by Arif Anwar
One more day. One more day.
Who better than a devout Buddhist by his side as he explores this valley? If this day can be an island of calm in this endless ocean of war they find themselves in, it will be a good one.
HE stops writing at three. The sun has rolled to the west, still strong but at a less fierce angle. Shadows have spilled across the bronzed, parched valley. There is the hint of a breeze. The chirrup and buzz of insects. He shakes Tadashi awake.
They leave the road, venture forth into the plains, cross acres of fallow land, descend and ascend dry canals, dust plumes dogging their steps as they pass temples with darkly inviting entrances.
They discover one that is smaller than the others but tall, its three stories terminating in a wide pavilion at the summit. Removing their shoes at the door and bowing, they enter. A large statue of the Buddha sits under a vaulted roof, his eyes closed, his smile serene and knowing. The thumb and index finger of each of his raised hands—one palm pointing out and the other in—connect into circles. Tadashi kneels for a quick prayer, as does Ichiro, out of respect. They finish and ascend the narrow, worn steps that wind up the temple’s side.
Accustomed to the darkness of the interior, they emerge blinking at the fierce golden brightness that accosts them at the pavilion. But once their eyes adjust, the men behold what lies before them with silent wonder.
The valley is flooded with the light of the dying sun, cradled by the jagged outlines of the Arakan Yomas and the Irrawaddy’s shimmering curves, studded with countless temples both spired and blunt-topped. Some are a weathered white, others as dark as night. Many a blood red that is stark against the yellow-brown of the dale. They number so many it is as though the Earth, in rivalry with the heavens, has birthed its own constellation.
Tadashi falls to his knees while Ichiro lets the unreal wonder of the sight fill him, each fiber of him resonating to the soundless music that emanates from this sacred place.
After some time, Tadashi rises, places a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll never forget this sight, Ichiro. Thank you for bringing me here.”
They descend and head to the grand temples they spied in the distance. In that moment, Ichiro feels like Solomon Kane, Allan Quatermain—the pulp novel heroes of his childhood—as they traverse a city that appears to be crafted by the gods themselves, following wide, straight avenues that connect towering stupas of corroding mortar.
Occasionally veering into deserted temples, their calls ringing in the barren interiors, they explore the valley until dusk descends. But for them, the only other creatures are made of stone—snarling chinthe that flank entrances, majestic karaweik birds that sit atop spires.
The air cools, and whippoorwills call out, the haunting cries making Ichiro anxious to find shelter for the night.
“Let’s camp here,” he tells Tadashi as they approach a large temple, the sky behind it the hue of strong Indian tea.
The temple interior is vast and oblong, dominated by a giant reclining Buddha breathtaking in size, painted a shimmering gold. Its head is cradled in one colossal palm, the eyes half-closed from the weight of eternity.
At the foot of the great statue, a lone monk sweeps the floor with a long-handled broom, the first living creature they have encountered in this desolate valley.
The rustle of their uniforms startles the monk from his task. He stands straight, his face obscured in shadow as Ichiro and Tadashi convey with a mix of gestures and pidgin Burmese that they seek shelter. There is a pregnant silence when they finish, after which the monk makes a grunt of assent, seizes a hurricane lantern winking in an alcove and gestures for them to follow.
He takes them around the statue and into a winding low-ceilinged hallway that leads to a small room—bare but featuring a clean floor on which the travelers can lay their bedrolls. They express their appreciation with bows that the monk does not acknowledge. Rather, he leads them to an adjacent washroom, equipped with carved stone stalls and basins filled with clear water. He sets the lantern on the ground and departs, apparently more comfortable in the darkness than they.
The men wash, change and rest. While Tadashi is in a state of serene acceptance of how events have transpired, Ichiro brims with excitement as the scale of their adventure expands.
“It feels like an incredible coincidence,” he whispers to Tadashi. “That this monk would be in the very temple where we chose to spend the night.”
As though summoned by his words, there is the sound of a throat being cleared at the doorway. The monk has returned bearing three bowls on a tray—Burmese noodles in broth.
The men sit down to sup. The dish is simple. Hot and delicious. They focus their attention on the food until their bowls are empty.
They follow the monk out to the hallway afterward, their marker the blue rectangle of night showing through the doorway. He leads them out to the courtyard, where, perched on the elevated pavilion that surrounds the temple, they can see the moonlight that now floods the valley, drowns out the stars, the temple a ship adrift in an ocean of silver-blue.
The monk retrieves cigarettes from the folds of his robe, lights them. They smoke and take in the night, the scent of unnamed flowers wrapping around them like warm scarves.
Ichiro makes another attempt to engage. He gestures to the temple and utters the Burmese word for name.
“It has no name,” says the monk in accented but clear English.
He laughs at the shocked silence that follows, raises the lantern to a face that is a tanned pink, the eyes an ice-blue.
“Are you surprised?” he asks. The accent sounds Germanic to Ichiro.
“Yes. We thought you were Burmese,” Ichiro replies in English. Not having spoken the language in some time, he finds that he must first consciously arrange the words in his head.
“Are you German?”
“Austrian.”
“Würden Sie es bevorzugen, Deutsch zu sprechen?” Ichiro asks, knowing that his phrasing is too formal.
It is the monk’s turn to be surprised. “Ja,” he says and continues in German. “Where did you learn the language?”
“We were selected for the army while in university. We were both students of philosophy. German and English were among the languages we were expected to master to read books by Western philosophers. My name is Washi Ichiro. My friend is Nakagawa Tadashi.”
Tadashi addresses the monk for the first time. “May we inquire as to your name, Holy One?”
The monk waves a weary, dismissive hand. “Back when such things mattered, I was called Julian. Julian Krähe. Now I’m just an old man living in a temple.”
Where the grass meets the trees beyond the wall, a patch of black moves against the night. It snorts and turns a massive head toward them, eyes glinting in the moonlight. We are in the land of gods and monsters, thinks Ichiro.
The beast assesses them for some time, then snuffles and lumbers off into the trees.
“Buffalo,” says Julian. “Sometimes they are attracted to the light.”
“Are there more dangerous animals here?” asks Ichiro.
“If by that you mean animals with claws and teeth, that eat flesh, then yes, there may be leopards or tigers here still, although I can’t say that I’ve ever encountered one. In any case, fire and light seem sufficient to keep them at bay.”
The monk lifts the lantern, giving them another look at his typically European face—long, strong-jawed. With his wrinkles, Ichiro estimates the man’s age to be anywhere between forty-five and sixty. “But as for things that are actually dangerous, that already have and will do further harm, there is only you.”
“What do you mean?”
The monk extracts another cigarette and lights it in an unhurried manner. “Let me ask you this: Why have you come here now?”
“We heard much about Bagan. Given the many Buddhist temples here, and being from a country where the religion is widely practiced, we were curious to see it.”
“That does not answer m
y question.”
“Why not?”
Julian shakes his head. “You are intelligent young men, yet you play dumb. I am not asking you what you’re doing here on this very day and at this very moment. When I say you, I do not mean you as an individual, I mean you in the collective, the plural, the nation of Japan. When I say here, I do not mean this very ground, the temple or these steps. I mean the nation of Burma. And when I say now, I do not mean today or this evening, I mean the last six months.”
Dark shapes fly overhead, flaps of leathery wings so close that Ichiro can smell the creatures’ musk. The bats that roost in the nooks of the temple. At that moment, under the stars, shadow and the limitless night sky, he feels as though they are the only three people on Earth, that its fate rests in their hands. A thousand thoughts clamor in him for release. For months he has never dared put forth his questions about the war anywhere but in his journal. Now the opportunity has arrived to unburden himself.
That is the intention with which he opens his mouth, but what emerges instead surprises and disappoints him.
“We are here to fight for a continent free of colonial aggression from Westerners, one where all of Asia can stand united against exploitative Western powers,” he says in a monotone. The shame of his cowardice heats his ears.
“You don’t even believe that yourself,” says Julian. “So, I ask you again why you’re really here.”
Tadashi replies before Ichiro can, quietly but with the finality of a mahogany coffin. “We are here to fight because we were asked to by our emperor. We fight for Japan’s interests first and foremost. All else is secondary.”
Julian is puffing away, the moon above his head now wreathed in smoke. “At least your friend here does not hide behind platitudes.”
He directs the next question to Tadashi. “Are you a Buddhist?”
“Yes, Holy One.”
“And you believe in bloodshed?”
Tadashi does not answer. The monk looks to Ichiro. “How about you?”
“Are you asking about what religion I practice or whether I believe in bloodshed?”
“Take your pick.”
Ichiro tells the monk that although he is a Christian, like many in Japan, he follows Shinto ceremonies for birth and would follow Buddhist ones for death.
“So your life terminates in Buddhist principles. Should not the rest follow?”
A slow simmering indignation reaches a boil in Ichiro. “But are you the right one to lecture us? How long have you been following the Buddhist way? Are there not monks in China who have mastered the sword, spear and bow? Who move to defend their temples at the slightest threat, not hesitating to spill blood? Peace is priceless, Holy One, but it is not free.”
“All good points,” Julian says. The moon, resembling a pale grapefruit, haloes his head. He takes a final drag of his cigarette and extinguishes the stub against the stone of the banister. “As you say, being an outsider to your religion, I have no standing to lecture you. And indeed I am not. But is it that impertinent of me to ask a few questions?”
Though the monk seems unoffended, there is a pause in the conversation in which Ichiro becomes embarrassed by his outburst.
“How did you find your way to the Buddha?” Tadashi asks eventually.
“It is a long tale, better suited for another venue and occasion. For now it is enough for you to know that it happened while I was a soldier—much like you—in the Great War.”
Ichiro does not miss this opportunity to twist the knife. “I find it odd that you are so quick to judge us, given that you too partook in a war no more just than this one.”
Julian nods. “For some time. But then I followed a path east. For I met a man who taught me the values of patience, enthusiastic effort, generosity, ethical discipline, focus and wisdom—the six perfections of the Buddha.”
“Perhaps,” Ichiro says. “But not all of us have the luxury of pursuing a peaceful, godly life. Not yet, at least. Some of us still have an obligation to our nations.”
“And what do you think of those who reject those obligations? Are they cowards?”
“I was almost one of them,” says Ichiro, recalling the beatings from their superiors, the ritualized humiliations of military training.
“What do you fear?” asks Julian.
“The same thing as others: death. I could hear a thousand tales of heaven, of the afterlife, but deep down the fear of the black void pervades.”
“Then why do you choose to fight?”
How could he make the monk understand the fever of the nation when he enlisted? To a Japan dreaming of glory, blinded by it, the air was thick with the germ of war. “I could have chosen not to. By right of primogeniture, firstborn sons are exempt from military service, as are students and teachers. I was both when the army enlistment officers visited our university. But not enlisting was not acceptable. Refusing the call to war was not acceptable. Shaming my family with my cowardice was not acceptable. So, I volunteered. The government accelerated our degrees so that we could graduate early and join the army as soon as possible.”
“Is the fear of shaming your parents not cowardice also?”
“Should they suffer because I refuse to do my duty?”
“Should you suffer by obeying? Should others? Is your duty to your God or to your nation?”
“It is to both. I am here because a part of me believes in the mission. Western nations have been sucking the Orient dry for centuries. They have scoured Africa and Asia clean of resources. They stockpile gold, gems, wood and oil, draining it out of earth that belongs to the yellow man, the brown, the black, the red. Whatever small hand I can have in preventing that, and as part of however flawed and cruel a machine, I would take that opportunity, yes. But to answer your question, by being here, I serve God. Your retreat from the world and society is a selfish act. History will swirl around you while you mop your temple floor. Perhaps its tides of violence will break at your door, sweep you away. The difference is that I jumped into the waters while you stood back and waited for it to arrive.”
Julian scoffs. “Mighty words. Is it your contention that the Empire of Japan will deliver this salvation? What have you done to differentiate yourself from the British and the French? I have a shortwave radio. Your tales of cruelty and atrocities are fast becoming infamous. You think we haven’t heard of what happened in China four years ago?”
The monk’s reference to the Nanking Massacre shakes Ichiro. “That was before my time in the army. I have no doubt that many wrongs were committed in China, but it is possible that some reports are being exaggerated.”
Tadashi startles Ichiro by speaking, his voice heavy with acceptance. “They’re not exaggerations, Ichiro. You and I both know that. Even Matsui admitted to it afterward.”
Of course not. How much longer could he pretend that they were? Why should he expect an army that treats the lives of its soldiers with such disdain—throwing them at the fortresses of the enemy like so many bags of meat—to treat those of others any better? Ichiro stares at his friend, who has walked a few steps away and contemplates the moonlit valley with his back to them.
Even as his future dims, the past becomes sharper, until memories glitter with a diamond’s edge. Those days of university seem so long ago. He and Tadashi were two of the many first-years who had escaped to a cheap izakaya after their first day of classes. He did not like shochu, but kept drinking that first night after Tadashi told him that all drinks taste the same after the third one. They sang the words to “Dekansho” (for Descartes, Kant, and Schopenhauer) along with the others, bonding over the fact that they were both from Kansai, spoke the same dialect. The remainder of the evening, and the next three years, passed quickly. Too quickly.
He turns to Julian. “Would you have us lay down our arms? Declare that we are no longer willing to fight for this cause? We would be shot for even having this conversation with you.”
“I have no doubt,” says Julian. “I would not presume to give you
advice. Wait here a moment.”
He hops off the banister and reenters the temple. He is gone no more than a few minutes before returning with several cups made of fired clay and a large jug that he lifts up so the others can have a whiff of the pungent liquid within.
“Fermented from palm syrup,” he explains. “I have a man who passes by every week. Kind enough to supply an old man with drink and batteries, among other things.”
They stay awake for hours more. Talking at first, and as the liquor dissolves the sombre mood, laughing and even singing Burmese ditties that Julian teaches them. At one point, Julian expands on the tale of his arrival to the religion of the Buddha, of his origins. The men listen, rapt, to the extraordinary circumstances that defined the monk’s youth, that set him on his current course.
When they return to the shadow-inked interior of the temple—hours past midnight—the statue of the Buddha looks even grander than before to Ichiro, as though it has been gorging on the darkness. He lies on his bedroll and wonders why it was so hard to reconcile his private self with his public. Why he was so eager to defend his nation’s aggression against this most unexpected of men. He always thought himself immune to the blind tribalism that leads a man to say my country, right or wrong, yet it was Tadashi, quiet Tadashi, who rose to the occasion and did not flinch when asked to look at all that Japan has wrought on the world.
HE rises, sore and tired, when timid light arrives through the lancet windows set high on the wall, at dawn. Tadashi remains in his bedroll. Julian is nowhere to be found.
He washes his face in the basin and ventures outside.
The valley sparkles under the early light sweeping across the woods. Compared to the heat of the previous day, the morning is blessedly cool. He walks to where the grass meets the trees and finds the hoofprints of the buffalo from the previous night. A flower has fallen into one of the indentations left by the creature. He lifts it to his face. Small and white, with yellow anthers, the flower releases an alluring scent when he rubs it.