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Chapter-7
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2021-08-29 10:38:172017, January, downtown Yangon
LIN was thinking about the author C. J Richards and asking the same question again and again because the curiosity was gnawing his conscience. He really wanted to find out about this author’s life such as where he was born, where he was educated, why he chose to come to Burma, etc.
Even he tried to find the author on G****e, but only a few facts appeared. He was wondering where this author spent his life after his retirement from I.C.S (Indian Civil Service) in 1947 just before the country Burma (now it is called Myanmar) gained its independence in 1948.
Lin was placing the poetry book on his lap, and staring into the distance from the balcony which was on the sixth floor of the downtown building on 40th Street. Although he was at the balcony, he felt no stirring of wind. So, he thought that it was another rather hot day in January.
Actually, this was not his apartment, but it was his friend Oo’s. Unconsciously, Lin looked at the bright blue sky with lesser clouds on that day. The light made his eyes pricking so that he diverted his gaze to the surrounding buildings until he saw some old buildings on his left and they were with rusty corrugated roofs to which TV antenna and satellite dishes were fixed.
To his right, he noticed a small banyan tree twining to the aged wall of the building. It was so sure that if the tree was not cut, it would break its roots inside the building. Suddenly, he felt that looking at them made his mind more barren, and being void at heart.
Lin thought that why people became less creative and careless concerning their environs and neighborhood, some of the buildings unpainted, and trees uncut. He thought that it might be the monotony that made them dull, and dumb. Thinking about that, he exhaled.
Lin normally came down to meet Oo who lived in this apartment alone. Like Lin, Oo was also interested in books and literature. Some of their common friends called them LitDuo behind their backs. Both of them accepted it as a compliment. They both had only one intention: reading books and discussing literature.
Lin relaxed his tight grasp on the rail and retreated to the parquet flooring living room where a light green settee and a low-level glass panel table were situated after standing at the balcony for nearly twenty minutes.
On one wall, there was a 4-foot by 3-foot oil medium painting titled “Solo Dance” by a Myanmar artist. The other wall was occupied by a four-layered bookshelf on which English novels and Myanmar fiction books lied properly.
When Lin slumped down on the settee, Oo with a broad smile came out with a cup of tea, and a dish of cookies for Lin. Oo put them down on the table and took his seat across Lin. Lin picked up a cup of tea and sipped it, tasted well so that he asked Oo where he bought the tea.
Oo readily said that it was from Seit Tein Kya tea house, one of the best teashops in the city. Lin nodded his head and put it down later. Lin closed his poetry book and put it beside him. Oo noticed that Lin wanted to say something to him when Oo saw a sudden frown on Lin’s face.
Lin opened the discussion about C.J Richards with Oo who nodded and attentively listened to Lin’s active explanation.
“You know, this poet names our country “Rainbow Land”. How true it is, Oo! You know we have different nationals so that he uses the metaphor for that. How suitable it is!”
“As soon as I read his poem “Rainbow Land”, I can see his sentiment towards our country,” remarked Lin.
Oo knew that Lin was excited about what he felt towards the poet. As their ages were in their late-twenties, they liked to read good literature books, and both of them knew that reading books on Burma in English version could give them knowledge about their hidden country's history.
For Lin, he hoped for someone who could represent Myanmar Literature in the global context because whenever he read the literary reviews in Time Magazine, he found the success of the writers from neighboring countries including Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, India, China, and so on.
In his mind, he wished that there should be a writer who could tell about Myanmar to the outside world in the universal language, especially in English. Then, Myanmar authors would place themselves in the international writer’s circles.
When he related this to Oo, Oo leaned his back against the settee and just laughed out, “How wonderful your idea is, Lin! You’re incredible. It’s none of your business. Just enjoy the creation of other writers. You know how famous the Japanese author Murakami is.”
And Oo continued, “Have you known that the Kite Runner’s author is from Afghanistan? Here, we have got only Nu Nu Yi (Innwa) for her book published in the States after she won Asian Literary Prize. Do you envy their success?”
Upon it, Lin protested, “No, Oo. I don’t mean it. I just want to have a place for Myanmar authors in the international literary context.”
Oo sorted out, “You may be right, Lin. But, you already know our present situation. The politics is still complex. Literature stands second to politics.”
“Then, what about freedom of expression?” asked Lin.
“What do you mean “Freedom of expression”?” “You mean that we don’t have any more censorship board, and you can write whatever you want.” “Yes, you can, but you have to be responsible for what you write,” retorted Oo.
“Friend, take it easy. One day there will be Myanmar authors who can enjoy international success,” said Lin easily.
When he said these, a wry smile appeared in Oo’s face with glistened eyes on which Lin was reading the meaning of it.
During the time, across the building, on the rail of the opposite apartment’s balcony, a crow was alighting and cawing heartily.
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