Myo Nyein Swe - Clear Water

The moon is yellow.

The whole environment was quiet and sleeping, a cloudless night. It was eight or nine days after the new moon. The three-day moon was waning, and now the eight-day moon was like a watermelon. There were stars, one, two, three, four, five... Under the watermelon moon, I was playing the guitar in the clearing in front of the house. The village was a large courtyard and the house was not too noisy. Since it was my mother's house, the sound of my guitar boldly penetrated the surrounding air, and the melodies accompanied the wind wherever they went. That night, my mother disappeared into the clearing in front of the house.

Here, in the middle of the crowded houses under the watermelon moon of the city, I sit on the moonlit sky, looking at the blue sky, and looking at my mother's house in the town on the other side of the Chindwin River. At this time, my mother is sleeping. Since I am here, I don't have to open the door for my son who often comes home late at night. But I will see my son in my dreams. Or I will remember him when I wake up.

I'm coming home, Mom.

My son has no money, no success, can you understand? Will I ever hear my mother say, “Even after finishing school, my suffering is not over?” again and again, as she pays for my return expenses? Will my father think I am tired of looking at magazines with pictures and illustrations? I hear that some of my friends are teachers, some are businessmen. My mother must be blaming me for this. But I am grateful that my mother never spoke out. My mother and father are broad-minded and allow me freedom. After school, I used to work as teachers in our town and wanted to go to Yangon to paint. But I am not proud of my mother, my son, even if I asked him where he was or what he was doing, he could not even answer. I can’t talk. I know that my mother is not proud. But my mother should have something to be proud of for her son. When the office staff and the children talk about their children, it must be funny.

I know, Mom.

Shwe Pyi Soe became a teacher and paid all the bills for the house. Win Zaw sold gasoline in his jeep from his house, and San Khaing and his sister worked as brokers in Monywa. When my classmates showed off their businesses to my mother, I remembered her more. Their parents would talk about their children in the office. They weren’t bragging. They were telling the truth. For my mother, the truth was that when asked what Myint Swe was doing in Yangon, she would answer vaguely, “Oh, I said I was working at a magazine.” No matter what she said, her mother could still forgive her son and trust him.

It's getting dark, Mom.

Coincidentally, tonight, my mother woke up and was thinking about me. Is she thinking about her son at this time? My mother must also be full of things to say. “I don’t have a daughter anymore, so I need to consult with my daughter,” she used to consult with me about marriage, family, and women’s health issues. My mother must be so full that I’m not here.

I want to talk to my mother.

It was hard. My mother had never been to my dorm, so she couldn’t even imagine it. So, I saw this watermelon-like feeling from my mother, and I saw it from her. The two of us talked quietly. (I was a little hungry. I thought the funny saying that I miss my mother when I’m hungry was over in my dorm life.) My mother talked to me like she used to when I was at home, about my father, family matters, the prices of the kitchen, my mother’s office work, and U Kwan Nya’s good teachings and the two basic truths, the two layers, and the analysis. I would discuss what my mother had said, and then I would recite the story of Hattipala’s bridegroom’s escape from the forest, which my mother liked.

Come to the moon, mother.

My mother, if I remember my eldest son, I can only imagine Yangon. When I look down from the moon, I can see the two-story house of my childhood in the countryside, black with oil stains and dark shadows under the moonlight. The dusty road next to the house is like a peaceful sleep under the moonlight. I came out of that road late at night and arrived at the black, winding asphalt road of our city, which has only one road. I breathed in the scent of tamarind flowers on both sides of that road, and I rode my bicycle to play guitar with my friends at the Thon Htaw Park in front of the hospital, and now I have reached the downhill bridge in front of my father's school.

It was on that ten-foot asphalt road that I discovered that the tamarind trees were quietly blooming late at night. Oh, my mother and father also had their own little outings on that road.

As they walked east and west on the road, it seemed as if their rivalry was growing. My mother and father were walking towards me like hot air. My father drank wine with the children every evening at the eastern school, my mother meditated with the yogis every evening at the western school, truly east and west. My father rode his bicycle up to U Khin Maung’s house on the eastern slope, my mother rode her bicycle down to the mirror school in the western valley. Yes, yes, they did. At night, I came home. My father slept with snoring sounds, my mother said, “Side by side, my beloved husband,” and sent prayers from all directions, “May all beings be healthy and happy.” Although my mother had left me, my father slept soundly under my mother’s loving words. I wanted to laugh and laugh, but I didn’t feel bad. My mother meditated every night to escape from her life, and since my mother and father were young, I wondered if our marriage would be successful in the long run.

It's hard. What my mother dislikes the most is drinking, and my father's favorite thing is drinking. I think both are right. They are the children who have found their own outlet. It's not wrong for a schoolteacher to read books and drink alcohol in a small town, mother. It's not wrong for a clerk to meditate in a small town where there are no children or relatives, father.

Sometimes, we wonder if our brothers are not around, so we find ways to warm our hearts. In fact, it would be good if our mother gave birth to a girl. Now that we have three brothers, it seems cold and lonely. If only we had a little sister, we would have a warm and united family, and our hearts would be warm.

Now, my brothers and sisters are sailing on their own plans. My parents can't support me, and I don't get support from them. Sometimes I think about taking a little girl home to help my mother, but my mother will laugh at me. My mother doesn't say anything, but I know that she doesn't want me to take a girl. There is a saying that I rely on my two eldest sons. The worldly son and the worldly son. My mother won't know. My mother is the first to be ordained as a monk. I found out that I went to his school when I was in Mandalay last time, but don't tell my mother. And the money my mother is sending me is not enough to cover the cost of his photography book, not even the cost of his meditation book. The Dhamma education that my mother least expects is a little far away for him. So, even though I am a worldly son, I want my mother's heart to be refreshed.

But this time, no money. No success, I will return home, mother. Mother also has a phrase, “Even after finishing school, your troubles are not over yet?” There are stars, one, two, three, four, five... In the dark blue sky, the moon is bright.

April, 1991, Myat Maung, Volume (2), No. (10)