughter’s little boy. They had fallen into the harbor and drowned when the young woman tried to follow a man who was boarding a passenger ship. According to eyewitnesses she had mistakenly taken him for an acquaintance from Rangoon. The cook’s meals had subsequently become inedible, leaving the rice baron no choice but to dismiss her.
U May never told Su Kyi, or anyone, what he went through that night. When the ship reached Rangoon, heleft his baggage on board and went from the harbor directly to the Shwegyin monastery at the foot of the Shwedagon Pagoda. He spent a few years there before journeying to Sikkim, Nepal, and Tibet, seeking tutelage in the teachings of the Buddha from several famous monks. He lived for more than twenty years in a small monastery in Indian Darjeeling until deciding to leave for Kalaw, Ma Mu’s birthplace. The young lovers had dreamt of Kalaw during their trysts in the cellar, in the rambling garden, and in the servants’ quarters. They planned to flee there with their child. Afterward, when he was wandering ceaselessly from place to place, U May never dared visit. Now he felt the time was ripe. He was over fifty, and Kalaw was where he wanted to die.
S tanding before U May now, Tin Win held Su Kyi’s hand. He followed her across the room and they both knelt down. Tin Win let go of her, and they leaned over until their hands and foreheads brushed the floor.
The old man listened attentively while Su Kyi related Tin Win’s story. Occasionally he rocked a little with his upper body and repeated isolated words. When she had finished, he said nothing for a long time. At last he turned to Tin Win, who had crouched mute beside Su Kyi the entire time.
U May spoke slowly and in short sentences. He described the life of the monks, who knew neither home norproperty aside from robe and thabeik, a bowl they carried when gathering alms. He explained how the novices walked the streets every morning, just after sunrise, how they stood silently in front of a house or paused in front of a doorway, accepting with gratitude whatever offerings they were given. He described how, with the help of a younger monk, he instructed his pupils in reading, writing, and arithmetic. In essence, however, his principal aim was to pass on the lesson life had taught him: that a person’s greatest treasure is the wisdom in his own heart.
Tin Win knelt motionless before the old man, listening intently. It was not the words or sentences as such that transfixed him. It was the voice. A gentle and melodic intoning, subtle and well-tempered like the soft ringing of bells of the monastery tower, bells that needed only a breeze to set them singing. It was a voice that reminded Tin Win of birds at dawn, of Su Kyi’s quiet and even breathing as she lay sleeping next to him. He did not merely hear the voice; he felt it on his skin like two hands. He wanted nothing more than to entrust the weight of his body to that voice. The weight of his soul. Something happened then for the first time that would happen ever more frequently in the future: Tin Win saw the sounds—saw them as smoke rising from a fire into the air and spreading throughout the room, wafting
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