Once there was a time I swear there was a time I don’t remember it clearly now But there was a time Oh so ordinary Oh so unplanned It was a time I once lived There were the good times There were the bad times There were the times I was bored There were the times when Excitement innocently knocked on our doors We went on adventures in a place far far away Would it be as it has been lately had we stayed There in the heat of the summers Caught in the monsoons Life wasn’t so easy We were still making our way Soon to a place far far away
Let me paint you a scene. It’s about 9pm in the night. My mum, my sister and I are on the floor crouching and on our knees in an informal queue, one behind another, in front of our bed. It’s humid and there is a scent of mosquito coils in the air that one of us had just “blew out.” Besides the spotlight of the torch piercing through the light mesh fabric of the bed netting, it’s also slightly dark because we can’t turn on the lights. The electricity is out. Again. For the third night in a row.
Just a few minutes ago, we had been enjoying watching a comedy movie, when suddenly, the dreaded flicker on the TV soon turned into a blank screen, simultaneously as all the lights in the house went off.
Not before long, we are scrambling in the darkness, each of us finding a way literally towards the light. My mum is in charge of lighting the candles. I’m too nervous to use the match, let alone a lighter. Between my sister and I, one of us finds a torch. The torch will be our saviour for the night, taking us through the final preparations of bedtime. From brushing our teeth to using the toilet, it will be our form of safety amongst the unknowns that lurk in the darkness.
My mum goes first. She takes a fan by the hand and lightly waves it up and down, left and right by the bed netting- using her instincts, lasting just a minute or two, before finally, braving to lift up the bottom part of the mosquito net. Creating a hole, large enough for her body to slip through as quickly as possible, she leaves the fan for the next person and enters the bed. One by one, my sister and I follow her lead.
There is a trick to this. If we don’t wave the fan long enough, there will be a mosquito or two that will be lurking. If we create a hole too big to come into the bed, the mosquitoes will come inside the safety of our chamber with us. In this organic process, naturally, and most often, one of us makes a mistake and our sanctuary is compromised with blood thirsty, noisy creatures who can hide and keep us awake the entire night or present a sleepless night of scratching our bodies until we become exhausted.
The bed is simple. There are two thick and large woven bamboo matts overlapping beneath us to create a space enough for three people to sleep. There are pillows for each person and long body pillows that guard the two ends of the bed netting. If there is a spare body pillow, one or two of us are likely to use it for extra comfort as we sleep throughout the night. Around the whole perimeter and above us are the mosquito netting, light enough to see through the mesh and flimsy enough to be blown away by a gust of wind, yet, tightly meshed to deter the mosquitoes from entering our safety sanctuary. The net is kept upright by the “hooks” on the four corners. These hooks are simply a loop of fabric which we have re-looped with ropes that are then tied onto any secure and fixed surface, such as a nail on the wall or a post. Some beds come with posts. But if you are sleeping on a self-made floor bed, then the trick is to make sure there is a place on all corners of the bed where the netting can be tied to. Naturally, and most often, one of us makes a mistake and our sanctuary is compromised with a lopsided netting above, either from being too loosely or too tightly fixed, or sometimes from picking a nail or a post that is too near or too far from the positions of the other corners.
If we make it into our safety sanctuary, it is not quite over yet. We still have to search for any mosquitoes that may have sneakily came in with us. This is one of the reasons why we often choose to make our beds long before we settle into some entertainment of the evening. That, and also the fact that the government may decide to cut our neighbourhood quarter with no electricity. If we are well prepared, we will thank ourselves for any possible scenarios.
The search for mosquitoes inside the netting is not small feat. There is only one primary task here and that is to be as quick as possible in clapping our hands together to squish the mosquitoes, without making much commotion with our bodies. They are small and we are much bigger. Therefore, the smaller our movements are during the search, the more silently and patiently we wait, these little noisy creatures are sure to come out.
Soon after all mosquitoes have been detected, we would settle ourselves into our positions. I would kneel down alongside my mother and sister, with my hands clasped together, I would pray. Then I would, happy and exhausted, lay down onto the mat, half covering my body with a blanket. My eyelids would become heavier by the minute, the itchiness of the parts of my bodies where mosquitoes had sucked my blood would seem to get fainter, and I would fall asleep with the sounds of my mother, who seem to whisper prayers long into the night.
The above is a memory that I recalled with my sister this past weekend. As we watched a movie on Netflix called The White Tiger, which is about an intelligent yet troubled man in India, who managed to cunningly get out of his circumstances and cycles of poverty to become a personal driver. Flashes of scenes from this movie brought my sister and I back to a time long long time ago, when we too were living in the circumstances of a developing country that was subjected to both uncontrollable forces of the climate and the government.
The memory of preparing for our bed time brought back to me a visceral experience that I had longed since forgotten. Far from the country of my birth, far from where I had spent many moments of my younger childhood years, I had stowed these kinds of memories and experiences deep within my brain.
I wondered how many sacred, routinely rituals like this that I have forgotten and are waiting, eagerly for me to remember and take me back to a place far far away.
“You know, it’s hard to tell him about what our country is like. I feel like I don’t explain it well enough. It’s hard to tell him without actually taking him there!” My sister comments, as she recalls her conversations about Burma with her boyfriend.
“I know,” I said, “I think when they meet other people there, when they meet our parents or eat the traditional foods, and when they see the place, it will paint a fuller picture. It’s like we are only a small proportion of the whole story.”
That is the price of being far far away from your home country. Without regular visits, the memories seem to become far more distant. For better I have changed as a person here in the West. I am also lucky to have a household that continues to speak the language, eat traditional foods and maintain important customs.
However, my sister and my story are different from our parents. Whilst they grew up and moved in their later adult years, we grew up spending most of our time here in England. We hold the traditions of our home country, but we also think with an independent mindset, with a luxury of individualism afforded here, like in many countries of the West. We are the products of two halves coming together and we are neither here nor there. Often I feel not Burmese enough, and are sometimes subjected to my parents misunderstanding of my actions. I am also not British enough. We are far far away from being one or the other.
I am sure there are many strings of the sweetest of memories that are innocently hiding in the deepest parts of our subconscious. Now, I will always be on the look out for such memories. They make me smile and they bring me a sense of nostalgia with a hint of sadness of times long past. I hope that one memory is tied onto a long string of more memories to come, that take me back to the places I have walked; whose memories I will remember once more and cherish. I may never come back to relive these moments but they are a gift indeed. Because as time continues, these strings of memories will be my gifts of a time I once lived in a different way, at a different place, far far away.
Contemplations
:
Do you remember a distant memory, from your younger years, from a place far away, that brings a smile to your face?
What do you recall about this particular experience you had?
Share this post