Buddha Baby

Jostled by insistent throngs of shoppers in the market,

the day before Chinese New Year

I’m propelled between piles of orange mangoes,

red, hairy rambutans,

avocados and bananas,

unshelled peanuts, papayas and pineapples, 

bristly brown coconuts,

baskets of rice and green beans, tea and betel leaves,

and smooth, maroon aubergines.

Curry and chili, 

coriander, cardamom, garlic and ginger,

durian, incense, tamarind,

sizzling sesame oil,

fish and prawns,

aromas all mingle in the hot muggy air.

I halt abruptly,

my eyes lighting on a little buddha baby, 

round and brown, 

all chubby seriousness,

sitting amongst the green melons

beside the lady frying mooncakes,

whose eyes meet mine in mother’s recognition.

She stoops to pick up the ancient child,

holding her out to me.

You hold my baby

she invites ....

her eyes smiling with a shared secret knowledge.

The Birdseller

May all beings everywhere

Seen and unseen,

Dwelling far off or nearby,

Being or waiting to become:

May all be filled with lasting joy.

~Sutta Nipata:  The Buddha’s Discourse on Goodwill

He eyed me from his vantage point,

sitting on the dusty sidewalk, 

back propped against a palm tree.

black shiny hair, brown sparkling eyes,

blue flip flops and threadbare longi 

wrapped around his skinny legs 

and knobbly knees

Next to him a cage of bamboo slats 

bound together with twine

swelled with the twitter 

of a hundred small birds.

From my seat at the sidewalk café,

with a cool, green bottle of Mandalay beer

to chase down red prawn curry

I eyed him back.

He quickly hid the cheroot he was smoking 

and flashed a cheeky grin

Enchanted, I smiled back,

finished my meal 

and got up to leave.

He jumped up,

bright, alive, eager 

For a sale.

You buy a bird? You buy a bird?

Makes your prayer come true,

fifty Kjats, just for you.

Smiling, he handed over 

a small, brown fluttering of feathers.

I cradled it gently, 

feeling the beat of its frightened heart,

lifted my arms and opened my hands 

for the winged messenger to take to the

heavens my silent request for 

freedom.

From fear…

            for it, 

                     for me, 

                                 for the boy, 

                                                for us all.

It flew, in a second, 

to the top of the tallest palm 

with my prayer to the spirit realm.

For a moment, a brief moment,

I was elated and free

so was the bird 

and the boy 

smiled sweetly. 

As I walked away,

I heard him whistle.

When I turned 

I saw the bird fly down 

back into his hands 

and the confines of its flimsy prison,

ready to take another prayer, 

another day, 

to the distant gods.

The  Buddhist Monk

His warm, golden body

wrapped in folds of red,

he held court 

cross legged on a bamboo mat

lion regal and elegant,

his smile and direct gaze 

inviting like an open door

to a sunlit inner space.

 Long fingers gestured 

to a chipped, white, 

enamel bowl

 of soya beans

You eat, 

he invited.

  Pointed to a dented and battered flask

Drink!

 I sipped weak, green tea 

 as he carefully unfolded 

the thousand year old

teachings of the Buddha, 

inscribed with palm leaf pens

on bamboo strips

in round Burmese script.

His voice flowed like music 

on water

creating resonant patterns

of cooling sound.

He ended his discourse, 

then sent the boy monk scurrying

to return with a maroon fan

inscribed in gold that

all the monks hold

The child on bended knees,

bowed three times to me,

forehead to the ground 

and presented the fan with two hands,

whispering to me urgently,

You bow, you bow down, now.

I knelt before the Buddhist monk 

and bowed three times as shown.

He smiled and dismissed me, 

You go now.

In the blinding sun outside,

the round fan did not fit

so I carried it,

not understanding how

everywhere I went 

the fan was silently noted,

 kindness and help

instantly offered, 

with deference

and eager solemnity,

as if it had its own authority

Until boarding the train back to Rangoon

in a caboose of straight, wooden benches,

waiting, while women, 

basins on heads, 

sell food for the long ride;

spicy fried chicken,

crunchy cicadas and rice

steamed fish in banana leaves

Jujube plums cooked in jaggery, 

hard boiled eggs and palm sugar cakes.

Friendly jostling, bumping, shoving

settling bundles, blankets, baskets 

and cages of chickens and ducks

a cacophony of clucking,

infants wailing, vendors selling 

 laughing, clamoring, yelling,

the air, alive and vibrant,

hot, humid, happy,

before the old train 

steams off to jolt and rattle  

it’s way through the night.

 Still I do not realize

the blessing in my hand

until black boots, steel guns, 

stern faces appear

demanding instant order, 

no movement

silence,

all eyes cast down,

hands clutching

grimy, well worn papers.

The smell of sweat and fear.

I scramble for my passport 

as three soldiers reach my seat.

As one 

they glance down,

see the fan,

pause, 

stop,

 bow their heads, 

hands held to their chests 

in 

Namaste,

leave the train 

and we all breathe again.

In a moment I comprehend.

I have shared 

with the Buddhist monk,

the people of this holy land

and the soldiers of oppression too

a deep communion. 

 The Saleslady

Susie Wu is just ten,

with big, black eyes

and a sunshine smile 

her too short, shiny hair tied into pigtails

 on either side of her head

like a well-groomed Pekinese,

Thanaka paste protects 

the tip of her nose and cheeks

from the equatorial sun 

Her white blouse spotless under

A faded, blue denim dress

“I will show you the temple,”

 she leans towards me confidentially. 

I know the history

You are interested in the history? 

I tell you about the architecture

It is interesting, no?

You have questions?

I have all the information.

 I have told you everything

 and now you buy from my family stall.

These are from the temple,

she proudly points to 

ancient artifacts on a rickety table 

There is nothing I want.

Would you like a present instead?...

I don’t want a present 

she stands a little taller,

 I want to be a good saleslady!

Now you buy something from my family stall.

Not knowing how 

to conclude this stalemate,

I smile awkwardly, 

turn towards the horse cart

that will jolt and bounce me away

to the next temple at Bagan.

Her pride and resolve crumble.

With as much dignity as she can muster 

Suzie Wu runs after me

I would like the present then.

 I take your picture?

And now, 

her smile is forced

 the sparkle in her eyes

as dull as an overcast day

as she poses in her dress of faded blue cotton 

Saddened, I hand her pencils and candy

wondering why I expected Susie Wu

to prostitute 

her smile

and, her soul.