Visiting a monastary in Yangon, Myanmar
The elderly monk’s eyes humbly avoided mine. He walked slowly, gazing down at his bare feet, watching the folds of his maroon-colored robe sway with each step, and lead me across a silent courtyard to the monastery entrance, where he motioned me to remove my sandals. He then opened a giant door covered in subtle carvings of exotic flowers intertwined with tropical fruits, heavenly devas, the lionlike chinthe, the dragonlike naga and other mythical creatures, weathered and muted by countless monsoon rains.
Inside the dimly lit room, flickering candles cast eerie, spindly shadows against aging wooden walls. The place intrigued me and yet I felt strangely unsettled. I wanted to leave, but hesitated briefly. Knowing I had to deal with the situation, I reluctantly entered the room and closed the heavy door behind me.
In the musty darkness, I could vaguely make out an old desk and rows of faded pictures along the walls. In the corner by the door, a lone candle burned dimly on an altar of golden Buddhas where delicate scents of sandalwood, incense and candle wax mingled with the sweetness of ripe banana and mango offerings.
As my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, I noticed an old monk sitting in a large wooden armchair by the far wall.
Head bowed and eyes lowered, I approached him respectfully and sat at the foot of his chair. Several cats sprawled around him. A small kitten lay in his lap, curled up in a gray ball of fur, purring softly as he stroked its head. The monk smiled warmly. Taking a fold of his maroon robe, he draped it over his bare shoulder.
He looked frail, with his shaved head, sunken cheeks and bony limbs sculpted by the clinging robes and his face looked very aged and wrinkled, but behind the thick spectacles, his eyes were surprisingly bright and youthful. I had expected this holy man to be stern and humorless, but his warm smile and mannerisms conveyed a lighthearted personality.
‘Da gah lay,’ he greeted me in Burmese. ‘Is this your first visit to the monastery?’
‘No. I’ve been here before. I came for the pagoda festival last week.’
The monk said nothing, but closed his eyes and went into meditation. I sat in uncomfortable silence while he chanted, fingered his prayer beads and communicated solemnly with some spirit.
The room was so silent that I could hear the hti of a nearby pagoda tinkling gently in the breeze. Imitating the monk, I closed my eyes, relaxed my body, allowed my hands to rest in my lap and began deep, slow and regular breathing.
