Bamboo People Page 2

  Mother comes out carrying a tray. Tea’s still cheap, and this morning she splurged on a small packet of biscuits from the vendor who comes to the door. The biscuits are arranged in a neat fan on the one porcelain plate we haven’t sold.

  “I’ll give you some recipes, Wei-Lin,” Daw Widow continues. “My tamarind shrimp soup will fatten this boy up in no time. Teach? Hah! He can barely stand on his own two feet!”

  Mother’s dimple creases her cheek as she catches my eye. “Does my boy look too thin to you, Lei, dear?” she asks, pouring another cup of tea.

  Lei smiles shyly. “No, Daw Wei-Lin. Chiko looks just as ha—I mean, just as healthy as ever.”

  Healthy? I think. What was she about to say? I push my glasses back up my nose. Stupid things, always falling forward at the wrong time.

  “Tell us more about your plan, Chiko,” Daw Widow says suddenly.

  “They’re giving a teaching exam this afternoon at city hall,” I say, handing her the newspaper. “Ignorance is bad for Burma, the government says. This time they might be telling the truth. I could pass the exam if Mother lets me go.”

  Daw Widow’s eyes narrow as she studies my face. “So! Somebody who can read a book or use a pencil is smarter than somebody who can’t?”

  Too late I remember that Daw Widow never learned to read or write. “I didn’t mean that,” I say, taking the newspaper back. “It’s just that I want to do something worthwhile. Make a difference, like Father.”

  “Humph,” Daw Widow snorts. She’s quiet for a bit, thinking something over. Then, “Let him go, Wei-Lin.”

  4

  I can’t believe my ears. Daw Widow is usually just as bad as Mother when it comes to me leaving the house. The only place I go without the two of them stopping me is next door to teach Lei. I feel a twinge of shame as I recognize the truth. Deep inside I was counting on Daw Widow to keep me from going, to convince Mother it’s safer for me to stay inside. Then I could tell myself at least I tried to keep my promise.

  “What, Ah-Ma?” Mother asks. “You want Chiko to leave me here alone?”

  “I’ll take care of you,” Daw Widow tells her grimly, glaring at the door.

  I wish for the hundredth time that Daw Widow had been with us when the soldiers came for Father. Even armed officers would have a hard time standing up to her. I’ve seen a burly chicken seller back away from her door when she accused him of overcharging her. But she and Lei were visiting relatives the week Father was arrested. Sometimes I wonder if the government was informed of their travel plans.

  “I’ll keep you company every day, Daw Wei-Lin,” Lei adds.

  I glance at her face, hoping for any hint of sorrow or worry on my behalf. But how could any girl admire a boy like me? Lei deserves a real man, a hero, a warrior who can protect her. Not a boy hiding inside his mother’s house.

  Daw Widow takes a sip of tea. “He may act like a good-for-nothing, Wei-Lin, but your boy can teach. I’ve seen my own girl reading and writing like a scholar these days, thanks to him.”

  “I know he’s smart,” Mother says. “And teaching is a noble job. As fine as healing. But how do we know they’re not lying? It’s not safe for him out there.”

  “It’s not safe in this house either, Nyi-Ma,” Daw Widow says softly.

  The tone of her voice makes us stare. What does she mean, it isn’t safe for me in this house? I notice she’s used special name for Mother: “Nyi-Ma” means “younger sister,” the name used for a close relative. As an older neighbor, Daw Widow usually calls my mother by name, but now she’s added an extra tenderness with the term of endearment.

  “Not safe, Ah-Ma?”

  Daw Widow looks straight into Mother’s eyes. “He hasn’t registered with the army, like he’s supposed to. It might be best for him to go out and apply for this job, even if it’s a fake. I heard it in the market. They’re coming after your boy. They want him to fight, or they’ll put him in prison, too.”

  I lean back in my chair, shaken. Fear rises in my throat like a sponge and dries my mouth. Mother buries her face in her hands.

  The room is still. Then Daw Widow speaks again: “He’s Joon’s son. And yours. He will endure whatever comes his way. Let him go, Nyi-Ma.”

  “Are you sure?” Mother asks, lifting her head. She takes the handkerchief Lei offers, and wipes her eyes.

  “I feel it in my spirit,” Daw Widow answers. She turns to me. “What time is this teacher’s exam, Chiko?”

  “Four o’clock.” I’m trying to keep my voice steady.

  “It’s just past three now,” Daw Widow says. “Get out of that longyi. It’s best to wear trousers to an exam.”

  I duck into the other room, take off the comfortable cotton cloth knotted around my waist, and change into a pair of pants. Daw Widow is right—somehow I’ll have to survive whatever is in my future. But how? My heart yearns for the old days, when Father was here to keep us safe and I could lose myself in a familiar story, one that ended happily.

  Daw Widow smiles when I return. “We have something for you, Chiko. Lei, give the boy his gift, will you? And to Daw Wei-Lin, also.”

  Lei reaches into her mother’s woven bag and takes out two packages. She hands one to me and one to Mother. We open them at the same time and discover matching miniature photographs of Father mounted on cardboard. He looks young in the picture, but his eyes are as keen and kind as the last time I saw them. An ache of missing him takes my breath away. Stay alive, Father, I pray. Please stay alive. Mother is gazing at her copy of the photo, and a tear curves along her cheek. I reach over and thumb it away.

  “It’s his graduation photo,” Lei says. “One of our relatives from the village works in the college, and he hunted down the negative. We developed them at a shop in town—Mother trusts the man who makes the pictures.”

  “How can we thank you?” Mother manages to say. “We have no picture of him at all. This is exactly as he looked when we first met.”

  Suddenly reality hits me. This is Daw Widow’s good-bye present. Rumors of the government’s interest in me must have reached her ears some time ago. That’s why she ordered two copies instead of one.

  “Thank you, Daw,” I manage. “Thank you a thousand times.”

  She takes the photo, tucks it into my pocket, and fastens the button. Knowing my habit of keeping pens, money, and other valuables in the front pockets of my shirts, Mother sews sturdy buttons on them so that nothing can fall out.

  “No need for thanks,” Daw Widow says, giving the pocket a pat. “You better catch a rickshaw before you miss that exam. Many women would want a son-in-law brave enough to try to be a teacher in these terrible times.”

  My mouth falls open. Have I heard right? I must have. Daw Widow’s raisin eyes are twinkling at me. So I haven’t been able to hide my feelings for Lei! But what does Lei think? I push my glasses back up and steal a look. But Lei is leaning over Mother’s shoulder, studying Father’s picture. The veil of silky hair hides her face.

  “What are you waiting for, boy?” Daw Widow asks. “Go! And be careful.”

  “Hurry back before it gets late, Chiko,” Mother says, handing me a jacket. “I’ll be waiting. It’s dangerous out there for a boy your age, so try not to meet the eyes of strangers.”

  I slip my feet into my sandals, hardly knowing what I’m doing. I haven’t left our home much for four months, and when I do, Mother insists on coming along. Am I really heading out into the city on my own?

  Lei looks up, finally, smiling her sweet smile. I straighten my shoulders. If I have to go, I’ll leave with my head high. I can at least pretend I’m a hero.

  Mother hands me a few kyat notes. I don’t want to take them, but she insists. “Just in case,” she says, kissing me. “Please, Chiko.”

  Daw Widow opens the front door. The light dazzles my eyes, making the house seem even more like a cave.

  Pausing on the threshold, I lift my hand. “See you tonight!”

  “A lesson tomorrow, Ko?” It’s
Lei. She’s called me “older brother” ever since we were little. I don’t mind—girls use that word for their sweethearts, too.

  “A lesson tomorrow, Lei!” I answer, and close the door behind me.

  5

  The rickshaw speeds through the tree-lined streets. I huddle into the back of it, remembering Mother’s advice to avoid eye contact.

  Sidewalk vendors are beginning to set up wares for the afternoon. The rickshaw veers to avoid children playing in the streets. These little ones should be in school, but they don’t have a choice. Schools have been closed so many times that nobody can learn much.

  Thanks to Father, I can teach kids like these; I know I can. My work with Lei made me sure of it. But I don’t have any formal record of classes or examinations. Will the officials count that against me? I’ll have to speak up, stand up for myself, convince them to test my abilities.

  The lobby of city hall feels crowded. Young people mill about, mostly boys. Father used to encourage me to join in the neighborhood soccer and cricket games. I’d obey reluctantly and hurry back to my books as soon as I could. But after these months of Mother insisting I stay inside, I’ve missed being around boys my age. I count ten, including myself, most wearing longyi but a couple in trousers, like me. Four girls are also in the room.

  “We’ve been waiting two hours already,” says a short, wiry boy to one of the girls. “It must be a lie. Let’s go.”

  I feel a twinge of alarm. Could he be right?

  “Let’s wait a bit longer, Ko,” says the girl, clinging to his arm.

  He must be her brother; they’re too young to be sweethearts. She looks like she’s only about twelve, and the boy just a year or two older. Her faded sarong is as dirty as his longyi, and their street accent grates on my ears. Their cheeks are smeared with tanaka, a light-colored paste that common people use to protect their skin from the sun. Why are these ragged, illiterate kids even trying to become teachers? Maybe this is a trick. The wiry boy is pulling his sister to the door. I’m so uneasy now that I follow them.

  But it’s too late.

  Bang! A side door bursts open.

  Soldiers pour into the room.

  They’re shouting and waving rifles. I shield my head with my arms. It was a lie! I think, my mind racing.

  Girls and boys alike are screaming. The soldiers prod and herd some of us together and push the rest apart as if we’re cows or goats. Their leader is a middle-aged man. He’s moving slowly, intently, not dashing around like the others.

  “Take the boys only, Win Min,” I overhear him telling a tall, gangly soldier. “Make them obey.”

  “Yes, Father,” the soldier answers immediately, jabbing the butt of his rifle into the boy wearing the torn shirt.

  The boy cries out and collapses. Was he hit that hard? Is he all right?

  Cursing and shoving soldiers surround him and me and the rest of the boys. One of them shouts at the other side of the room, “You—girls! Go home. Now!”

  Three of the girls obey quickly, escaping through the door, braids flying behind them. Only the girl in the faded sarong stays, her eyes fixed on the boy beside me. He’s still hunched over, one hand on his back where the rifle hit him.

  The tall soldier, Win Min, strides over. “Go!” he tells the girl.

  “No! My brother and I came together!” The girl’s voice is hard. “They’re supposed to be hiring street sweepers, the radio said.”

  Street sweepers? I have come to the wrong place. I’ll tell them there’s been a mistake.

  “Go home, girl. Tell your family your brother has a job. He’ll send money. Now leave. Quickly!”

  “No!”

  Swearing, the soldier grabs the girl and tries to drag her to the door.

  She flails her fists in his face, twisting and squirming to loosen his grip. “I’m not leaving without him!” she screams. The soldier raises the stock of his rifle.

  The boy straightens up suddenly. “Go!”

  His sister stops fighting and is shoved outside, but I can still hear her wailing. The soldiers begin to steer the boys toward the door.

  I manage to catch the captain’s sleeve. “Sir,” I say. “I came to take a teaching exam. There’s been a mistake—”

  I catch his sideways glance as he yanks his sleeve out of my hand and steps back.

  And then I can hardly believe what happens next. The tall soldier is there before I know it. He sways back on one foot. He lifts his other high in the air and smashes his boot against my jaw. Hard.

  I fall on the tiled floor, gasping for air. The whole side of my head is on fire.

  “Get up,” the soldier tells me. “Our captain doesn’t make mistakes.”

  Most boys learn to take and give blows when they’re young, but this is the first time I’ve been struck, and I’m shaking with shock and pain. I manage to get up somehow and join the rest of the boys, clutching my jaw and straightening my glasses, which fell askew with the kick.

  A battered army bus waits in the street. Rickshaw drivers perch on their cycles, arms folded, pretending not to watch. It’s no use calling for help—people hurry past, eyes down, wanting to avoid trouble. Can I make a run for it, taking cover behind the rickshaws? At least get a message to one of the drivers for Daw Widow?

  But the soldiers flank our line. The street boy is behind me. His sister, hurling insults and threats, tries to fight her way to him, but she’s pushed back roughly. When it’s my turn, there’s nothing to do but climb aboard, my heart racing, my sweaty shirt clinging to my back.

  I find a seat by a window. My chin and cheek are starting to swell. The short, wiry boy in the torn shirt slides in beside me. His hair is spiky and sticks up like a bush. With the tanaka paste smeared on his cheeks, he reminds me of an act in the circus that used to come to Yangon.

  Taking the front rows and lighting cigarettes, the young soldiers boast loudly about how easy it was to gather us up. The captain chooses a seat in the middle of the bus, just behind the tall soldier, two rows ahead of me. The bus starts moving. Pushing me back, the street boy leans across my chest and thrusts his head though the open window. His sister is sprinting beside the bus.

  “Let him go!” she shouts. The bus picks up speed, and the girl can no longer keep up. “Ko!” I can hear the desperation in her last cry.

  “Stay near the tea shop!” the boy shouts. “I’ll come back for you!”

  At least he got to say good-bye.

  The captain’s head swivels, and his eyes glitter under the bushy single line of his eyebrows. Cigarette clenched between his teeth, he watches my half-standing seatmate. The street boy, to my amazement, stares right back. For a long minute, their eyes meet. Then the captain takes a drag on his cigarette. Smoke puffs out of his mouth and wafts toward us.

  I’m reminded of a picture in The Arabian Nights of a genie casting a spell on a captive prince. The captain’s magic works just as well. The boy beside me sits down and closes his eyes, lids dropping like window blinds.

  6

  I try to soothe my bruised face against the cold glass as the bus hurtles along. Is this really happening? Where are they taking us? When will they bring us back? I have to keep track of the journey so that I can send word home about my location.

  We’re already on the outskirts of the city and heading north, where rice paddies and coconut trees line the narrow, flat highway. Women are harvesting rice, their bodies bent, their bamboo hats shaped like upside-down bowls. Thin, straight streams sparkle like wires, dividing the wet fields into squares. The last rays of the sun redden, spilling into the water like blood.

  How will Mother feel when I don’t come back? Will she be able to sleep alone in the house? I remind myself of Daw Widow; she’ll never leave Mother alone. I think of Lei and rub my eyes, thankful that my seatmate’s are still closed.

  The last light disappears behind the coconut trees. Coward, Chiko! I tell myself. Be a man! I try to picture Father, remembering how steady his voice was as he called ou
t that last request even as the soldiers were pulling him away. If only I could hear that calm voice again! Or catch one more glimpse of his face! I need to know he’s somewhere on the planet, breathing, talking, healing, trying his best to get home.

  Suddenly I remember the gift Lei and her mother gave me. I unbutton my pocket and fumble inside. Is Father’s photo gone? Did it fall out in the confusion? No, thanks to Mother’s strong sewing, everything in my pocket is safe, including the money she gave me. I’m about to take Father’s photo out when I notice the captain is still half-turned in his seat. I can’t risk losing this gift, and I don’t want another kick; I’ll have to wait until later. Quickly I refasten the pocket button and zip up my jacket.

  A few of the soldiers start singing a popular song from a film. One looks like he’s only about fourteen. Village boys, I think, listening to their accents. The captain takes off his military jacket, leans forward, and tells a joke. His soldiers laugh as though it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard. That joke is stale in the city; I’ve heard vendors who come to our door tell it a dozen times.

  Win Min turns and folds his commanding officer’s jacket carefully. The captain pats the gangly boy’s shoulder, making him beam.

  The bus rattles on as it grows dark, but I manage to keep track of our direction, thanks to Father’s geography lessons. Now we’re heading northeast toward Thailand. We’ll soon reach the hilly country, where tribal people plant rice. Father used to tell me about people like the Shan, the Wa, and the Kayah, who call themselves the Karenni. The government is trying to get rid of them and take their land, but they have a right to be a part of our country. After all, they’ve lived here for centuries.

  The bus begins to swerve as the road curves uphill. A chilly breeze blows through the top half of the window, and I struggle to close it. The street boy sits up and reaches to help. Our eyes meet briefly. He looks even younger now than when I first spotted him. How old is he, anyway?

  “My sons,” the captain says suddenly in a loud voice. “Tell these new recruits our policy about escaping from camp.”