I was flat on the floor with my head bowed, forehead nearly touching the ground and my legs tucked under me. I didn’t look up until the monks had sat down on the mat in front of the Buddha statues.
It was my birthday. I was dressed in traditional Burmese clothes, sitting on the floor with my palms together in front of my chest, a gesture that I’d learnt ever since I was aware of my being. The simultaneous chanting of the Buddhist monks reverberated throughout our house echoing from the ceiling and the shrine where Buddha statues were kept. Despite being low on the scale of tunefulness, the monotonous chanting was strangely peaceful to my accustomed ears. The sight of the monks in their saffron robes, heads shaved and faces peaceful, brought comfort to my anxious 16-year-old mind. My dad, my mum, a few of our relatives and some guests were all sitting on the floor facing the monks, eyes cast downward, palms held together, listening attentively to the sound of the Buddhist chanting.
My parents had invited the monks to our house specially for my birthday. They believed that the monks would bring me luck because in a few months’ time, I would be taking my matriculation exam that would determine the path of my adult life. My parents were hoping that I would earn enough distinctions to go to medical school. Then I would become a doctor and they would be the proud parents. I sensed their expectations acutely. I was stressed and highly anxious. I couldn’t concentrate on my studies. I kept struggling not to cave in under the huge weight of pressure that I seemed to be carrying all the time.
I didn’t want to disappoint my parents. I desperately wanted to make them happy and proud of me. Whether I would like the profession or not didn’t even enter my head. But the greater the burden, the less I was able to concentrate.
That morning, the peaceful presence of the monks provided a temporary respite. I felt as if Buddha was on my side and somehow, I’d be able to live up to my parents’ standards.
That day, our family got up at 3 am. My mum, my dad and a few relatives started cooking breakfast for the monks. I was woken up too, but was told to stay out of the way since I didn’t even know how to crack an egg. “Just get yourself ready, put on those clothes I set out for you and brush that messy hair of yours!” my mum said. While everyone was clanging and clattering around the house, I reluctantly slipped into the traditional clothes my mum had put aside for me. Plain long-sleeved mandarin collared top with a somewhat colourful wrapped skirt that covered my legs down to the ankles. I hated wearing those. I always ended up looking like a colourful stick with a mess of black fuzz on top. You could almost have picked me up, turned me upside down and started mopping the floor with me. Whenever I complained about my look, my mum would say, “Good! You’re not old enough to look pretty yet. You can just focus on your studies without distraction.” I complained to my dad too. But funnily enough, he came out with the same lines as my mum. No help there.
Anyway, in their monastery, monks get up at 4 o’clock every morning. They have breakfast at around 5 am, followed by their morning routine of religious practice, scripture studies, chores around the monastery and so on. Lunch is around 11 am. The monks have a strict rule that doesn’t allow them to eat anything after 12 noon. So, it’s critical that they have their meals on time.
On this special day, the monks agreed to come to our house for breakfast and then to give us teachings and sermons, especially to that small troubled 16-year-old girl who could use all the luck she could get her hands on.
At around 4:30 am, the monks filed in, led by the most senior. Everyone sat on the floor, some near the front door, with our heads bowed welcoming the holy men. My uncle wiped their bare feet with a clean towel.
The monks sat cross-legged around the squat round table and ate their breakfast comprised of at least 7 different dishes, steamed rice and noodles. The monks had to have their meal first before we mere mortals could have ours. Monks are sacred, so people are not supposed to join in or eat at the same time as them.
Breakfast over, my parents humbly handed out their donations to the monks. Money, new robes and other items that the monks would need were presented with both hands and heads bowed while the monks briefly touched every gift to signify their acceptance. After that, we gathered around sitting on the floor facing the monks with our palms together, a deferential gesture reserved for Buddha, monks and elders. Next, the monks gave us a lecture on Buddhist principles and how to live life, how to have peace etc … while I tried desperately to stay awake. Then they all started chanting together which brought me back to the land of the living. They do this to bring devout Buddhists peace and luck. Was I devout? I’m not sure, but the monks’ peaceful faces certainly gave me a break from my worries.
When the monks were gone, the rest of us gathered around the low round table and ate our meal. But there was no birthday cake or presents, even though it was my birthday that we were celebrating. I wasn’t even aware that in some other parts of the world, there was such a thing as birthday cake. And people put candles on it and blew them out. What a strange thing to do!
I turned 16 that day, forced out of bed at 3 am and made to wear clothes I hated. No birthday cake for me. No birthday presents. Just the blessing of those calm faced monks in saffron robes that flapped in the cool morning breeze as they walked away.