Tagaung Min, the king of Tagaung, was disquieted by the stories of Maung Thin Htet’s unparalleled feats. He feared the blacksmith’s son could pose a threat to the throne, and this thought gave him no rest until he concluded that the danger could best be mitigated by having the man arrested, and so he ordered his soldiers to capture Maung Thin Htet.
Fortunately, Maung Thin Htet was very well known in this region, and it did not take long for the king’s plan to reach his ears. By the time the soldiers got to his house, he had fled deep into the jungle. The blacksmith’s son had nothing to fear in the nearly impenetrable forest, where his strength and familiarity with the terrain easily protected him from the wild animals.
When the king realized that he had missed his chance to capture the strong man he devised a new plan to seize him. Instead of following him into the jungle, he would lure him out of his hiding place. To this end he paid a visit to Maung Thin Htet’s father, the blacksmith, at his home. The smith, astounded by the royal visitor, gaped at his ruler much longer than appropriate. The king, meanwhile, confided that he wished to take the blacksmith’s daughter, Shwe Myethna, the beautiful sister of Maung Thin Htet, as his wife.
The starry-eyed craftsman, flattered by the king’s proposal, suspected nothing; he had neither reason nor recourse to deny such a powerful suitor, and so the wedding took place without delay. The king bestowed upon his bride the title Thirisanda and took her home to his elegant palace.
Knowing that the two siblings were close, he told his new wife that in honor of their marriage he wished to make peace with her dear brother and to offer him an important and coveted position in his court. Shwe Myethna had a good heart and always the best intentions, so she saw no reason to doubt the king’s motives. Filled with joy, she sent word to her brother bidding him come to the palace.
Upon learning that his sister was now the king’s wife and that he had been summoned to the palace to accept an official court position, Maung Thin Htet assumed that whatever he had done to incur the king’s wrath had now been forgiven. He rejoiced at the prospect of seeing his beloved sister and serving her husband the king. Scarcely had the unwitting man reached the outskirts of the city, however, when he was surrounded by the king’s soldiers. They bound him hand and foot, gagged him, and threw him into the palace dungeon.
Shwe Myethna never found out that her brother had been apprehended. She awaited his arrival with great anticipation. Meanwhile, the king asked her to accompany him early the next morning on his inspection rounds through the expansive palace grounds. At that time in this kingdom it was common practice to execute prisoners suspected of treason by burning them at the stake. As the king and Shwe Myethna reached a bend in the path they saw in the distance a huge fire at the foot of a champak tree that was already engulfed in flames. For a while the blaze obscured the view of the criminal, writhing in agony as the relentless flames licked at his body. The king and Shwe Myethna slowed their gait and stared at the scene, transfixed. Suddenly, as he was drawing his final breaths, the man bound to the tree caught a glimpse of his sister standing by the king’s side. For all he knew, both were attending his execution. Convinced that his beloved sister had betrayed him, his heart ceased beating even before the flames could finish their deadly work.
At the very same moment Shwe Myethna recognized her beloved brother, and the extent of the king’s deceit became clear to her. Before anyone could stop her she ran to her brother and threw herself into the blaze. Her body succumbed instantly to the fire but her beautiful face remained untouched. The siblings died together.
The brother and sister were then reborn as malicious nats who returned to occupy the charred remains of the tree beside which they had perished. They hid in the trunk and pounced upon any unsuspecting travelers who chanced to pass by. Their perpetual presence was a constant annoyance to the king because they reminded him of the role he had played in their violent deaths. So he ordered that the tree be felled and thrown into the river to be carried off by the capricious currents of the Irrawaddy.
When it was done, the dead tree drifted until it came to rest on a bank not far from the kingdom of Bagan where a kind king named Thinligyaung reigned. Freed as they were from the realm of the murderous king, the two nats forsook their quest for revenge and longed instead for a safe haven. That night the nat siblings appeared to the king of Bagan in a dream. In exchange for his protection they swore their services to him as guardian spirits.
The next morning the king went down to the river, where, as foretold in his dream, he found the charred remnants of the tree. The log was carried in a festive procession to the top of the extinct volcano Mount Popa, where it was then split into two equal-sized pieces. From these halves were carved sculptures of the two dead siblings, who were known from then on as Min Mahagiri, the “Rulers of the Large Mountain.” Remembering the nats’ request to serve as guardians of the kingdom, the king had two additional statues made and placed in shrines on either side of the Tharabha gate that led into the city of Bagan. Since then, everyone who passes through that gate brings an offering to the two guardians and requests their protection on their travels.
Once there was a little girl who had always been a poor student. Even though she worked hard, she found her lessons difficult and often felt discouraged.
One day the teacher assigned some especially challenging homework. The girl sat down at the table as soon as she got home, for in truth she was extremely diligent. Even so, her resolve soon diminished. Her dejected eyes began to stray from her work, and she lost all focus. Staring off into space, she noticed a snail who had apparently taken a notion to climb a pole. The snail was just halfway up when she lost her grip and fell with a gentle plop. But look, she was already making a second attempt.
Things went on this way for a while, and the girl became completely engrossed in this admittedly lengthy drama. The snail had just fallen for the umpteenth time and was already making another attempt to climb that pole, inch by inch. The girl was expecting to hear another plop at any moment, but the snail climbed higher and higher. And at long last the snail had done it! The girl could hardly believe her eyes.
The student was overjoyed for the little animal, but then her eyes fell again on her woefully empty sheet of paper. Inspired by the snail’s triumph—it really had overcome several setbacks to get to the top of that pole—the girl returned to her work with renewed enthusiasm. She wrote and wrote, and whenever her courage began to fail, all she had to do was think of that little snail.
The next day the girl eagerly turned in her assignment, and after the teacher had read through all the papers, she announced with surprise, though not without pride, that the otherwise poor student had written the best essay in the class.
An old farmer once lived a toilsome life all alone on the outskirts of a village. He tended two fields, one rice and the other corn, and he worked from sunrise till sunset just to keep from starving. His yield would have provided a decent living, except that each year at harvest time a troop of monkeys would plunder his fields. Whenever the old man approached to chase them away, they would hide or simply run to the other end of the field. They were quick and the farmer was no longer fast enough to catch them.
Finally at his wit’s end, he cooked up a ploy to be rid of the monkeys.
One evening he picked some fruits that he knew were a favorite treat of the monkeys. He ground them with a mortar and pestle, rubbed the paste all over his body, and lay down in the middle of his field pretending to be dead.
The next day the monkeys returned and approached curiously. They sniffed at him and thought he smelled quite nice. A few licked his skin and thought he tasted delicious. Because the old man did not move a muscle, they believed him to be dead and decided to carry him back to their cave to eat him in peace.
They carried him across the field and into the jungle, where they swung with him through the treetops until they reached their hidden den. There they laid him on a
table and contemplated how best to divide up their prize. The farmer opened his eyes just enough to see that the cave was filled with stolen treasures that the monkeys had hoarded. He sprang up and screamed as if he was out of his mind. The monkeys were so frightened that they fled. Taking his time, the farmer inspected his surroundings, took a drum and a sack of gold coins, and returned to his village.
The farmer’s sudden rise to affluence aroused the suspicions of one of his neighbors. He wanted to know how it had happened and the guileless old man recounted what he had done.
The neighbor sorely wanted his own share of the monkeys’ treasure, and he decided to use the same trick.
The monkeys did not take long to appear. They sniffed and licked and decided to attempt once more to carry the body to their cave. Once in the jungle, they scaled the trees and swung with him from treetop to treetop. Ants had crawled onto the farmer’s body, however, and they now began to tickle and itch. At first he was able to ignore the sensation, but soon he began to twitch and scratch. The monkeys were so surprised at this that they released their grip on him. The greedy neighbor crashed through the branches to the forest floor and broke his neck.
Long ago a widower lived with his two children in a house on the edge of the forest not far from the sea. The daughter’s name was Nan Ying, and her little brother was called Khun Sue. Despite their mother’s untimely death, the children were getting along fairly well until their father remarried and their stepmother moved in. The stepmother hated them both and wished only to live alone with her new husband and to have her own children with him. She convinced the father to send the children into the woods to search for mushrooms. Hopefully they would get lost or poisoned. But when evening came, there they were at the door of the hut.
Next the father went with them into the forest, where, with the help of a ladder, they climbed to the top of the tallest tree. The father told them stories, and the children were delighted finally to have him to themselves again. Eventually, however, they felt drowsy, and as soon as they had fallen asleep, the father climbed down and took the ladder with him.
It was pitch-black when the children awoke. They were very frightened and cried bitterly. Fortunately, the kindly forest spirits heard their sobbing, helped them down from the tree, and set them on the right path for home.
The next day, under the pretense of showing them some natural wonder or other, their father lured them again into the woods. He led them to a rocky precipice and pushed them over it from behind. What he did not know was that water had gathered at the bottom of the pit into which the children now fell. They clung tightly to each other and wept bitterly, but the forest spirits came again to their aid. They brought a large flock of birds to land on a bamboo stalk that stood beside the pit. The bamboo bent and bent until it reached down into the pit so that the children could climb up and out. Because they had no one else in the world, and because they had no idea what else to do, they went back home and knocked timidly at the door. When their father opened it he could hardly believe his eyes. He pretended to be immensely relieved. He told them how glad he was to see them again and promised to look after them more carefully from then on.
As proof of his good intentions he offered to take them on an outing by the sea. When they arrived at the beach, however, their father abandoned them yet again, this time claiming that he was going to gather firewood. The children sat in the sand waiting and waiting.
Unfortunately for them a wicked troll lived in a nearby grotto. At the sight of the two children sitting alone by the sea the troll’s mouth began to water. He disguised himself as a woman and invited them into his cave to await their father’s return.
Fearing the deep black water in the fading light, the children gratefully accepted the troll’s invitation. Khun Sue was still quite young, and he continued to cry even after they were in supposed safety. Nan Ying tried to be brave, and with a heavy heart she went along with the woman’s suggestion to let the little boy sleep in her bed so that she might comfort him. Nan Ying herself lay down in front of the door in the next room.
Of course the troll had been planning the whole time to devour the little boy. When he removed his costume and made a move toward Khun Sue, the boy was again terrified and whimpered loudly so that Nan Ying heard it outside the door.
“Why is my brother crying?” she called.
The troll clapped a hand over Khun Sue’s mouth and answered in a falsetto voice: “He got some mosquito bites, deary. Don’t worry, he’s fine.” When Nan Ying lay back down to go to sleep, the troll gobbled up every last bite of the little boy.
The next morning the door opened and Nan Ying asked where her little brother was.
“He’s safe,” the troll answered cheerfully, once again disguised as a woman. “Don’t worry, little one.” Then he instructed the girl not to enter his room, and off he went into the forest.
Of course Nan Ying went straight into the troll’s room to look for the little boy, but all she found was his bones. Filled with dread and grief, she gathered up her brother’s remains and fled. She paused only long enough to pluck three leaves from the little bushes outside the troll’s cave.
From a distance the troll saw the girl making her escape, and he gave chase. Nan Ying threw the first leaf. A wind storm arose and briefly kept her pursuer at bay. Soon enough he was gaining on her again, so she threw the second leaf. Where the leaf hit the ground a waterspout formed and knocked the troll off his feet. Unfortunately he was back up in a wink and still right on her heels. Nan Ying appealed to every higher power she knew of and tossed the last leaf. A violent burst of flame shot into the air and incinerated the troll.
Being now at the end of her strength, the girl dragged herself to a pond in the woods. She washed herself in its waters, weeping disconsolately all the while. She had nothing and no one—no home, no parents, no brother. Where could she turn? What would become of her? She gazed despondently at the smooth surface of the water. Suddenly it began to ripple, and Nan Ying was frozen with terror when all at once a noble dragon rose up out of the depths.
“Do not be afraid. I am the guardian of these waters,” said the creature in a low, mellifluous voice. “Tell me what troubles you, child.”
Nan Ying told the wonderful dragon everything—how their father had repeatedly abandoned them, how her brother had fallen victim to the murderous troll, and how she now sat at the edge of this pool, utterly alone in all the world.
The dragon reflected awhile, and then his eyes fell on the bundle of Khun Sue’s bones. He glided toward them and touched them gently with his moist snout. Suddenly the bundle began to glow. A blinding light shone so brightly that Nan Ying had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, there stood her brother, alive and well!
The overjoyed children fell into each other’s arms.
“My dear ones,” said the dragon in his deep, musical voice, “go to the village on the far side of this pond. Over there, you see? You will be welcomed with open arms. And if not…well, just tell them I’m the one who sent you.” The dragon winked at them and disappeared headfirst into the water.
A traveler was once journeying through the hilly eastern countryside of Burma. He had just walked from one village to the next when he came upon a farmer selling his goods beside the path. Now, it is not uncommon in Burma, a country of many different peoples and tribes, for a traveler not to know the language of a local minority group. The traveler heard the merchant but could not understand him. Nor were the farmer’s wares on display, because the farmer lived only a few yards away and would fetch the items from his hut upon request.
Under the circumstances, the traveler started with Burmese because it is understood by most of the population. “What are you selling?” he asked in that language.
Now the merchant understood what the traveler was asking, but he spoke Burmese with such a strong accent that his answer, “rice” (in Burmese sunn), sounded to the traveler’s ears like
sinn. And sinn means “elephant”!
The traveler looked around in fright. He took the merchant’s reply as a warning about a wild elephant and ran off in a panic. Seeing the fear in the stranger’s face, the startled farmer took to his heels and ran right after him.
The sun shone mercilessly down on both of them; the path was uneven and dangerous, and the hot midday sun was oppressive. Yet each time the traveler glanced over his shoulder, he saw that the man behind him was still running. The farmer, for his part, did not want to stop until the man in front of him felt that the mysterious danger had passed, and so he continued to run with all his might.
After an hour they reached a village where they collapsed from sheer exhaustion. They lay unconscious on the dusty ground as water was poured into their mouths. The villagers then lay them in the shade, and as they came to, they peppered them with questions. Had they been robbed? Chased by a wild animal?
Completely spent and out of breath, the traveler told them about the farmer’s warning. The bystanders immediately turned to the other man and asked him if he had truly seen a wild elephant.
The farmer, utterly bewildered, said he hadn’t and soon the misunderstanding was resolved. Only one question remained: Why then had the farmer also fled?
All eyes were on him, but he could only shrug his shoulders in embarrassment. “I was just following him.”
Long ago in northern Burma there was a village with two monasteries, one in the south and the other on the northern border. Both monasteries had impeccable reputations. Each was home to numerous monks and novices; each received many visitors from the village who came to pray or offer alms. Even so, there was a spirit of rivalry between the two, as well as between their abbots, both of whom were learned, wise, and pious. At the heart of their rivalry was the following disagreement: The abbot of the southern monastery believed firmly in the power of the stars, while the northern abbot thought astrology was a fraud.
The Long Path to Wisdom Page 9