Bamboo People (2 page)

The suggestion is tempting, and she knows it. Soldiers don’t harass monks, and boys my age often serve the temple for a year or two. But I can’t become a monk, not with Father’s last words to take care of Mother ringing in my ears, mind, and heart. Not with the memory of me doing nothing while they dragged him away.

“No, Mother. The temple won’t pay me a salary.”

“I can find sewing work here and there,” says Mother. “And you’d be safe, Chiko.”

That word triggers something inside me. “Safe!” I shoot it at her like a bullet, and she flinches. “Maybe I’m not supposed to be safe. We’re behind in the rent and running out of food. And what am I doing about it?”

Mother holds up one hand, palm facing me. “Stop!” she says, and her voice is stern. “They’ve taken my husband. I don’t intend to hand over my son.”

Somebody raps on the door, and we both jump.

“Who is it?” Mother calls, her voice trembling.

The day the soldiers arrested Father, the three of us were arguing about my going away. Father wanted me to apply to colleges in England. He still has friends there, friends who could help get me into university. Mother, of course, didn’t want me to go, but she hates that her last words to Father were angry ones.

I take her hand. If the army
is
here to take me, I don’t want our final moments to bring any more crying in the night. “Speak up!” I call, even though my stomach is clenched like a fist. “Who’s there?”

The hinges of the front door creak, and a rusty voice calls out, “Wei-Lin! I heard that boy of yours shouting from my kitchen.
And
I saw him reading a book.
Outside.”

It’s only Daw Widow. Mother lets go of my hand. Quickly I stand up straight and push up my glasses. Lei enters the house behind her mother, looking like an orchid in her slim green sarong. Her purple silk blouse seems to carry the sunlight into our house.

Daw Widow stays in front of her, blocking my view, hands on her hips. “What’s the fight about this time?”

Mother manages a smile. “The boy wants to leave, Ah-Ma.” My mother is always proper, never forgetting to address Daw Widow as her older sister. “He wants to prove something, I think. That he can be as brave as Joon was—is, I mean.”

We’re quiet, pretending not to notice her slip of the tongue. Then Daw Widow advances, one finger jabbing the air in front of my face. “So you want to go to college, do you? Let me tell you something—you don’t learn to be a doctor from books,” she says. She pokes the calculus book I’m using as a shield. “Your father didn’t, either. I never thought much of his fancy foreign education, anyway. The knowledge they stuffed into his head from these books didn’t make him the finest doctor in Burma. He was a healer even before he went away. The heavens gave him a special gift.”

I always feel like groaning when Mother or Daw Widow brings up this old village belief. Father’s medical skills a gift from heaven? Hah! I’ve seen his detailed, neat lecture notes; reviewed his stellar examination records; watched him do research for hours. Hard work and a clever mind—those are the keys to the medical profession, not some magical healing touch. Besides, why does everyone assume I want to be a doctor, anyway? I don’t want to deal with blood and broken bones. Lei might be the only one who knows my distaste for medicine, and only because I confessed it to her once when we were alone.

“No use getting that know-it-all look on your face,” Daw Widow scolds, her sharp eyes studying my expression. “Your father had a gift, I tell you. There was something in his face that made people feel better
before
he gave them any of those Western medicines. A glow, or a light in his eyes. When he left, he took a patient’s worries and fears away in that black bag of his.”

“I know just what you mean,” Mother chimes in. “Joon’s old medical professor came for tea last week. When he smiled and told me Joon would be well, I believed him. He left such a feeling of peace behind.”

I shrug, remembering how the old man’s lined features seemed to brighten as he looked at Mother. It was nighttime when he visited, and the flickering kerosene lamp cast a strange pattern of light onto our faces. But I’m tired of old wives’ tales and fears. It’s time for some truth telling. “I don’t want to become a doctor,” I announce. “I want to be a teacher.”

“Teach?” Daw Widow asks. “Your father wanted you to be a doctor, young man.”

“I know. But he’d be glad if I chose to be a teacher.”

Daw Widow snorts. “Anyway, you’re too young.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” Mother says. Shaking her head, she heads into the kitchen to get the tea.

“No snacks for us today, Wei-Lin, dear,” Daw Widow calls in the direction of the kitchen. “Lei and I had a big lunch.”

Unlike Mother, Daw Widow has a steady source of income. Her husband was a postal officer before he died, and a small government pension still comes every month.

I pull out two chairs. After her mother is seated, Lei gathers the folds of her sarong and sits down. I smell the faint, clean scent of soap on her skin and fight the urge to touch the shining curtain of hair that swings across her shoulders.

She looks up. “Do you have time to teach
me
today? It’s been a while since you came over, and I’m not learning as fast on my own.”

Lei and I grew up together, playing in each other’s gardens. She’s always been like a sister, so it was natural when Daw Widow asked me to teach her to read and write. Spending time with Lei was like being with myself—easy, relaxed, and peaceful. Then, in one instant, everything changed. She was reading a poem by Tin Moe called “Desert Years.”

She looked up, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Had her dark brown eyes always glowed like smooth, polished stones? When did her lips get as red as the flame tree that flowered between our houses? I got to my feet quickly. “Lesson’s over,” I mumbled.

But too many times since then, I’ve reread the poem to myself, picturing Lei’s smile and smooth skin. And now something deep inside starts trembling whenever she’s near. I’ve even stopped going over there in the afternoons, afraid that Lei will notice how my feelings have changed. Or even worse—that her mother might.

Even now Daw Widow is studying me closely. “You grow more like a bamboo pole by the day,” she says. “Taller and skinnier.
And
you need a haircut.”

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.”

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.