Smile as they Bow

by Nu Nu Yi

Genres: Cultural Heritage

Synopsis

As the weeklong Taungbyon Festival draws near, thousands of villagers from all regions of Burma descend upon a tiny hamlet near Mandalay to pay respect to the spirits, known as nats, which are central to Burmese tradition. At the heart of these festivities is Daisy Bond, a gay, transvestite spiritual medium in his fifties. With his sharp tongue and vivid performances, he has long been revered as one of the festival's most illustrious natkadaws. At his side is Min Min, his young assistant and lover, who endures unyielding taunts and abuse from his fiery boss. But when a young beggar girl named Pan Nyo threatens to steal Min Min's heart, the outrageous Daisy finds himself face-to-face with his worst fears. Written in lyrical, intoxicating prose, Smile as They Bow is, like the works of Arundhati Roy and Ha Jin, an unexpectedly whimsical, illuminating, and above all revealing portrayal of a culture few Westerners have ever witnessed. Over the past twenty years, Nu Nu Yi has become one of Burma's most acclaimed authors -- and in 2007, she became the first person living in Burma to be nominated for an international literary award. Smile as They Bow was censored for more than twelve years by the Burmese government. It is fitting, then, that this is her American debut.

Release date: September 16, 2008

Publisher: Hachette Books

Print pages: 160

Sample

JUST NOW, A WEEK BEFORE THE AUGUST FULL MOON, an enchanted air lingers over Taungbyon. As festival time draws near, the Mandalay–Madaya turnoff backs up with cars, trucks, buses, and jeeps—and throngs of anxious passengers all in bright colors. A mischievous August breeze plays above the narrow road awash in yellow puddles, spillover from the canal that runs alongside. The soulful monsoon-weather skies have everyone in a festive mood. It’s time to be happy and carefree.

Young boys laugh and shout from the roofs of buses while womenfolk, crammed inside, mumble anxious prayers. Well-to-do ladies sitting comfortably in chauffeured sedans raise hands to their foreheads in reverence to the nats. Sunburnt children in scruffy clothes along both sides of the road shout, “Throw money! Throw money!” They size up the incoming caravan, faces full of hope, eyes peeled wide for any tossed scrap of paper, then dive in with elbows flying.

Suddenly clouds of dust-choked exhaust wheeze up from braking engines. Alarmed voices cry out as the kids scramble to grab bills from right under the tires, only to resurface all scrapes and bruises, though a glint of fear in their little eyes betrays their daredevil bravado.

But wait, who are these grown-ups shouting alongside the children? A chorus line of drunks is dancing in the middle of the road with eyes squinted and fingers pointed high. And now farm women from the paddy fields rope their headscarves across traffic, clap hands, and shout at the top of their lungs when any car slows down, “Make merit! Throw us money!”

The lines of merrymakers stretch all the way to the village of Taungbyon, now one great big fairground packed with pilgrims and thatched huts. Inbound progress grinds to a halt as each new arrival tries to find a place to park. Cars and jeeps nose toward cleared fields, larger vehicles lurch into an unpaved bus yard.

As soon as people set foot in the village, they can see the golden-umbrella spire of the Wish-Fulfilling Pagoda above the huddled festival stalls, though the tinkling bells are drowned out by the mad cacophony of festivities.

 

LONG AGO in the eleventh century, during the golden era of Bagan, King Anawrahta had his court nobles bring one brick each to help build this Wish-Fulfilling Pagoda. Yet, come the appointed day, the king’s personal favorites, Indian half-caste lieutenants and brothers Shwepyingyi and Shwepyinlei, failed to show. The two rowdy womanizers had neglected their duties, so the king had no choice but to order them punished. Others in court, however, were jealous of the brothers’ growing influence and seized the opportunity to have them killed.

Then one day, as the king was boating down the Irrawaddy, the royal barge froze mysteriously midriver and the two murdered brothers appeared. “Faithfully did we serve Your Majesty, but alas, to no avail!” they decried. “This dragon boat shall not move until we have been vindicated.” Greatly saddened by their fate, King Anawrahta vested the apparitions with this riverside dominion and built a shrine near his pagoda to honor the Taungbyon Brothers, now become nats—spirits who have met tragic “green deaths” in the classic Burmese tradition.

To this day, the pagoda is missing two bricks, and the empty space is gilded—a holy of holies where the multitudes come to pay homage before pushing on to the Brothers’ shrine, popularly known as the Grand Palace of the Nats.

 

ALL OVER Taungbyon, roadside sweets sellers serve slices of cake drizzled with palm sugar and shredded coconut, the aromas melting in the air already thick with shop girls’ flowery perfume and heavily scented makeup. Alcohol vendors tack up a dizzying profusion of signs for palm wine and hard cane liquor—Mandalay Headspin Special, Tipsy-Top, Lil’ Miss Gurkha Rum, Punchdrunk Passion, Feelin’ Woozy.

On past the first stalls, a crowd is bottlenecked at a railroad crossing, crushed up against the sliding guardrail that holds people back from the approaching train. A sudden burst of broiling sun bears down on them and the sweat runs off in streams. Even the breeze is repulsed by the hot, perspiring logjam.

As the Mandalay–Madaya northbound slowly creaks into Taungbyon Station—a mere platform with a sign—it’s hard to see the train, there are so many people piled on. Crouching on every inch of roof, leaning out the windows, hanging off the running-boards, all shouting and calling to one another at volumes that rival the raucous festivities.

The train now safely clear, the crossing gate opens and the crowd surges ahead again. Though curiously, in that crush of bodies, the boys aren’t teasing the girls like in the old days. They don’t thrust stuffed dolls at their prospects or sidle up close with familiar propositions—Wait up, love! What’s for supper, honey? Don’t young people know how to flirt anymore? Are times really that bad? At festivals past, hard as things were, the mood was always eye-to-eye and heart-to-heart and spiced with taunts. Now only grandpas doting on their memories seem eager to tease, though their sweet talk has long since soured to other ears.

People stop in their tracks, however, when they hear come-ons from all the trinket sellers. They can’t get enough of the costume jewelry stalls aglitter with faux gold and silver. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings and rings, traditional souvenirs that pilgrims take home from Taungbyon—or try on right here. Necklaces for five kyats, bracelets for four kyats, earrings for four kyats! Yours to buy! Yours to wear!

Among the customers, glittering like so many fake bracelets and necklaces, are bevies of fake lovelies young and old. Meinmasha, beautifully made up and frocked in blouses and longyis tucked to one side in female fashion, come from all over Burma and are everywhere here. This is their festival of festivals.

Keep going. On past the food stalls with cassette players blaring. The roar is deafening—is it even music? Speaker after speaker, each louder than the next, vying for customers. Stalls displaying ready-made coconut-and-banana offering baskets. Stalls with rainbows of scarves, cheap to not-so-cheap.

Closer and closer to the shrine, rows of makeshift natkadaw huts shimmer with bright decorations. All the gilded nat images seem to come to life under the yellow lightbulbs, the altar tables set before them overflowing with elaborate arrangements of fruit, flowers, snacks, cans of beer and bottles of rum, Pepsi and 7-Up. Meanwhile, the spirit wives sit around on red velvet carpets tossing cowrie dice onto round trays, idly showing off their game.

Just look at all the people juggernauting toward the shrine, yet the Grand Palace stands serene amidst the bedlam. Everyone is high on the unmistakable perfume of the tiny jasmine clusters that only bloom this season. Fresh fragrances fill the air: eugenia, roses, justicia blossoms, yellow ginger-lily. Flower stalls all around sell scarf-wrapped bouquets to offer to the Taungbyon Brothers.

Starting today, the First Day of Obeyances, the Brothers receive the bowing masses. All remove their sandals at the base of the shrine—and sink deep into the mud. The ground is slippery wet from so many pilgrims pouring water into the open mouths of the tiger statues that flank the entrance. Before and after paying respects to the Brothers, believers offer food and drink to their mythical wildcat mounts. There are even vendors who sell tiger treats.

Everyone pushes to get ahead of the others and venerate the Brothers face-to-face inside the Grand Palace. There they are, resplendent in their regalia, ear bobs and arm bands, the sculpted gold likenesses of “Exalted Big and Little Brothers” Kodawgyi and Kodawlei on jasmine-wood thrones. Striking manly poses, one knee up and one leg down, right hand balancing a sword on the shoulder with the left arm akimbo, the two images are virtually identical, only the younger brother is a little smaller.

Beside the throne, shrinekeepers descended from King Anawrahta’s original servants busily ferry flowers to and from the altar. Pilgrims dare not go home without their nat-blessed bouquets, flowers they will keep all year round to ward off danger, boost business, and seal the success of their plans.

Those who come earliest are said to especially please the Brothers and enjoy higher favor, thus first-comers fight for floor space until finally they can sit, haunches on heels, and knees on the mats, raise flower offerings above their heads, and bow to the sacred images.

THESE FIRST DAYS, BEFORE THE CEREMONIES BEGIN, I come here devotedly, my Lords. Please favor me and look after me. I come to worship every year, my Lords. Please support and guide me and my children and grandchildren and even my great-great-grandchildren. Give me strength and good fortune, my Lords.

 

GRANDMA SHWE EIN prostrates her tiny body on the floor of the Grand Palace. Her cheeks are hollow, her palms raised in supplication are flat and thin, and her skin is shriveled, though she still paints her wrinkled face with pale thanakha paste and adorns her straw-white topknot with jasmine blossoms. She wears a white blouse over a vintage flower-brocade longyi, a forever-folded keepsake from the virgin bride she once was, and a yellowing moth-eaten silk prayer scarf around her neck.

Well over eighty, her head is frail and shaky. Her teeth are starting to go, her eyes are hazy. She sees the people around her, but the two Taungbyon Brothers are nothing but blurs. She can’t fight her way closer through the crowds.

 

HOW MANY years does this make, only imagining my Lords’ faces when I pray? Dear me, everything’s so different from the old days. I remember going right up to look, slow and steady. That was worship. But now…where did my youth go?

Back then it wasn’t crowded like this. I didn’t need to push and shove my way to you, my Lords. I’d pay my respects nice and calm, get my flowers blessed and put them in my hair, then sit for hours in your Palace at my leisure. In those days, a person could still bring her lunch basket and eat right here at your feet.

Now your glory is so great, the whole country comes to ooh and ah. Such offerings! So many worshipers! An old woman has a hard time getting her flowers blessed. Even a longti. . .