Sunday, September 28, 2008

An Auspicious Moment

(မဂၤလာရိွတ့ဲအခ်ိန္)
January 01, 2001 - By Tin Maung Than
The author, the former editor of the recently banned Thintbawa magazine, pays homage to celebrated poet Tin Moe in this article first published shortly after the latter's release from prison in 1995.

Some forty years ago at Yezagyo in Upper Burma, there was a young man called Maung Ba Gyan. He was over twenty, with a taste for poetry. He had by that time started writing verses and kept close connections with literary enthusiasts in other towns.


Like many men in his generation, Tin Moe received his education at a monestary.
Maung Ba Gyan was a native of the village of Kan Mye Zagyan in the township of Taungtha, Myingyan district. He was brought up and educated in the little town of Yezagyo and had never been anywhere else except to Myingyan, where he'd scarcely paid a visit. When he was made a Buddhist novice, he studied the fundamentals of the scriptures at the famous Shweyesaung Monastery in Mandalay, the seat of Burmese Buddhist learning. Those were the only places that Maung Ba Gyan had seen up to the age of twenty. He'd never had a chance to visit the capital of the country, Rangoon. He hadn't even dreamt of visiting that great city.

After he sat for the matriculation examination, he joined a village primary school as a volunteer to teach village children. The results of his examination had not been announced yet. One day, Maung Ba Gyan was preparing English and math lessons for the seventh standard. It was just nightfall

A letter from a teacher, U Thaung Nyunt, had come to Maung Ba Gyan by village truck, a Chevrolet left over from World War II. The letter informed Maung Ba Gyan to see the professor of Burmese at Rangoon University, U E Maung. It was said that his essay on the Burmese examination was extremely good. The young man could not believe his eyes. Impossible! He hadn't been satisfied with his Burmese essay. He felt doubtful about the letter.

The letter also meant that he had passed the matriculation examination. But the results weren't out yet. How could anybody know the results before they were announced? No, it was impossible.

There was still another reason for disbelief. The one who told him to see the professor of Burmese was none other than the Minister of Education himself! Apparently, the professor had asked the minister to convey the message to the young student when he was traveling in Upper Burma. So when the minister reached Yezagyo he duly sent the message to the disbelieving student.

How could it be?

A professor, giving special attention to an unknown student at a remote up-country townlet.

How could it be?

And the professor, asking the Minister of Education to convey the message to the young man.

How could it be?

And the Minister of Education, not forgetting to convey the message to the boy.

Impossible! Absurd!

But it was true. It all did happen like that.

Maung Ba Gyan passed the matriculation examination, winning distinction in Burmese. His roll number was YZG 74.

It was true.

It so happened that Burmese faculty member U Maung Maung Tin, who evaluated Maung Ba Gyan's Burmese essay, felt that the student should be awarded distinction and duly presented the case to the professor. Professor E Maung examined the paper and exclaimed, "Excellent!" He even told his staff that he wanted to see the student. The professor did not stop there. When he met the Minister of Education, who was about to begin his tour, he did not fail to ask his superior official to convey that mysterious message. And the minister carried out the professor's request to the letter! Hence, the unbelievable information to the bewildered young man. But Maung Ba Gyan did not go to see the professor. It was not easy for him, a young man of limited means, to go to Rangoon.

Meanwhile, the local leader of the Anti-Fascist People's Freedom League (the ruling party), U Tun Shein, asked Maung Ba Gyan to work as a teacher in the leader's home village. It was during a time when those who finished junior high were happily appointed teachers. So fortunate to get a high-school graduate as a teacher! Maung Ba Gyan had an inborn aptitude for teaching. And with his meager means he was not fortunate enough to join the university. He accepted the offer.

When the university reopened, Professor E Maung did not wait for Maung Ba Gyan to come to see him. He checked to see whether YZG 74 had joined the university at Rangoon or Mandalay. When he received a negative response, he asked the professor of Burmese at Mandalay University to arrange everything for Maung Ba Gyan's admission to the university. Professor E Maung wanted to bring up a new generation of Burmese scholars. Laudable farsightedness indeed! The Mandalay University professor contacted Maung Hla Maung, a university student, to write to his friend Maung Ba Gyan and tell him to join the university without delay.

Although Maung Ba Gyan had not joined the university, his matriculation essay had become widely known at Mandalay University. Copies of his Burmese essay were circulated as an exemplary piece of writing. His name was familiar at the university before he reached it in person. When Maung Ba Gyan went to the Burmese department, he took off his slippers before he entered the room, as if he were going before Buddha! It became a heart-tugging and rib-tickling story on campus. It was like the tinkling of little bronze bells in the hti at the top of the pagoda in early summer to hear that the education authorities were so persistent in searching for talented young men. Oh, so sweet! Such an acme of delight can only come once in every few decades.

It was April 7, 1995. A beautiful morning at 8:30. I was gazing at the master, Saya Gyan. I saw a miracle in his face. I repeat, I saw a miracle.

The place was Ludu Publishing House. We were sitting on chairs in front of the manager's desk. I asked Saya Gyan how he took the penname Tin Moe. The poet puffed at his cheroot. I saw him dimly through a puff of smoke, as if it were dusk. His eyes twinkled now and then: I wondered whether the poet had hung lanterns in his eyes.

Maung Ba Gyan, who had started his long journey of poetry at Yezagyo, continued, more restfully, at Mandalay University. He had contributed poems to Ludu Journal under the penname of Kanmye Nanmyintnwe, even before he passed his matriculation examination. He also sent a lot of poems to other literary magazines, such as Shumawa, Myawadi, and Thwethauk, only to be promptly rejected. He had not become Tin Moe yet.

In 1956 he collected his poems and made a little book of poetry. He asked a Burmese faculty member at Mandalay University to write a foreword for his booklet, but the professor refused, saying, "You are a student. I am a teacher. It is improper. Also, your poems do not follow the rules of poetic form." The professor then asked, "How much are you going to sell your book for?"

"A kyat and a half," Maung Ba Gyan replied.

"You'd better price it half a kyat so that your friends can afford to buy it out of friendly consideration for you. At this price, you won't sell a single copy," said the professor, all concerned for the pupil.

Maung Ba Gyan thanked the professor and headed straight for Ludu Publishing House. He had asked the publishers to insert an advertisement for his forthcoming book in the Ludu Daily. The price was to be set at one-and-half kyats. Oh, it was just in time. He made a correction. Price: two kyats!

The first book of poems was The Lantern. It was awarded the National Literary Award for 1959.

Tin Moe rose high in the constellation of poetry at that time.

That very day, on April 7, Gyan and I happened to be taking the same road to Mandalay University. I was going there on a research project and saw Saya U Khin Maung Than, professor of psychology. As for Saya Gyan, he was, as he said, on a nostalgic mission. After I had done my business, we went to the Burmese department, where we could look for Gyan's friends. Of course, as writers, our gait was hardly enviable; we walked wretchedly, each with a grey sling bag, each with an oily face in the glaring Mandalay sun.

We came to an office.

"Is the professor in?" we asked.

"No, he has gone to a meeting. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, thanks."

Saya Gyan came out and I followed him. Sheepishly, we looked into a big lounge for faculty members. We did not see any of Saya Gyan's friends. There were only some young tutors there, making their routine tutorial corrections.

Saya Gyan came out again and I followed suit, like an aged abbot and his obedient little pupil. We shuffled along the corridors.

The large room of the Burmese department was partitioned into three sections. The partitions were rows of bookshelves. The professor's office was on the innermost side. Then came a sitting room, occupied by a long table, which was formed by several desks. The tutors were sitting at that long table. At the far end of the hall there was another partitioned room for lecturers and assistant lecturers.

Saya Gyan peeped into that room.

"Hullo, Ko Tin Moe!" exclaimed an elderly lady in surprise. She was obviously gladdened by the sight of the unexpected visitor.

"Oh, you don't look thin. Your grey hair has turned black again. You're as fit as ever!"

All members of the teaching staff were glad to see him.

Of course, Saya Gyan was extremely fit, except for an occasional cough, evidence of his love of tobacco.

"Come, let us sit there," said the lady, leading us to the settees.

A young tutor gave the visitor a casual glance and resumed his work. The young ones assumed it was just one more visitor to the department.

The elderly lady led the way into the hall where the tutors were working. Saya Gyan followed the lady and I followed him, then came other lecturers and assistant lecturers. At the head of the tutors' long table, a senior staff member announced, "This is the poet Tin Moe."

The tutors all looked up, mouths gaping. Surprise, respect, and affection all blossomed from them, with exclamations of "Oh!" I heard whispers among them. They were completely surprised.

Then, at no one's bidding, all the tutors stood up simultaneously. Right before them was the celebrated poet.

Saya Gyan nodded with his usual disarming, quizzical smile. I was pierced by a bolt of astonishment and was thoroughly overwhelmed by the welcome. Here is the poet, the people's poet, rang in my breast.

We were treated to coffee, the warm welcome of Burmese folk. Naturally, they entered into endless nostalgic conversation post-1950 Mandalay University—about friends, buildings, teachers, tea shops and other food shops.

After a while we took our leave, going out the way we had come in.

This time, the tutors did not all stand up simultaneously. When the beloved poet came before him, the first tutor stood up and then quietly sat down. After that the second tutor stood up and sat down. The tutors stood up and sat down in a wavelike motion. Heads held high, mouths open. Rising up. That's what the people's poet is!

The wave struck me. It has continued to strike me. It is striking my breast, giving me a soothing feeling of cool freshness, transparency, and dazzling brightness. Could there be any more auspicious moment?


Translated by Ant Maung

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Tin Moe, a well-known and respected poet, was released in February 1995 after serving a four-year sentence in prison since December 1991. He is a leading figure in Burmese poetry and is also one of the writers whose works the Press Scrutiny and Registration Board (Board of Censors) instructs its subordinates to read cautiously. Now his portrait, whether a photograph or an artistic sketch, is prohibited; it cannot be published under any circumstances. He currently lives in exile in Belgium.


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