Bamboo People

Monsoon Summer

The Not-So-Star-Spangled Life of Sunnite Sen
Rickshaw Girl
Secret Keeper

FIRST DAUGHTER NOVELS

White House Rules
Extreme American Makeover

Teachers wanted. Applicants must take examination in person. Salaries start at—

“Chiko, come inside!” Mother calls through the screen door, her voice low and urgent.

On the road behind our house, horns toot, sirens blare, and bicycle rickshaws crowd the streets. A high cement wall and a barrier of bamboo muffle the noise, making our garden seem as private as a monastery. But it isn’t. I could be spotted from the houses nearby, and spies are everywhere. They would betray even an old neighbor for extra ration cards.

I scan the rest of the announcement quickly, my heart racing.

“Chiko!
Now!”
Mother startles the flock of green parakeets perched on the birdbath, and they fly away.

I fold the newspaper around A
Tale of Two Cities
and head for the house. I want to tell Mother about the call for teachers in the paper, but it seems like she’s getting more anxious by the day. So am I, even though I wish I didn’t have to admit that. I’m tired of hiding, of worrying, and worst of all, of remembering again and again the day the soldiers came for Father. Remembering how I’ve failed him.

“You shouldn’t be reading out there,” Mother tells me, peering out through the screen after latching the door behind me.

I take a deep breath and push my glasses back. It’s now or never. “No harm in reading the government newspaper. There’s a notice—”

But she’s not listening. “We’ll talk about that later, Chiko. How could you take one of your father’s books outside? Do you want to end up in prison, too?”

She’s right—I shouldn’t have brought the book out there. The government gets suspicious when a Burmese boy reads English books. But I don’t answer her questions. What can I say? That it already feels like I’m in prison? I take the novel out of the newspaper. The worn cloth cover is still warm from the sunshine. “Read widely, Chiko,” Father used to say. “Great doctors must understand human nature in order to heal.”

“Hide it right now, Chiko,” Mother says sharply. “Wait. Let me draw the blinds.”

The dim room grows even darker. I reach behind the large painting of a white elephant, and we hear the familiar click. The painting swings open silently, like a well-oiled door. Hidden behind it is the cabinet Father built to conceal his battered black medical bag, books, and papers.

The books are in the same order as he left them, and I slip A
Tale of Two Cities
into place. There are a dozen medical and college textbooks, but we also own the complete works of Shakespeare, a book about Buddha’s teachings, the Christian Holy Bible, a few slim volumes of British poetry, an illustrated Oxford dictionary, some Burmese books (like the Jakata tales and verses by Thakin Kodaw Hmaing and Tin Moe), novels by Indian and Russian writers like RabindranathTagore and Fyodor Dostoevsky,
The Arabian Nights,
and a set of books by Charles Dickens. These are our family treasures—faded, tattered, and well read.

I’m one of the few boys in town who can read and write in Burmese and English. It’s only because of Father. Schools around here close down so often it’s hard to learn, but I studied at home.

Father’s favorite books explain the secrets and mysteries of the human body, from bones to blood to cells to nerves. I always loved stories the best—books about heroes and quests and adventures, books where everything turns out fine in the end. I tried to pretend to be interested in science, but Father wasn’t fooled; he used the novels as prizes after we studied science.

It’s no use remembering the good times we had. I think I miss the sound of him the most. His voice—reading, talking, or laughing—steadied the house like a heartbeat. These days I only hear the conversation of Mother and her friends. If this keeps up, my own voice might reverse itself and start sounding high and sweet again.

I remember the last time I heard Father speak—almost four months ago. “Take care of your mother, Chiko!” he shouted as six or seven army officers shoved him into a van.

“I will, Father!” I answered, hoping he heard.

But have I kept that promise? No! All I’ve done is hide, and that’s not good enough with our money running out. And it’s terrible to go without news of him. The same thought keeps both Mother and me awake at night, even though we never say it to each other.
Is he alive?

“We can talk after you eat lunch, Chiko,” Mother urges, pushing a chair to the table. “It’s getting late. Daw Widow and Lei will be coming for tea. Daw Widow says she has some something important to tell us.”

Daw Widow is our next-door neighbor. She’s offered a reward for any information about Father’s arrest. It’s impossible to get real news, but rumors float through the streets. Bicycle rickshaw passengers whisper to one another, forgetting that drivers with sharp ears pedal the cycles.

That’s how Daw Widow discovered why Father was arrested. Someone had spotted him when he crept out from our house at night to treat a patient—an “enemy of the state,” a leader of the freedom and democracy movement. They’d charged Father as a traitor to the government for providing money and information along with medical care. Even though we don’t know where he’s imprisoned, or even if he’s still alive, we have to send money to the government every month to pay for his food.

Mother sets a covered plate before me. “Daw Widow has been scolding me about how skinny you’re getting,” she says. “Before I know it, she’ll be checking my pantry and giving me cooking lessons again.”

The familiar dimple in Mother’s left cheek deepens. Father used to say that he tumbled into it when he first saw her and never climbed out. But lately a pattern of creases and wrinkles is starting to hide it. “She must like your cooking, Mother,” I say. “She always eats seconds when she’s here, and sometimes thirds, if there’s enough.”

Still smiling, Mother hurries to the kitchen to slice me a lime. I lift the cover off the plate and see
ngapi,
the dried and fermented shrimp paste we eat with every meal; rice; and a few chunks of chicken floating in a pale, weak curry. I’ve been trying to get Mother to eat more by having her eat first. She’s even thinner than I am, but she hides it under the loose folds of her sarong. I hunt and count pieces of chicken—she hasn’t taken any meat at all. I’m going to have to change my strategy and eat before she does so I can leave her most of the meat.

Mother returns with three juicy, green wedges, so I squeeze lime over my food and start eating. I want to finish before our guests arrive because I’ve started feeling uncomfortable eating in front of Lei. With those dark eyes watching me, I feel like a tiger, tearing and chewing away at my dinner—a big cat predator in square-rimmed glasses.

After I’m done, Mother clears the table and brings out her mending. The look on her face tells me she’s hoping I won’t bring up the newspaper announcement. Father’s voice in my mind reminds me to study, so I sigh, open the cabinet again, and take out a calculus book.

It’s impossible to concentrate today. After pretending for a while, I glance at Mother’s face. Time’s running out—the interview for teachers is at four o’clock. I’ll have to leave soon if I want to make it. Besides, Daw Widow will be here shortly, and she’ll probably put up an even bigger fight than Mother to stop me.

Now or never, Chiko,
I tell myself, taking off my glasses and rubbing my eyes. “Mother.”

The needle keeps going, but she’s frowning.

“Mother.” I try again.

She looks up. “All right, Chiko. What was in the paper?”

“The government wants to hire teachers. They’re giving an exam this afternoon. I want to take it.”

“And you believe them?”

“It
might
be true. And if I pass the test, they’ll hire me. The salary’s small, but—”

Mother flings aside her sewing and stands up. “You are
not
leaving this home, Chiko. Young men are disappearing every day. Just last week We-Min’s son was at the market when soldiers dragged him away to join the army. And
his
father’s still at home.”

She’s right. It could be dangerous for me out there. And the notice in the paper could be a lie. But I can’t live like this any longer, cowering inside this house while Mother gets thinner and our money runs out. I made a promise; I have to try to keep it.

“Times are changing,” I tell her. “Daw Widow told us about the rumors that some of the prisoners might be set free. This job—if it’s real—might pay enough for us to keep taking care of Father until he’s released.”

Mother has already sold her jewelry and our extra clothes. The toaster, the fan, the radio, and even most of the pots and pans are gone. Last month she even sold some of Father’s medical equipment, knowing that he’d want us to eat. All we have left are our family treasures, hidden in that cabinet behind the white elephant.

“We’re going to have to sell the books,” I say, even though I know what Mother’s reaction will be.

“No! Your father brought those back from England before we were married. Selling them is like …”

It’s my turn to stand up. “Like what, Mother? Like admitting that Father might not come back? Well, what if he doesn’t? Our money’s gone!”

“Your father
will
come back, young man!” She steadies her voice. “He’s alive; I can feel his heart beating inside mine.”

I press my lips together to keep more disrespectful words from pouring out. Superstitions and old wives’ tales won’t help Father survive; we’ve heard stories about how they treat “enemies of the state.”

“I know it’s hard for you to hide like this, my son,” Mother continues. “Won’t you change your mind and join the temple?”