I don’t remember exactly which
house I grew up in, of the few that I remember.
Most of my memories though go back to Atyah Lane, though some of my
memories go back further, rooted in the old colonial house that we lived in,
huge, a bit moldy and old, a grand staircase, and tales of ghosts due to the
rumor (or fact?) that WWII soldiers were buried beneath or near the house. Still others, perhaps the most recent, go
back to the village house shared with family in a village. One very distinct memory I have of the
colonial house is of a scorpion scuttling across the cold marble floor. The house was English in every way, except
that it was built on Burmese soil, surrounded by Buddhist culture and a
tropical climate. In fact, the tropical
climate seemed to have overtaken the old home.
It bore signs of mold on the outside and had a certain dark caste to it.
I always see the house in shadows or on a dark, rainy day, the white marble
staircase and exterior contrasted with green tropical foliage, growth and mold.
But Atyah Lane was not in any way dark, unless you
consider living on the edge of a cemetery dark.
Atyah Lane was a sunny place, in any case. It was wide open to its environs, the
countryside, or suburb if you will, around Rangoon. You came upon it along a dusty, flat road
full of scrubby plants and active life – dogs and people going into town and
back – and turned into a circular driveway where you would see my father’s
jeep, the army green landrover, and a black dog, Chabo, running to greet you,
barking. Behind the house there was a Buddhist cemetery. I remember seeing burning pires, and smelling
the rituals of Buddhist funerals. I
would peer over the fence, wondering. My brother
played soccer on the other side of that fence, I think. The earth there looked
dry and reddish gold. There was a sense
of peace and beauty about the place.
I don’t remember the inside of the
Atyah Lane house at all. There was a
gardener and a dog and many flowers, along the circular drive, that I now know
as a variety called “glass flowers” in a shade of delicate lavender with
feathery leaves. I was fascinated by
those flowers and I still associate them with the sun, and reddish gold earth
and – monsoons!
I don’t remember
my sister’s presence, so would guess that she hadn’t yet been born when we
lived there. So I must have been about 4
years old. My brother and I played near
the cemetery and on swings. He loved to tease me mercilessly and I remember the
few times he got carried away. He pushed
me on the swings, higher and higher until I was terrified. At one point I fell from the swing and cut
something, maybe my arm or back? It hurt
and I was scared. I think Richard felt
bad about it. I know that soon after the
injury my mother was looking me over. I survived.
Richard
and I loved to go out and play in the rain.
We would run out onto the muddy golden driveway, the mud claylike and
crawling with tropical worms the size of large stick pretzels. Richard would pick up the fat brown worms and
drape them from his mouth to disgust me or chase me, teasing, then fling the
worms in my face. I remember the warm
rain, like a bath, a shower coming down hard, without any wind, and the sun
peeking through. It was a rainbow rain,
perfect for wet play. The feel of mud
beneath, squishy golden clean mud and the glistening rain warmed by the
sun, eternal and blissful. I shall never forget the joy of
playing in it all. However, I did
develop a terrible fear, a phobia really, of earthworms. I am so grateful that
my parents, my mother especially, never prevented us from playing in all kinds
of weather and conditions. I’m convinced
that it contributed to our creativity, to this day, and our sense of
playfulness and humor. Richard, Janet
and I share those qualities. If you want
to understand someone better, ask them how they played as children.
Atyah
Lane had the jeep in front of the house, ready for adventures. How my father loved driving that jeep and how
much we loved tagging along. One day, my
father took us three kids (or maybe just the two of us, me and Richard?) to a
lake, maybe Inye Lake. It was not a
shoreline within Rangoon, but more remote and there was no one else there that
I can recall. It almost seemed like an
ocean shoreline, but it was most definitely a lake. My father drove the jeep slightly into the
water, with a sense of adventure and daring and it gave me the oddest feeling of
driving on water, into water – the incongruity of it, the contrast – it felt
scary and weird, freaky, but thrilling too. We
parked on the shore of the lake and my father
built a fire and suspended a pot over it and boiled split peas in
water. I think he was intending to make
dahl but it tasted like slightly raw split pea soup with no salt or
seasonings. It actually tasted good within that spirit of adventure, roughing it on the shore of a Burmese lake, in
the company of just my father and brother and possibly my little sister as
well.
When I was about 5 years old, I wandered out to the dusty road to play. Coming towards me along the dusty road was a
black dog. As he got closer, I could see
that he was not normal in the sense that dogs are friendly creatures. And when he got close and tried to “kiss” me,
it was with a frothy mouth and glazed eyes.
He tottered away, unsteady on his legs.
Later, at dinner, my maternal grandmother insisted to my parents that I
had been licked by a mad, rabid dog and that I would need immediate treatment
for rabies. So my parents took me to the
hospital where I had been born, the Rangoon Seventh Day Adventist
Hospital. Over the course of the next
few weeks, I had daily injections directly into my abdomen. The needle was the size of a knitting
needle. After the first couple of times,
the mere sight of the hospital sent me into a panic. I was filled with terror of the white coats
that stood waiting on the inside of the hospital to inject me as I lay
helpless, my abdomen exposed. The needle
looked scary but the shot was more painful than the fear. By the third or fourth time we pulled up in front of the hospital I knew
very well what awaited me inside and I would screech, kick and try to get away. My parents decided half way through the shots
that I would have no more of them. They
would risk rabies to save my young mind, consumed with dread. I still fear doctors, hospitals, the smell of
disinfectant, and those white coated saints waiting to heal by inflicting pain.
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