Those days I don’t want to forget

I was brought up from a village of Myanmar; the way of life there is very simple and ordinary. I attended primary and secondary school at my village. We got to enjoy three months holiday every year, from March to May.

My father and mother were raised from different villages, and we were living in my father’s village. Two villages of my father and mother are very far, and we visited to my mother’s village during summer holiday. It had been a great time for us to see our grandparents, cousins and all other relatives of my mother.

Those days in 1980s, bull-carts were the only popular vehicles for the rural families to travel around. Bicycle was another choice of vehicle, but it could carry only two persons not the whole family. Therefore, we travelled from my father’s village to my mother’s village by bull-cart which could accommodate seven family members of us and some goods. Two pitiful bulls had to carry the heavy cart occupied by seven persons and the stuff which is brought to give presents for our grandparents and relatives.

It was the whole day trip from early in the morning till the sun set. Although it was not comfortable to travel the whole day with the bull-cart, we were happy and excited. On the half way of the journey, there is a village where my father’s cousins are staying. Whenever we arrived in that village, we took lunch break at their house. It is a lovely Myanmar culture that the host family ever generously cooks and provides a meal for the guests whoever you are and no matter how poor they are. Majority of Myanmar people still maintain that tradition particularly in the rural areas.

My father’s cousin sister, our aunty, was very good at cooking. I had written about her in one piece of my work, which can be viewed and read here. Every dish she cooked was so yummy that we all consumed the delicious lunch until our hungry stomachs were too full and distended. Since it was an extremely hot summer afternoon, my father delayed the journey, having a nap. My mother was having chit-chats with aunty, and we were playing with our second cousins. Then, after a few hours, my father continued the rest of the journey, and finally we arrived in our mother’s village.

Whenever we went back to our grandparents, they were overly delightful. We spent the whole summer holiday with them. The most pleasant moment for me was the beautiful morning when we were picking up the star-flowers fallen from its tree and spreading out on the ground. I love the star-flowers and its long-lasting fragrance. Some Myanmar poets used to figure the star-flower as a faithful bloom because the fragrance is still bearing even after being withered.

Every day, we spent the whole morning to gather up the star-flowers, and tack them with tiny skewers made of bamboo. Some of the poor children were trying very hard to get a number of tacks of the star-flowers, and wandering around the village to sell the tacked star-flowers so that they could earn small money to buy foods. I still remember their lively songs making the village people notice that they were selling flower tacks, “These and those houses, here are tacks of star-flowers!” That had been one of the beautiful morning songs among the grass roots inhabiting in villages of our country.

 

These childhood experiences made me love the nature and ordinary lives of the people. I miss those days and the beauty of the village people. Deeply from my heart, I appreciate the simple art of living, but it is peaceful.

 Jasmine White