MUNG BAW
Returning one evening from a lively dinner at the “Barn,” Shafto was
surprised to see a light in his room, and still more surprised to find
the _pongye_ once again seated on his bed.
“Oh, so you’ve come back!” he exclaimed aghast, and a shadow of
annoyance settled on his face.
“I have so,” calmly responded this late visitor; “as I was passing I
thought I’d give you a call in. I came down a couple of weeks back—as I
have some small business here and wanted to show myself to a doctor. I
don’t hold with them native medicines and charms, and I’m inclined to a
weakness in me inside.”
“Why, you look as strong as a horse!” was Shafto’s unsympathetic
rejoinder, as he sank into a chair and pulled out a cigarette. The
_pongye_ contributed a special personal atmosphere, composed of
turmeric, woollen stuff and some fiercely pungent herb.
“Looks is deceitful, and so is many a fine fellow,” observed the
_pongye_ in a dreamy voice. After this pronouncement he relapsed into a
reflective silence—a silence which conveyed the subtle suggestion that
the visitor was charged with some weighty mission. At any rate, it was
useless for Shafto to think of undressing and going to bed, since his
couch was already occupied by the holy man, who appeared to be
established for the night.
Interpreting Shafto’s envious glance, he said:
“You’ll excuse me sitting on the _charpoy_, but I’ve got entirely out
of the use of chairs, and me bones are too stiff to sit doubled up on
the floor like a skewered chicken.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Shafto, who was very sleepy. “I suppose
you have just come from Upper Burma?”
“Yes, that’s the part I most belong to and that suits me. I can’t do
with this soft, wet climate, though I am an Irishman. I’m from Mogok,
that’s the ruby mine district, but what I like best is the real jungle.
Oh, you’d love to see the scenery and to walk through miles and miles
of grand trees on the Upper Chindwin; forests blazing with flowers and
alive with birds, not to speak of game. Many’s the time I’ve been
aching for the hould of a gun, but, of course, it was an evil thought.”
“Your religion forbids you to take life?”
“That’s true; I’ve not tasted meat for years, but there’s not a word to
be said agin fish or an odd egg.”
“Tell me something more about your new faith!”
“Well now, let me think,” said the _pongye_ meditatively. “We have no
regular service for marriage or burial, and no preaching. We keep the
five great rules—poverty, chastity, honesty, truth, and respect all
life. There are two hundred and twenty-seven precepts besides. Most men
can say them off out of the big book of the Palamauk, and there are
stacks and stacks—thousands of stacks—of sacred writings, but I just
stick to the five commandments, the path of virtue and the daily
prayers. The singing and chanting is in Pali—a wonderful fine, loud
language. Many of the _pongyes_ is teachers, for every boy in Burma
passes through their hands; but I’m no schoolmaster, though I was once
a clerk in the Orderly room. I could not stand the gabble of them
scholars, all roaring out the same words at the top of their voices for
hours together.”
“I can’t imagine how you pass your time,” remarked Shafto, “or how you
stand the idleness—a man like you who were accustomed to an active
life.”
“Oh, I get through me day all right. In the early morning there’s
prayers and a small refreshment, and I sit and meditate; the young
fellows, like novices, sweep and carry water and put flowers about the
Buddha; then we all go with our bowls in our hands, parading through
the village, looking neither right nor left, but we get all we want and
more—for giving is a great merit. When we return to the _kyoung_ we
have our big midday meal, and then for a few hours I meditate again.
The life suits me. It’s a different country from India, with its
blazing sun and great bare plains; there the people seldom has a smile
on them. Here they are always laughing; here all is green and
beautiful, with fine aisy times for flowers and birds and beasts.
There’s peace and kindness. Oh! it’s a fine change from knocking about
in barracks and cantonments, drilling and route-marching and sweating
your soul out. By the way, have ye the talisman I give you?”
“If you mean the brown stone—yes.”
“That stone was slipped into my begging-bowl one day.”
“Not much of a find as an eatable!”
“That is so, though according to fairy tales the likes has dropped out
of people’s mouths before now. Ye may not suspicion the truth, but it’s
a fine big ruby! I believe it was found stuck in red mud in the ruby
district, and someone who had a wish for me dropped it into the
_patta_, and I—who have a wish for you—pass it on.”
“But if it is so valuable I could not dream of accepting such a gift,”
protested Shafto. “You will have to take it back—thanks awfully, all
the same.”
“Oh, ye never rightly know the price of them stones till they are cut;
but the knowledgeable man I showed it to said it might be worth a
couple of thousand pounds, and I’ve come to tell ye this—so that ye can
turn it into coin—and if ye wanted to get out of Burma, there ye are!”
“That _is_ most awfully good of you, but I really could not think of
accepting your treasure, or its value in money—and I have no wish to
leave Burma, the country suits me all right.”
As he ceased speaking Shafto got up, unlocked a leather dispatch box
and produced the ruby, which he placed in the large, well-kept hand of
the visitor.
“Well, now, I call this entirely too bad!” the latter exclaimed as he
turned it over. “An’ I need not tell ye that I can make no use of the
ruby, being vowed to poverty—which you are not; and I want to offer
some small return for what ye did for me last time I was down in
Rangoon. I can’t think what ails ye to be so stiff-necked; is there
nothing at all I can do for ye?”
“Well, Mung Baw, since you put it like that, I believe you could give
me what would be far more use than a stone—some valuable help.”
“Valuable help!” repeated the _pongye_, adjusting false horn spectacles
and staring hard. “Then as far as it’s in me power the help of every
bone in me body is yours and at your service.”
“Thank you. Now, tell me, have you ever heard of the cocaine trade in
Burma?”
“Is it cocaine? To be sure! It’s playing the mischief in Rangoon and
all over the country.”
“I want you to lend a hand in stopping it; if we could only discover
the headquarters of the trade, it would be worth a thousand rubies.”
“I have a sort of notion I could put me finger on a man that runs the
concern; ever since he come into Burma he has been pushing the world
before him and doing a great business. From my position, being part
native, part British, part civilian, and more or less a priest of the
country and clever at languages, I’ve learnt a few things I was never
intinded to know.”
“Then I expect you have picked up some facts about cocaine smuggling?”
“That’s true, though I never let it soak into me mind; but from this
out I promise ye I’ll meditate upon it.”
“If you can help the police to burst up this abominable traffic you
will deserve to go to the highest heaven in the Buddhist faith.”
“I’ll do my best; I can say no fairer. I’m sorry ye won’t take the
ruby,”—turning it over regretfully. “Maybe your young lady would fancy
it? It would look fine in a ring!”
“But I have no young lady, Mung Baw.”
“Is that so?” He paused as if to consider the truth of this statement,
cleared his throat and went on: “The other day, when I was down by the
lake, I saw a young fellow, the very spit of yourself, riding alongside
of a mighty pretty girl on a good-looking bay thoroughbred?”
Here he again paused, apparently awaiting a reply, but none being
forthcoming, resumed:
“And now, before I go, I want to give ye what ye can’t refuse or
return—and that’s a wise word. It was not entirely the ruby stone as
brought me here—it was some loose talk.”
“Loose talk, Mung Baw, and you a Buddhist priest! I’m astonished!”
“Yes, talk straight out of Fraser Street, my son. Many of our priests
are holy saints; altogether too good to live; with no thought whatever
of the world—given over entirely to prayer and self-denial, blameless
and without one wicked thought; but there does be others that is
totally different. ’Tis the same in a regiment—good soldiers and
blackguards. Some of the _pongyes_, when the prayers is done, spend all
their days gossiping, chewing betel nut and raking through
bazaar—_mud_!” Then suddenly he leant forward and stared at his
companion as if he were searching for something in his face, as he
asked: “Do you happen to know a girl called ‘Ma Chit’?”
Shafto moved uneasily in his creaking wicker chair; after a moment’s
hesitation he replied:
“Yes, I know her.”
“Don’t let her put the ‘Comether’ on you! These Burmese dolls have a
wonderful way with them. She’s a gabby little monkey, and they say she
has chucked Bernard and taken a terrible fancy to you! I would be main
sorry to see you mixed up with one of these young devils—for I know you
are a straight-living gentleman.”
“There is not the smallest chance of my being what you call ‘mixed up’
with any young devil,” said Shafto in a sulky voice. “As for Ma
Chit—she is not the sort you suppose.”
“Oh, may be not,” rejoined the _pongye_ in a dubious tone. “Still, I
know Burma—lock, stock and barrel, and a sight better nor you. Av
course, I never spake to a woman and give them all a wide berth—but I
cannot keep me ears shut. Listen to me, sir. These young torments have
no scruple. Ma Chit is dead set on you, and that’s the pure truth. Now,
there’s one thing I ask and beg—never take or smoke a cigarette she
might offer.”
“Not likely! I only smoke Egyptians, or a pipe. But tell me—why am I to
refuse Ma Chit’s cigarettes?”
“The reason is this, and a good one—these black scorpions employ what
they call ‘love charms.’ Oh yes, laugh, laugh, laugh away! But one of
these charms would soon make you laugh the wrong side of your mouth.
They are deadly, let me tell you; a cigarette loaded with a certain
drug has been the ruin of more than one fine young fellow. I
disremember the name of the stuff—it begins with an ‘M,’ and is surely
made in hell itself, for it drives a man stark mad. Once he smokes it
he falls into a pit and is lost for ever, body and soul.”
“Come, I say, isn’t this a bit too thick, Mung Baw?”
“Well, you ask the doctors. There’s a good few cases of lunacy and
suicide in this country—all caused by a love charm; so when Ma Chit
sidles up, showing her teeth, and offers you a smoke—you will know what
to do. Now,” concluded the visitor, scrambling to his feet, “I must be
on the move. I am stopping for a while at the big Pongye Kyoung, near
the Turtle Tank, and if you should happen to be riding round that way,
we might have a talk on this cocaine business. If I am to go into it,
neck and crop, I can’t be coming about here—as it would excite
suspicion.”
“All right then; I’ll turn up and you will report progress; but how am
I to spot you among the crowd of priests?”
“Easy enough!” replied Mung Baw, drawing himself up to his full height;
“I’m the tallest _pongye_ in Rangoon.”
“Yes, no doubt. Burmese are a bit undersized.”
“But fine, able-bodied fellows. I suppose you’ve seen the wrestlers?”
“Yes. Now, before you go, can I get you a drink or a smoke?”
“Oh, as for a smoke, I’m thinking your tobacco would not be strong
enough for me, but I don’t say that I wouldn’t like a drink, although I
am a sober man; just the least little taste of whisky and water, as a
sort of souvenir of old times. Ye might bring it in here, for I don’t
want them native chaps makin’ a scandal about me.”
As soon as the _pongye_ had been secretly supplied with a fairly
moderate souvenir, he resumed his sandals, picked up his umbrella and
begging-bowl and, with a military salute to Shafto, swept down the
rickety stairs.