The Mother of Peacocks

BY DEVENDRA SATHYARTHI

The crimson glow of the sky overhead and the calm waters of the Irrawaddy at my feet–they keep me lost in thoughts. Brooding over them, I lie down prostrate on the sand motionless. This sight of sights, the bank of the Irrawaddy engrosses me.

Down through the centuries, the Irrawaddy has been flowing exactly like this. She has given birth to Burma. She knows the history of the Burmese people–as if she were saying: “It is I who have taught them how to laugh.” She is the guardian of the people’s happiness: they are very happy. I read somewhere–I do not remember where–that we have in us happiness and sorrow, side by side. None of us can separate them. We cannot say how we change from a gay mood to a sad one. But the people of Burma have, however, instinctively I should think, known how to separate the one from the other. For look wherever you please, you meet the same happy beaming faces. I have travelled far and wide and have rubbed shoulders with people of many a land. But if at all I have seen a people so happy, my memory fails me. Why are they so happy?

Like the sails I stretch out my arms, I dance. I fall down prostrate on the sands, which have been here for centuries. Yes, for centuries, and for centuries the Irrawaddy has given peace to the human mind. These surroundings, somehow, appeal to me. Life should be like this, like a stream, like the Irrawaddy, wide and free.

I wished to sail from Rangoon to Mandalay on the waters of the Irrawaddy. It is only seven days’ journey, but I took the train and saw the Irrawaddy for the first time at Mandalay.

Kaka Kalelkar’s words ring in my ears: “Should We call it Irrawaddy or Alrawati. Perhaps It has got this name from Ira, the grass, or perhaps the elephant feeding on Ira was called Airawat, or perhaps, again, some Buddhist monk, impressed by the sauntering movement, like that of the god Indra’s Airawat elephant, said to himself: ‘We shall call it Airawati.’ Indeed, if the Irrawaddy had been in India, the Sanskrit poets would have brought into being a literary stream, as wide and as long as the Irrawaddy Itself........... “

Every river starts from the mountains, travels down the valleys and in the plains, flowing fast to the sea. The irrawaddy, too, comes from the mountains.

“How far away is the Irrawaddy’s source?

“About 700 miles.”

“You mean it is 1300 miles long?”

“Yes.”

When the Irrawaddy left the lap of the mountains, it little knew that it would further be reinforced by the waters of Mali Hka and N’Mai Hka which would push it ahead on a long journey, 1300 miles long. Indeed, no river cares to find how far it has to go. It simply starts. Such, then, is life.

Distant refrains fall into my ears–as if the Irrawaddy said: “Where else could you find songs such as these?” She is right. Where is the hurry? I sit down again.

Good-bye, Irrawaddy! Tomorrow at the same time I will return.

The Irrawaddy has left its impressions on my mind. But have I, in any way, influenced the Irrawaddy? I walk away slowly. My host will be waiting. Irrawaddy is silent. And what could she say?

II

Dawn on the river enchants me. Now Sadanand also accompanies me to the Irrawaddy. Like myself, he, too, is a bird of passage…

The Irrawaddy hums.

“Have your say, Irrawaddy.”

Sadanand says: “The Arakan and Pegu Yoma mountains are the age-old sentinels of the Irrawaddy.”

“All mountains,” I say, “are expressions of the personality of Mother Earth. Arakan and Pegu Yoma, too. Rabindranath Tagore has said somewhere: ‘The river with its song runs fast overcoming all obstacles. Yet the mountain stands still, lost in the memory of the river and its love flows with the river.......The Arakan and Pegu Yoma, I should think, will ever be standing like this, lost in their love for the Irrawaddy.”

“What is the first stage, going downstream to Rangoon?”

“Amarapura.”

“And the next?”

“Ava”

Both Amarapura and Ava are towns with a history. With the Myingyan port further beyond, this valley has been a scene of battles in days gone by. A few miles beyond is the Pakokku town where the Chindwin meets the Irrawaddy. Like a poor woman, the Chindwin coming down from the Shan States, sacrifices its chastity. The Irrawaddy plays the rank capitalist. Next comes Pegan, an old town, its history guarded by over thousands of ruined pegodas. The steamer now anchors at Nyaunghla; near which are the oil wells, exploited by the British and American capitalists, who have made mountains of gold out of them. Further on, the steamer passes through calm lands. Sky-cleaving mountains stand like thoughtful and silent guardians. The air is steeped in meditation. Further on, the steamer reaches Thayetmyo, Prome and Myanaung. Travelling still further, one finds the Irrawaddy branching out into many mouths and ultimately it merges itself into the sea.

Many a time have I wrangled with Sadanand. For it was because of him that I came here by rail. In no circumstances am I prepared to put up with another rail journey. Not that our journey was unenjoyable. We reached here halting on the way at almost every station, big or small, for a couple of days. We were lucky, for the chain of introductory letters remained unbroken. At Rangoon we got a letter for the very next station where, when our host excelled himself in hospitality, I concluded that we must have been praised much more than we deserved. And this hospitality we met with everywhere.

Sadanand is a sanyasi. I respect him greatly. At times, I ask myself why he became a sanyasi. He was born in a riverside village in East Bengal, with which his childhood was linked, he says, as my life is now linked with the Irrawaddy. When wander-lust of a sort arose, he left his home and set out. How did he become a sanyasi? To seek truth? No.

“To explore a river’s birth-place is by no means less important.”

“You are right.”

“How many days’ journey is it to Bhamo?”

“Three days.”

The Irrawaddy now narrows its banks lined with dense teak forests. Beyond, the mountains raise their heads. Tagore has written somewhere: ‘Trees are the unsatisfied desires of the earth: they stand on their toes and look up to the sky.’ Does this apply to the teak trees of this country? But they are felled, some earlier, some later, with none to sympathise with them or share their sorrow. Next to Mandalay comes Mingun and then Thabeikyin, well known for ruby mines up in the mountains. Here the Burmese guide would point out to a magnificent mountain–the Shwe Daung U, or the Golden Peacock. Further beyond is Mogok. Then Bhamo, whence the steamer goes up-stream but only during the rains and that too only as far as Myitkyina. One can take a native sampan boat, too, to travel from. Bhamo to Myitkyina although the current here is strong and the journey up stream far from easy. Near Myitkyina, where motor transport can be had, the Mali Hka and N’Mai Hka meet the Irrawaddy whose source is not far away.

The sound of the steamer making its way through the water is audible. I feel like setting out for the source of the Irrawaddy, but Sadanand does not agree.

The steamer whistles.

“Come on, Swamiji,” I say, “let us go in for tickets.”

“ Not today.”

This constant ‘not today’ annoys me. I am angry. I know he has not got the fare. I, too, have money which can hardly buy me one ticket. But it is enough to get us two tickets for some station on the way. Oh, if only we could start. What then turns up can be seen. The whistle of the steamer makes me restless. Without Sadanand’s assent I cannot proceed. And this he knows.

“A sanyasi can travel without a ticket.”

“ I am not that sort”

Money is to travel what steam is to an engine. There are thousands of sanyasis whose aim in life is to beg. But Sadanand is different. He is a worker-cum-sanyasi. He would deliver a lecture and settle his wages in advance. There are institutions which turn their back when it comes to payment. Again, sometimes when he is in need of money institutions do not agree to have his lectures. I am no different. I had sent an article to a Calcutta magazine, but I have not yet received the honorarium. I harbour doubts that it may not have been rejected. Nevertheless they should have informed me. I hope that the money order is delivered tomorrow.

Even Sadanand attaches little importance to his poor finances.

I reflect: the boatman on the Irrawaddy leads a happier life than the worker-cum-sanyasi, or a gypsy writer like me. By her humming, Irrawaddy supports my contention.

Every man has his place; every man has a part to play. But why should life cheat one at the cost of another? Why this gulf between the life of the rich and the life of the poor–a gulf that is ever widening? When will this order change? Sadanand smiles. Perhaps his far-seeing eyes glimpse the coming age as it approaches. He looks around him. Big question marks come to his mind. Perhaps he himself knows the answers.

Irrawaddy has hailed every new age. She has seen floods. It will soon be the turn of society to experience a flood. Its conservatism must go. It must be swept away from its roots. Waste and refuse will be washed away. Only then, human tears will not fall into the waters of the Irrawaddy.

III

In the increasing shadows of the evening, when life withdraws itself in thickening darkness, the boat songs leave a lasting impression upon our minds. Like the sails Sadanand, too, stretches out his arms and runs along the bank. And then he falls and lies prostrate on the sand.

In the ancient books a sanyasi is instructed not to stay long in one m place. Sadanand, however, is not bound by these restrictions. Why these restrictions after all?

The steamer whistles.

“Let us go and buy tickets, Swamiji, We have received money too.”

“Where is the hurry?”

“A sanyasi should not be attached to one place.”

“I am not that sort.”

To be honest, I am myself attached to the Irrawaddy. How peace-giving this bank is! I feel like passing all my afternoons here.

Someone sings:

Won’t you stop?

Won’t you listen to us?

We are the waves of the Irrawaddy.

The dusk has descended. Had it been daylight I could have seen the boatman’s face, and seen how the language of the waves of the Irrawaddy moved him.

Rain-clouds will soon pour down,

The mid-stream we have yet to cross.

I remember a folk-dance when the girls of this country, by the movement of their arms, imitated the rowing of a boat. There was fear on their faces. The boats were caught in the whirlpool and overhead came the rain.

The waves of music travel ahead to some unknown place:

Like the waves of the Irrawaddy,

My sweetheart is free.

For ages woman in Burma has been independent. Man has not robbed her of liberty and happiness. Usually faithful to her husband, if she finds that the husband is not after her heart, she declares before the village assembly that she is not bound to be his wife any longer. She is free to marry any person again. She remains the mistress of the property left by her father.

I have heard many a song by many a boatman. But there are some, which I can never forget:

1. Irrawaddy, O my Irrawaddy,

O my dearest Irrawaddy,

All other rivers are dear,

But the dearest one is the Irrawaddy.

2. Fair virgins dance and sway,

Now fast, now slow.

Where did you pick up this dance,

Tell, tell, daughters of the Irrawaddy?

We, the peacocks, you, the peahens,

The peacocks will be killed, and you’ll weep.

Did you pick up your dance on this turn of the river

Or on that mountain

Whence flows down the Irrawaddy?

Where did you pick up this dance,

Tell, tell, daughters of the Irrawaddy?

3. Our tears have been mingling with the waters of the Irrawaddy,

ye brothers,

How dirty looks the Irrawaddy!

And when poverty strangles us,

The Irrawaddy will flow on as it does today.

4. Flow on. Mother Irrawaddy, flow on,

Now fast, now slow:

Why are you silent, why are you sad, Irrawaddy?

Gladly go on drinking our tears.

Ever, ever your sons we are,

Ever, ever our mother you are.

Flow on, Mother Irrawaddy, flow on,

Now fast, now slow.

5. Look at the breaking chains, ye virgins,

Look at the opening eyes of the Buddha, ye virgins,

Look as the waves of the Irrawaddy, ye virgins.

6. Ask the Buddha where he did spend the moonlit nights:

Moonlit nights: Buddha’s nights,

On the waters of the Irrawaddy Buddha spent the moonlit nights,

In the company of the peacocks Buddha spent his moonlit nights,

Moonlit nights: Buddha’s nights.

7. Buddha will keep awake, keep awake,

As all the forests, mountains and rivers keep awake,

As the gusts of seasonal winds keep awake,

As the sons of peacocks keep awake,

Buddha will keep awake, keep awake.

Buddha will keep awake, keep awake,

As the waves of the Irrawaddy keep awake,

As the mother’s lullabies keep awake,

As the hues of flowers keep awake,

Buddha will keep awake, keep awake.

8. To a slow, slow rhythm the peacocks dance, the peacocks dance,

O why so much do the peacocks dance?

Mother of peacocks, speak awhile,

One word from your lips speak awhile,

Good looks all are for the peacocks, for the peacocks,

All love, too, is for the peacocks.

Mother of peacocks, speak awhile,

One word from your lips speak awhile.

Sunshine all is for the peacocks, for the peacocks,

All shade, too, is for the peacocks.

Mother of peacocks speak awhile,

One word from your lips, speak awhile.

All the bells are for the peacocks, for the peacocks,

The musical instruments all, too, are for the peacocks.

Mother of peacocks, speak awhile.

One word from your lips, speak awhile.

All their tears the peacocks went on drinking, the peacocks went on drinking,

With heavy hearts the peacocks went on dancing.

Mother of peacocks, speak awhile,

One word from your lips speak awhile.

Irrawaddy is humming. Her humming gives peace to my disturbed mind. It really widens my horizon.

My mind which has for several months past been a curio shop full of oddities –a sort of godown full of useless, higgledy-piggledy goods, is clear now. Sitting here new ideas come to my mind. My soul has become more and more receptive. The lightest impressions leave on it lasting pictures that I shall never forget until I die. Sadanand, too, seems to share my emotions.

Turning his round, earth-coloured head from side to side, sometimes he looks across the Irrawaddy and sometimes at my long, waving hair, where he gets the picture of a paddy field with the wind blowing through it.

“Get up, Swamiji, we must go home now.”

“Where is the hurry?”

Irrawaddy moves me very much. But have I influenced her in any way? She has been flowing like this for centuries–this “Mother of Peacocks!”

^* Written in 1932 when the author travelled in Burma.

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