back and forth in gentle waves, moved as if by an unseen hand, curling and dancing and slowly dissipating.
On the way home neither Tin Win nor Su Kyi spoke a single word. He held her hand. It was warm and soft.
T in Win was agitated on the way to the monastery before sunrise the next morning. He would be spending the next few weeks with the monks. He would be given a robe and would be going out with the other boys to collect alms in the vicinity. The thought of it made him queasy, and his dread deepened with every step. How would he find his way in the town when he could barely walk a few yards—even on familiar terrain—without stumbling? He asked Su Kyi to just let him be, to leave him in peace. He preferred to stay home on his sleeping mat or on the stool in the kitchen corner, the only two places he felt at all safe, or at least unthreatened.
There was no talking her out of it. Tin Win followed her reluctantly, dragging his feet all the way down into the town. Su Kyi felt as if she were leading some stubborn animal. All at once the sound of children singing in the monastery stopped them in their tracks. The voices calmed Tin Win. As if someone were stroking his face and his belly, soothing him. He stood frozen, listening. The soft rustling of leaves intermingled with the voices. It was more than a simple rustling, though. Tin Win realized that leaves, like human voices, each had their own characteristic timbre. Just as with colors, there were shades of rustling. He heard thin twigs rubbing together and leaves brushing against one another. He heard individual leaves dropping lightly to the ground in front of him. Even as they drifted through theair, he noticed that no two leaves sounded alike. He heard buzzing and blowing, chirping and cheeping, rushing and rumbling. A daunting realization was creeping up on him. Might there be, parallel to the world of shapes and colors, an entire world of voices and sounds, of noises and tones? A hidden realm of the senses, all around us but usually inaccessible to us? A world perhaps even more exhilarating and mysterious than the visible world?
Many years later, in New York, when he sat for the first time in a concert hall and the orchestra began to play, he would remember this very moment yet again. He was nearly drunk with happiness when he heard in the background the quiet drumbeats that opened the piece, and then the violins joining in, the violas and the cellos, the oboes and the flutes. Each raised its voice just as the leaves on that summer morning in Kalaw. Each instrument independently at first, and then in a chorus that so overwhelmed his senses he broke into a sweat and lost his breath.
Su Kyi nudged him along toward the monastery and through the music; he staggered along at her side like a drunk. A few moments later it all left him as quickly as it had come. He heard his own footsteps and Su Kyi’s labored breathing, the choir and the crowing roosters—but nothing more. Still, he had savored the first taste of a life so intense that it hurt. Indeed, it was sometimes unbearable.
Chapter 3
DAY WAS JUST breaking when they arrived at the monastery. U May sat meditating in the hall, surrounded by older monks. A young monk sat on a stool below the kitchen, breaking dry branches. Round and round him two dogs circled and frisked. A dozen novices in their red robes, heads freshly shaven, stood in a row beside the staircase. They greeted Tin Win and gave Su Kyi one of the dark red robes for him. She draped it around his slender body. She had shaved his head the night before, and when she saw him standing there amid the other monks she realized again that he was tall for his age and a beautiful boy. The back of his head was distinctive. He had a slim neck, a prominent nose, not too long, and teeth as white as the blossoms of the pear tree that stood before her house. His skin was the color of light cinnamon. His many falls and scrapes had left no more trace than two
On the way home neither Tin Win nor Su Kyi spoke a single word. He held her hand. It was warm and soft.
T in Win was agitated on the way to the monastery before sunrise the next morning. He would be spending the next few weeks with the monks. He would be given a robe and would be going out with the other boys to collect alms in the vicinity. The thought of it made him queasy, and his dread deepened with every step. How would he find his way in the town when he could barely walk a few yards—even on familiar terrain—without stumbling? He asked Su Kyi to just let him be, to leave him in peace. He preferred to stay home on his sleeping mat or on the stool in the kitchen corner, the only two places he felt at all safe, or at least unthreatened.
There was no talking her out of it. Tin Win followed her reluctantly, dragging his feet all the way down into the town. Su Kyi felt as if she were leading some stubborn animal. All at once the sound of children singing in the monastery stopped them in their tracks. The voices calmed Tin Win. As if someone were stroking his face and his belly, soothing him. He stood frozen, listening. The soft rustling of leaves intermingled with the voices. It was more than a simple rustling, though. Tin Win realized that leaves, like human voices, each had their own characteristic timbre. Just as with colors, there were shades of rustling. He heard thin twigs rubbing together and leaves brushing against one another. He heard individual leaves dropping lightly to the ground in front of him. Even as they drifted through theair, he noticed that no two leaves sounded alike. He heard buzzing and blowing, chirping and cheeping, rushing and rumbling. A daunting realization was creeping up on him. Might there be, parallel to the world of shapes and colors, an entire world of voices and sounds, of noises and tones? A hidden realm of the senses, all around us but usually inaccessible to us? A world perhaps even more exhilarating and mysterious than the visible world?
Many years later, in New York, when he sat for the first time in a concert hall and the orchestra began to play, he would remember this very moment yet again. He was nearly drunk with happiness when he heard in the background the quiet drumbeats that opened the piece, and then the violins joining in, the violas and the cellos, the oboes and the flutes. Each raised its voice just as the leaves on that summer morning in Kalaw. Each instrument independently at first, and then in a chorus that so overwhelmed his senses he broke into a sweat and lost his breath.
Su Kyi nudged him along toward the monastery and through the music; he staggered along at her side like a drunk. A few moments later it all left him as quickly as it had come. He heard his own footsteps and Su Kyi’s labored breathing, the choir and the crowing roosters—but nothing more. Still, he had savored the first taste of a life so intense that it hurt. Indeed, it was sometimes unbearable.
Chapter 3
DAY WAS JUST breaking when they arrived at the monastery. U May sat meditating in the hall, surrounded by older monks. A young monk sat on a stool below the kitchen, breaking dry branches. Round and round him two dogs circled and frisked. A dozen novices in their red robes, heads freshly shaven, stood in a row beside the staircase. They greeted Tin Win and gave Su Kyi one of the dark red robes for him. She draped it around his slender body. She had shaved his head the night before, and when she saw him standing there amid the other monks she realized again that he was tall for his age and a beautiful boy. The back of his head was distinctive. He had a slim neck, a prominent nose, not too long, and teeth as white as the blossoms of the pear tree that stood before her house. His skin was the color of light cinnamon. His many falls and scrapes had left no more trace than two
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