On a pagoda and a prayer
Removed from Myanmar’s unhappy times, the small pilgrimage town of Bago in Yangon thrives on wishes and worship. Mita Ghosh goes in search of a spiritual balm
Sure?” I ask.
“Dead shoo-er!” says U Tin Maung Swe—or Daw Thin Thin Swe.
I can’t tell one from the other. Bespectacled and beaming, the two middle-aged Burmese women look disconcertingly similar. One is a palmist with no English. The other is her interpreter. And we’re discussing my love life.
Cloistered in their den — the Swethahar Nirvana Shop, one of the many astrologers’ cubicles flanking the stairway of the complex that houses Yangon’s Chaukhtat Gyi Pagoda and its famous reclining Buddha—I decide to throw them off-balance.
“My father’s health?” I enquire.
“He’s fine,” they reply cheerily.
“Sure?”
“Dead shoo-er!”
I wince at the choice of words. Baba, I’ve just learnt, has terminal cancer. So much for predictions.
And yet, this business is thriving. Not just here, but all along the pavement skirting Mahabandoola Park on the way to the Yangon River jetty, where male astrologers sit under large, shady trees, their credentials nailed to the beleaguered trunks.
Back at my hotel, though, life rides on smug certainties. I watch the floor manager bowing and scraping to a woman bursting out of a silver lamé evening dress. Her imperiousness is just short of regal. An army bigwig’s wife, I learn. Beside her stand two obese mini-skirted clones—her adolescent daughters. The first skin show I’ve seen in Myanmar.
It’s not the only change I’ve noticed since my last visit, apart from the proliferation of astrologers. Along with mini-skirts, there are many more beggars. Even nuns seeking alms stare steadily at your plate while you eat, shaming you into donating a few kyats. One thing, however, is unreassuringly constant: the grumble of generators on the streets every evening. Phantom silhouettes flit by in the darkness brought on by the inevitable power cuts. The Nay Pyi Daw cinema hall opposite my hotel is, of course, ablaze with lights, making me forget for an instant that these are not happy times in Myanmar.
You wouldn’t think so, looking at Aye Aye, who turns up the following morning to accompany me on a trip, her lipsticked smile eclipsing the rest of her face. She is a ripe twenty-five, a civil engineer to boot—unemployed at present. We have just one thing in common: heartbreak.
I’m grieving for my father. Aye Aye confides that her fiancé, recently home from the Shan states in the north, is suffering from amnesia. He recognises no one. What remains unmentioned are the rumours—of the junta making random examples of innocent citizens in those insurgent-infested areas through “disappearances” or severe torture that often leaves victims physically and psychologically maimed. Given our respective predicaments, Aye Aye and I feel lost.
It’s providential that we’re headed for Bago, a sleepy little pilgrimage town where the power of prayer is celebrated with great fervour. For me, the place, 80 km northeast of Yangon, is just one defining moment from the past; I see them still, those Buddhist monks, young and old, streaming out of monasteries in the half-light of dawn to beg for alms, an act of humility that is truly inspirational.
This time, neither Aye Aye nor I are seeking favours from Lord Buddha alone. We’re also angling to cultivate some of Myanmar’s thirty-seven nats, those powerful guardian spirits from its animist past known to address specific issues so dear to the heart of mean-spirited mortals like us. If, for example, you’re itching to bump off a rival in business or love without dirtying your hands, they’re game. Just ensure the price is right. In fact, we’ve already propitiated one such spirit at the Shwenyaungpin Nat Shrine for a safe journey. It would be foolhardy not to, given the condition of Myanmar’s highways. But we crave much, much more.
Bago’s mandatory tourist hotspots turn out to be a confusing blur of images—the tenth-century Shwethalyaung reclining Buddha, the earthquake-ravaged Shwemawdaw Pagoda, the Kha Khat Waing Monastery, off-limits for years to overseas visitors for its role in the Saffron Revolution of 2007, and the impressive Kyaik Pun Pagoda with its quartet of thirty-foot-tall Buddhas sitting back to back. I’m beginning to understand what “templed out” means.
At the Hinthagone Pagoda, famous for the legend of the mating hansa birds that Burmese men ostensibly hold responsible for Bago’s characteristically domineering women, Aye Aye urges me to pray. The place is believed to be spiritually potent. The deities are evidently responsive, for a nat dance performance is on, during which the spirit is said to descend to earth. Before a rapt audience, an exquisitely made-up hermaphrodite in pink and emerald brocade sways to a cacophony of drums, cymbals and outright caterwauling. I notice the bottle of imported whiskey under her arm. Though she’s supposed to be in a trance when the nat spirit takes possession of her, this beautiful dancer’s gaze is fixed on me. I am apparently as exotic in her eyes as she is in mine. Then, with a sweeping bow, she acknowledges my presence. Her audience sighs with envy. I smile, accepting her gesture as a blessing. Aye Aye is ecstatic. Back in Kolkata, I remain in touch with my guide. She’s praying for my ailing father. Baba passes away soon after. Aye Aye writes again: she’s willing to spend her entire life waiting for her f fiancé to recover. I urge her to move on. She hasn’t replied. If I know her, she’s waiting, still waiting.
Removed from Myanmar’s unhappy times, the small pilgrimage town of Bago in Yangon thrives on wishes and worship. Mita Ghosh goes in search of a spiritual balm
Sure?” I ask.
“Dead shoo-er!” says U Tin Maung Swe—or Daw Thin Thin Swe.
I can’t tell one from the other. Bespectacled and beaming, the two middle-aged Burmese women look disconcertingly similar. One is a palmist with no English. The other is her interpreter. And we’re discussing my love life.
Cloistered in their den — the Swethahar Nirvana Shop, one of the many astrologers’ cubicles flanking the stairway of the complex that houses Yangon’s Chaukhtat Gyi Pagoda and its famous reclining Buddha—I decide to throw them off-balance.
“My father’s health?” I enquire.
“He’s fine,” they reply cheerily.
“Sure?”
“Dead shoo-er!”
I wince at the choice of words. Baba, I’ve just learnt, has terminal cancer. So much for predictions.
And yet, this business is thriving. Not just here, but all along the pavement skirting Mahabandoola Park on the way to the Yangon River jetty, where male astrologers sit under large, shady trees, their credentials nailed to the beleaguered trunks.
Back at my hotel, though, life rides on smug certainties. I watch the floor manager bowing and scraping to a woman bursting out of a silver lamé evening dress. Her imperiousness is just short of regal. An army bigwig’s wife, I learn. Beside her stand two obese mini-skirted clones—her adolescent daughters. The first skin show I’ve seen in Myanmar.
It’s not the only change I’ve noticed since my last visit, apart from the proliferation of astrologers. Along with mini-skirts, there are many more beggars. Even nuns seeking alms stare steadily at your plate while you eat, shaming you into donating a few kyats. One thing, however, is unreassuringly constant: the grumble of generators on the streets every evening. Phantom silhouettes flit by in the darkness brought on by the inevitable power cuts. The Nay Pyi Daw cinema hall opposite my hotel is, of course, ablaze with lights, making me forget for an instant that these are not happy times in Myanmar.
You wouldn’t think so, looking at Aye Aye, who turns up the following morning to accompany me on a trip, her lipsticked smile eclipsing the rest of her face. She is a ripe twenty-five, a civil engineer to boot—unemployed at present. We have just one thing in common: heartbreak.
I’m grieving for my father. Aye Aye confides that her fiancé, recently home from the Shan states in the north, is suffering from amnesia. He recognises no one. What remains unmentioned are the rumours—of the junta making random examples of innocent citizens in those insurgent-infested areas through “disappearances” or severe torture that often leaves victims physically and psychologically maimed. Given our respective predicaments, Aye Aye and I feel lost.
It’s providential that we’re headed for Bago, a sleepy little pilgrimage town where the power of prayer is celebrated with great fervour. For me, the place, 80 km northeast of Yangon, is just one defining moment from the past; I see them still, those Buddhist monks, young and old, streaming out of monasteries in the half-light of dawn to beg for alms, an act of humility that is truly inspirational.
This time, neither Aye Aye nor I are seeking favours from Lord Buddha alone. We’re also angling to cultivate some of Myanmar’s thirty-seven nats, those powerful guardian spirits from its animist past known to address specific issues so dear to the heart of mean-spirited mortals like us. If, for example, you’re itching to bump off a rival in business or love without dirtying your hands, they’re game. Just ensure the price is right. In fact, we’ve already propitiated one such spirit at the Shwenyaungpin Nat Shrine for a safe journey. It would be foolhardy not to, given the condition of Myanmar’s highways. But we crave much, much more.
Bago’s mandatory tourist hotspots turn out to be a confusing blur of images—the tenth-century Shwethalyaung reclining Buddha, the earthquake-ravaged Shwemawdaw Pagoda, the Kha Khat Waing Monastery, off-limits for years to overseas visitors for its role in the Saffron Revolution of 2007, and the impressive Kyaik Pun Pagoda with its quartet of thirty-foot-tall Buddhas sitting back to back. I’m beginning to understand what “templed out” means.
At the Hinthagone Pagoda, famous for the legend of the mating hansa birds that Burmese men ostensibly hold responsible for Bago’s characteristically domineering women, Aye Aye urges me to pray. The place is believed to be spiritually potent. The deities are evidently responsive, for a nat dance performance is on, during which the spirit is said to descend to earth. Before a rapt audience, an exquisitely made-up hermaphrodite in pink and emerald brocade sways to a cacophony of drums, cymbals and outright caterwauling. I notice the bottle of imported whiskey under her arm. Though she’s supposed to be in a trance when the nat spirit takes possession of her, this beautiful dancer’s gaze is fixed on me. I am apparently as exotic in her eyes as she is in mine. Then, with a sweeping bow, she acknowledges my presence. Her audience sighs with envy. I smile, accepting her gesture as a blessing. Aye Aye is ecstatic. Back in Kolkata, I remain in touch with my guide. She’s praying for my ailing father. Baba passes away soon after. Aye Aye writes again: she’s willing to spend her entire life waiting for her f fiancé to recover. I urge her to move on. She hasn’t replied. If I know her, she’s waiting, still waiting.
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