หนังสือบุหลันวรรณกรรม

Aku Pelacur Para Dewa

Pranita Dewi

mestinya tak kuhiraukan gaung langit
petang luput dari wajahku
aku tak tahu di mana ibuku
bintang hampir pudar
dan awan telah tertidur
namun kata-katamu, ibu
jadi debu yang hinggap di jiwaku
gagak berbisik serak
memeram karmaku
tak tahu aku
kapan dosaku lebur
sebab ini malam siwaratri
mungkin esok bisa kurasakan
dosa yang lain
tanpa petang
tanpa awan dan bisik gagak
tubuhku bukan lagi tubuh

;telanjang
tak ada daun pisang menutupi

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 419

segerombolan dewa
duduk di batu putih
adakah mereka ayah dari petang?
dewa-dewa mengarak tubuhku
yang telanjang

melintasi pura
tempat di mana aku harus menyembahnya
pohon kamboja tua tak bersuara
menyaksikan aku digilir para dewa
dewa-dewa menjamahku
aku pelacur bagi para dewa
lantas apa yang mesti kusembah
tubuhku bukan lagi tubuh
dewa-dewa menggelar dosa
di malam siwaratri
kini pada batu-batu putih terbaca
kata-kata, segala kata
dewi-dewi, ibu dari segala ibu
aku menangis bersama petang
menyaksikan sisa tubuhku
yang hilang
Mei 2004

Juru Peta

Zen Hae

: jorge luis borges
ia merasa skala peta itu terlalu kecil. sehingga benua yang ia
tinggali hanya seukuran sarang burung manyar saja. bahkan bumi
tidak lebih besar dari bola keranjang yang pernah menghantam
kepalanya. “jika begitu, bisakah kita mengenali sebuah kuil, kamar
rahasianya, terutama, tempat seorang pembunuh melepaskan jubahnya
ketika orang-orang mengantarkan jenazah kaisar ke pemakaman?”
tanya ia. maka di malam-malam saat kuda-kuda tembaga melintasi
rawa beracun demi musuh abadi dan sebuah bintang melelehkan cahaya
kuning ke dasar sumur sehingga tampaklah sebilah belati dan sebuah
pena, karatan dengan tetesan darah yang telah mengering, tak pernah
ingin menjadi coklat, ia perbaiki kembali peta itu hingga mencapai
ukuran sebenarnya. peta itu jadi dua. di siang hari ia adalah
topeng-tembus-pandang bumi yang mengambang di langit yang
kerap mengelabui penjelajah angkasa luar; di malam hari ia turun
sebagai selimut bagi bumi yang kedinginan, “tidurlah makhluk
yatim-piatu, kaum yang ditampik pintu seribu...”

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 421

“tapi itu peta dengan kepersisan yang merepotkan. tak bisa
dipajang di dinding atau disimpan di dalam laci. bisa membuat para
pengembara tersesat dan gila hingga hari tua.”
pula ia gambar ulang sejumlah peta yang pernah ada.
itulah peta-peta yang menghubungkan kota satu dengan lainnya bukan
dengan jalan atau jalur kereta api dan pesawat terbang, tapi dengan
ingatan akan kepulangan. ia bayangkan: para leluhurnya pernah
mendiami kota-kota yang ia tandai dengan lingkaran merah dan pulang
bukan ke salah satu kota itu, tapi ke kota yang belum pernah mereka
datangi—bahkan, ke kota yang tak termaktub di peta. cuaca sebuah
kota adalah salinan suhu tubuh para penghuninya. gunung-gemunung
menyalin rupa berdasarkan sudut pandang penatap mereka. maka
sebuah gunung yang ditatap dari belakang rumah jagal di akhir musim
dingin bukanlah gunung yang dilongok dari jendela pesawat terbang
menjelang pengasingan meskipun itu hanyalah gunung di garis 70°
bujur barat dan 33° lintang selatan. setiap sungai yang menuju
penjara akan bercabang dua sebelum arus terluarnya bertukar salam
dengan harum darah dari ruang interogasi. adapun hutan-hutan hujan,
tempat gergasi bersisik hijau membutakan matanya supaya tak ada
yang lebih indah daripada sisiknya sendiri, sirna begitu ia tidur dan
menirukan deru kereta.
“tapi mengapa kincir angin pada peta terbitan 1605
tetaplah kincir angin pada peta keluaran 1939? kecuali bahwa kesatria
mabuk cinta di depannya tampak lebih kisut dan lembayung?”
oh, demi planet-planet yang belum ternamai dan bahasa
tanpa kata-benda, peta-peta itu menunggui dirinya ketika sakit. saat
ia mengerang peta-peta itu adalah hujan berlapis-lapis yang
membuat dinding kamarnya berembun dan seorang pemburu tak bisa

422 Bulan Sastra

menembusnya. ia ingat banjir akbar dan sebongkah es raksasa
mengambang di angkasa. seorang yang mirip kekasihnya terbaring
tenang di dalam es itu, membayangkan piknik musim panas dan
perjalanan melingkar ke sebuah telaga, sedang ia seekor arapaima
gigas yang menanti bongkahan es itu meleleh agar terhapus rajah di
sekujur tubuhnya. agar gembira menara-menara gereja yang pernah
menggemakan nyanyian kudus masa kanak-kanaknya. agar kembali
pulang seorang penguasa yang disesatkan di gurun tanpa bintang. tapi
segera peta-peta itu meloloskan diri dari tubuhnya dan berkata: “kami
adalah cakrawala yang mampu menyusut hingga seukuran kotak korek
api. bisa tidur nyenyak di saku celana atau berkhidmat sebagai
pembatas buku.”
“musnahlah segala peta. tamatlah riwayat pembuatnya.
putuslah garis silsilahnya...”
ketika senja peta-peta itu kembali ke haribaannya.
berdebu, kehilangan skala dan tahun pembuatan. maka ia bakar
mereka dan membiarkan asap memenuhi kamar buku-bukunya.
antara rabun siang dan rabun senja ia merasa seseorang menuntunnya ke
sebuah cermin dan tidak tahu lagi yang manakah dirinya: yang masuk
atau yang keluar dari cermin. tapi cermin itulah rupa terakhir pelayan
rahasianya; lelaki kisut yang meminjamkan tubuh untuknya. sehingga
pemburu itu tak bisa menemukan sang juru peta untuk selamanya.
kecuali seorang lelaki kisut dengan mata yang terus menguning, yang
tak meminta ampun ketika sebilah pedang menembus dadanya, darah
membasahi cermin di depannya.
2010



English Section

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 425

Thai Short Stories

The wind of thought

Pichedsak Popayak
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

In a brain rotten like a rusty knife ready to break when tapped gently
on a log…
He must be an ogre or a living ghost, assuredly. How can
a decent person stay in a house like that, a house as messy as a tiger’s
den? Or can he be a man-tiger? But men-tigers disappeared from the
jungle even before our fathers’ generation. Our generation has only
heard tales about them. Or could this creature have learned some
magic during its time in the jungle? I hear our young ones say the
fellow has been everywhere.
Those youngsters! Why can’t they hang out with decent
people? They just can’t help nosing around someone like this.
Some people have gone inside his place to clear their doubts
about how he lives. But they didn’t find anything strange or illegal,
except for some abstruse paintings hanging on the walls or piled up
on the floor under a sheet of plastic. His house, despite those
abstruse paintings, is clean and cosy. Everywhere is as tidy and
well-kept as temple grounds, even the garden which he seems to sweep
nattily with a coconut-leaf broom. All this contradicts his appearance:

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 427

long, sloppy hair and unkempt beard and moustache. No matter how
clean his house is kept, the crowd of trees makes it look like a tiger’s
den.
Some say that if he had his hair cut and his beard and
moustache shaved, he would look decent or even fairly handsome.
Whether this is true or not, the old man doesn’t want to jump to
conclusions. The thing is he doesn’t like his looks, so he is suspicious
and not too favourably disposed towards him.
As for those piled-up paintings, people who have seen them
don’t know what he is trying to show. They are of odd groups of
colours. How odd? The old man doesn’t know because that was all
he heard. Those who went there didn’t take a close look; their
stories remained slight and intangible, like lingering strands of fog in
the morning. Another thing found in the house was a bong, but it had
obviously not been used for a long time. This type of thing, though
illegal, can be owned for decorative purposes. But then, oh, no way!
How crazy is a guy with an unused bong? Or is he
really crazy? It’s a thought, considering his sloppy looks and
deaf-like quietness as if a stone was anchored to his lips. Those few
people who have heard him speak say that his speech is
courteous, but you need to initiate a conversation with him. How
demanding! He acts as if he came from an upper class and was
entitled to arrogance. They say he’s well-educated. But the old man
doubts if he really graduated. Probably not; otherwise, he would live
a different life. How odd that Mr Mi, the teacher, let his house
without screening the tenant! But isn’t Mr Mi another odd bod?
He can watch the sunlight and the rain for hours. What he says is not
quite comprehensible. The good thing is that he is generous, and
never turns down any request. His students love him very much, even

428 Bulan Sastra

though everybody agrees that understanding the world is easier than
understanding Mr Mi. What kind of a teacher is he? He never irons
his shirt and wears it crumpled. His hair has never known a comb.
One thing in common to both is that they are men of few words.
Although Mr Mi smiles and is friendly with everybody, he only gives
short answers when asked. They are reputedly like that, those art
teachers; if it isn’t one crazy thing, then it’s another. But when he
teaches his students, Mr Mi isn’t as quiet as other people know him
to be. He’s so talkative that it’s a mystery where he gets all those
words of his. His students laugh out loud a lot, so that the drawing
class usually boring for those without talent turns into a magical hour.
That’s why all his students love him.
And that was how Mr Mi got to know that strange guy, who
is also a painter. Now Mr Mi is said to have sent him to further his
studies in the main provincial town. Only once in a long while does
the fellow return to the house the teacher has let out to him.
People also talk about his group of friends who come to
visit and stay until dawn. Umm, are they a danger to society? This is
worth considering. These days no one surrenders to anyone. The old
man has gone through so many seasons that he thinks he has enough
worldly wisdom, but he still can’t understand how that
fellow lives his life. He doesn’t seem to be normal like the rest of us,
but he isn’t holy either. Old Phrom is an example of a holy person.
Yes, Old Phrom – the real Holy Being. He is the angel who cures
diseases and gives blessings to all. The old man himself doesn’t believe
in Old Phrom. Without the spirit who uses him as its medium, Old
Phrom is just a limping gaffer whose days are numbered. But when
he is possessed by the Holy Spirit, that old man, amazingly, can walk
normally.

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 429

In the evening the young fellow rides his bicycle along
paddy fields and small paths. Rarely will he join the same route as
other folks, except on the days he has to travel to town. The old man,
So by name, doesn’t intend to keep an eye on him, but in this quiet
little village people who act strangely always stand out without any
self-promotion or any particular neighbourhood watch. This young
man seems to have come from a strange planet in the sky. Could he
be an alien? No, an ogre, that’s what he is.
Old So broods on, wondering why he is so concerned with
other people’s business. Is it because of his job of tending cattle, which
leaves him too much spare time, that he can pick every happening and
adumbrate it with his imagination, turning it into a new story at will?
Old So believes that if it were old times, one who acted differently
would be driven away from the village undoubtedly with the
accusation of being an ogre.
He thinks of Ms Lamyai. At the time he was young and wild,
climbing trees and playing on tree tops with his friends; sometimes
they would fight and roll on the ground. In those days no car ran
through the village. He even doubts there were any motorcycles back
then. His brain is like an entirely rusty knife: blunt and fragile, a
gentle tap on a log could break it to pieces.
Ms Lamyai had been strange since childhood as she
suffered seizures without warning – seizures as when someone takes
rat poison, with foam coming out of the mouth. When Old So was
growing up, Lamyai was almost thirty years old, an old maid in those
days. Who would have wanted her as his wife given that she suffered
from epilepsy? Despite her prolonged illness, Lamyai was a beautiful
woman. She was ravishing like a nymph stepping out of a wood. Her
lips were strokes of red; her hair was silky and waist-long. No one

430 Bulan Sastra

could touch her long hair; merely pretending to cut it would trigger a
seizure. When the seizure was severe, her face changed altogether, to
put it mildly. The truth is that from a human being she turned into a
devil. Her silky long hair as black as onyx became frizzy, dry and
muddled. Her moonlight-radiant face became grotesque; her eyebrows
frowned like those of a stone giant guarding a temple entrance.
Her gnarled, swollen veins, now green and as big as pinkies, bulging
and twisted like thick vine, ran through her entire body, and
especially her face, with knots of veins hunched up as on a gargoyle.
Those green veins were similar to ancient Khmer letters. Her eyes,
dark red, shone like fireballs or like the eyes of wild animals at night.
After a while, about half a match of fighting cocks, she would get up
and gaze vacantly in front of her without looking at anyone in
particular. Actually when Lamyai had a seizure, the children had no
chance to watch her as it was totally forbidden, because adults feared
that the ogre would target children instead, and at the very least eat
their livers and kidneys. Old So saw Lamyai’s seizure at least four or
five times, so he knew it well. When Lamyai screamed, people in her
house shouted for their neighbours’ help in pinning her down, to
prevent her from darting out of the house, and in straining to open her
mouth and stuff it with a cloth or dried coconut husk to prevent her
from biting her tongue to death.
During her seizure, it took six or seven sturdy men to hold
her down. Even so, sometimes they were pushed aside as if they were
just children or light objects. At such times when screams for help
were heard, Old So and his friend Yong would climb up the big
rubber tree thirty yards from Lamyai’s house and hide in its thick
foliage, unnoticed by anyone given the prevailing chaos.

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 431

In the old days, there wasn’t much entertainment as there is
today. Mishaps didn’t happen every day as they do now. Lamyai didn’t
often have seizures, just two or three a year. Once it happened, the
incident would be discussed for months. When the gossip died down,
she would have a new seizure, as if the villagers’ entertainment of
terror was meant to be permanent.
Old So and Yong, who died before he was entitled to the
same seniority-induced term of address, could be said to be very
adventurous as they dared to climb and hide in the big rubber tree. If
anything, that tree was the home of the communal spirit whose
inspiration had led to the settlement of the first group of villagers. Old
So remembers how utterly scared he was, but curiosity trumped his
fear. The big rubber tree was more of a taboo than watching Lamyai
being possessed. So both friends took an oath that it would forever be
their secret because if people found out, they would be whipped
severely all over as punishment for their improper behaviour. This
became Old So’s intriguing tale as time went by.
Now Old So is eighty-seven years old, and still healthier
than his age. The spirit or the devil must have pardoned his behaviour
and spared him from being their companion in the ghost world.
When Old So was fifty years old, due to the need for
timber for the construction of a pavilion in the village centre, the
younger generation decided to cut the communal spirit’s rubber tree
whose wood would be made into floorboards and partition walls. The
villagers of Old So’s generation were terrified and argued
against the decision until they were blue in the face. But the younger
generation, who had the upper hand in the running of the village,
wouldn’t listen, and silenced the older generation for good by
claiming that the order came from above.

432 Bulan Sastra

As expected, once the first branch was cut, the tip struck Tit*1
Pan across the face and he fell and hit the ground. Although he was
alright, people were so terrified that the task was halted and a meeting
was held as to whether the initial plan should be carried on. This went
by to the satisfaction of Old So’s generation, who believed that the
spirit properly housed in the big rubber tree would not be pleased with
the small Thai-style wooden shrine decorated with miniature horses,
elephants and servants which the villagers provided as its new abode.
Then a series of other problems followed until those hired
to cut down the rubber tree grew discouraged. One pig’s head was
offered. Yet every time the work was resumed, some obstacle arose.
Sometimes a sharply polished axe could be seen bouncing back as if
it had hit against a rubber car mat. The blade instantly lost its
sharpness even though it had just been sharpened.
In fact, things would not have been so complicated if
Village Headman Wai and his fellow young men on the village
committee had not wanted to build a new pavilion as huge as a mil-
lionaire’s house or a sub-district health centre. It was because Tit Wai
wanted to be kamnan2, so he always acted big. The spirit’s rubber tree
was then the first project. These people did not respect mysterious or
spiritual things, thinking crudely that a shrine would suffice. But since
the forest has changed, young people do not respect sacred things as
in the past. Actually they could have built a small pavilion for which
villagers could have donated the sawn timber they had or wood from
trees cut down in their fields or rice paddies. But for the sake of
convenience in terms of transportation and perfect wood pattern

1 Tit: term of address for young men who have gone through a spell in the monkhood.
2 kamnan: sub-district chief, the sub-district being a collection of hamlets or villages.

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 433

taken from just one tree for the construction of a big pavilion, it had
to be the spirit’s big rubber tree of several hundred years of age.

That was how Old Phrom became the spiritual healer. At the time
when he wasn’t as old as now, he had given up hard work to be a
cattle-tender and make just enough to live on with his daughter and
son-in-law.
Before the spirit chose him to be its medium, Old Phrom
wasn’t money-oriented. So the thought of him becoming
self-important to the point of upgrading himself to divine ranking in
the hope of gaining respect and money could be misleading, because
even when he became a holy medium, nothing special occurred to him
except that he could walk straight during spiritual possession as if he
had never been a cripple, not to mention the fact that he downed a
whole bottle of booze in just two gulps without getting drunk.
Old So and Old Phrom have known each other since the day
they were born. That’s why Old So doesn’t believe that those big words
as though spoken by the elite come from Old Prom’s rusty brain. For
him, being illiterate, books and papers are only valuable when they
are torn apart and used to roll cigarettes. Old Phrom has told a lot of
people that the most delicious paper for his tobacco is that from the
newspaper whose front page is green; the one with a pink front page
tastes awful; and the orange one is sour. When he went on saying that
the one with a red front page is spicy, people would shake their heads,
thinking that he was lying. But there must be some truth in it because
he would go out to collect the green newspaper for use when his
Chicken brand of cigarettes ran out or he couldn’t prepare enough dry
banana leaves for his tobacco. When he is spiritually possessed, it is
obvious to everybody that Old Phrom talks in the same way as they

434 Bulan Sastra

do on TV – eloquent, to the point, and making complete sense. He
also smokes packaged cigarettes. If asked, he can give answers
individually. If anyone wants him to cure a disease, he can comply,
charging the holy fee of only one baht. One baht wouldn’t much help
the medium, the spirit’s vehicle, to have a better life. The only thing
he gets after the spirit goes back to heaven is enough money to buy
local booze without using credit as before. Anyway he wouldn’t be in
trouble about this as in the old days: how could the villagers leave the
holy medium destitute?
The day when the shining axe bounced back on the attempt
of a young man to bring down the spirit’s abode to turn it into a
public pavilion, the branches and trunk of the big rubber tree became
rubber tyres. Even the most sharpened blade as white and shiny as
crocodile teeth could only leave a red mark on the surface of the tree
trunk, as if someone had marked it with a pen. People then became
discouraged and wanted to leave this spiritually well-guarded
rubber tree alone and figure out a new way of getting the pavilion
built.
It was then that the villagers of Old So’s generation had a
secret meeting. One of the proposals was that since force was
stubbornly used on the spirit’s abode despite our objections,
warnings, pleas and curses, we could use force against them. Since
they refused to listen to us, it was alright to take them down by force.
Straining the most at the leash was Old Sun, a former thug two or
three decades earlier whose name struck terror among ruffians in
neighbouring districts. He didn’t usually say much as long as things
could be endured. This time he must have endured to the utmost. And
everybody knew that when Old Sun said something, he wouldn’t back
off, no matter whether the sky or the earth interfered. Men of his

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 435

generation had seen his ferocious determination since he was a young
man. They knew that Old Sun didn’t fear death, let alone attacking
some disrespectful members of the next generation. But before things
got out of hand, Old Phrom the Lame had a sudden seizure. His body
started to shake all over, all his veins turned green, gnarled and
swollen, and twisted on his face, like Lamyai’s symptoms Old So had
seen in his childhood. To everybody’s utter amazement, Old Phrom
the Lame walked over to grab Tit Man’s axe. His right limping leg
was moving normally, even two or three times better than that of an
average person. Old Phrom let out a monstrous roar and raised the
shiny big axe to the sky in a set position, ready to destroy everything
to the ground. This made everyone run away, even the bravest group
of men, because no one knew what they were facing. The survival
instinct kicked in completely, but all of a sudden everyone was
motionless, unable to move their legs as if their feet had been nailed
to the ground. Old Phrom the Lame holding the big axe pounced like
a young cat onto the tree, climbed up it and then stood on a big branch,
rocking it as if he were a monkey leader, then bellowed like thunder
but with a hoarse voice which seemed to come out of a deep hole in
the ground. Though not every word could be remembered, the message
Old Phrom expressed that day was likely to be as follows:
“How dare you destroy my palace! My ancestors protected
all of you for so long. I inspired your forefathers to guide their
families across the mountains to settle down here. I make sure the
rainy season is on schedule for all of your paddy fields to be ploughed
until rice sprouts can bear their ears of paddy. And this? This is how
you repay me, you bastards! What will you make of my home you are
about to cut down? Those damn arguments and meetings mean

436 Bulan Sastra

nothing, right? When authorities demand something, you can’t do
anything but comply? What have those people given you? They just
take all, commanding you to turn left and turn right, and you’re ready
to follow such orders? They draw a circle line for you to walk on,
and you’re ready to follow as commanded? Have they shared your
joys and sorrows, or helped drive away sadness from your homes?
But it is I, I instead, who have stayed with all of you from the
beginning, protecting all, from your forefathers to your offspring, as
long as my fate remains here. How can you do this to me, your ances-
tor who led your spirits to your bodies and who looks after you while
you’re alive? When you’re dead, I also lead your spirits to the angel
of death. Do you really believe that the damned government can give
you more than I can? And there you are hacking down my home, just
because they say so? I’m so tired of your ignorance. It’s my fault that
I never gave you any lesson, so you’re spoiled and you’ve become this
crazy.”
Suddenly there was a clap of thunder and it started to rain,
for all the scorching sun of noon. Then the sky turned dark and
tempestuous with rain clouds and lightning in all directions. Darkness
covered the village as if it had been cut off from the rest of the world,
isolating it under the devil’s coat no one could escape. The spirit in
possession of Old Phrom spread more fear in the villagers’ hearts by
bursting out laughing so loud that it amazingly overrode the sound of
the storm. Everybody was down on the ground, not daring to run out
of fear of the unknown outcome. No one dared even a gesture. Old
Phrom the Lame, in his sudden role as a holy spirit, performed
increasingly strange magic actions, frightening and intriguing,
hair-raising for everyone around. For example, he jumped from one

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 437

branch to another as if possessed by the spirit of Hanuman. Some still
remember that his head seemed to have enlarged to the size of a
water jar. Sometimes it seemed as if Old Phrom had four faces; some
said he had four arms and four hands. When they discovered the label
of the liquor brand Mae Khong, many concluded that Old Phrom, as
medium of the spirit that first time, had been like the four-armed god
whose picture is on the Mae Khong bottle. Then the group discussed
further as to the origin of his name, Phrom3. Something must have
inspired his parents to name him Phrom. The inspiration must have
come from Brahma, who knew that this child would become his
medium in the future. And that he was limping was nothing to won-
der about either, because whoever possesses something special inside
him must naturally make some sacrifice in return. Think of those
musical geniuses – most were blind or had crippled arms or legs.
Especially the blind were said to have a very fine ear. They could play
a tune after hearing the song once or twice, much faster than those
who have normal eyesight.
A fierce whirlwind of dust took shape all of a sudden. Tall
tree branches were bending and shaking in all directions. The
possessed Old Phrom now changed into something wicked and
frightening. This and the sudden wildness of nature made people with
faint hearts pass out. Old Phrom’s eyes one moment were dark red
and the next rolled upwards until only the white could be seen. His
body was tottering as if about to fall from the big rubber tree branch,
but his feet were as firm as those of the gecko. Old So swore that Old
Phrom’s body was leaning almost horizontally, but his big bare feet
didn’t fall off the big rubber tree branch. All corners of the sky were

3 Phrom or Phra Phrom means Brahma in Thai.
438 Bulan Sastra

dark and enclosing everything like a big foot ready to trample the
entire ground. Amidst the bustling sound of the storm the sobs of
millions of gathering goblins seemed to be heard. Or these sounds just
resembled the demons’ echoing whispers from afar. Old So has
never again seen any storm in the fields as fierce as that.
Although it was frightening and dangerous, it was
stunning, as if we had gone into the land of dreams.
Now that his life is nearing dusk, nonchalance has taken over
his heart. Old So thus dreamily recalls the past that revives his spirit,
making him refreshingly young again.
While the storm was at its peak, something amazing
suddenly happened, adding up to all the puzzling stories in this
seemingly scattering world. This was when a giant truck came up the
hill, unwavering against the great storm. It ran majestically and
unconcerned, carrying a tight gang of six or seven men in its cab.
They were fearful of the unusual phenomenon like the village folks
lying on the ground around the big rubber tree.
One of the men crammed inside the truck was Tit Wai, the
young village headman, who is no longer alive. No one knows
whether he went straight to hell or to heaven. (The giant truck had ten
wheels, as counted later by Old So, who was amazed at how
Westerners build all things as if simply by magic. Later he learned
that the truck had been built by Japanese people, not Westerners. Those
Japanese people had yellow skin and black hair like him. They were
the people who had made Old So run to an underground bunker
several times a day during World War Two. Although there were
sounds of the airplanes, no bomb was actually dropped on the village.
It was said the bombs flew to the capital city instead.)

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 439

The giant truck slowly went up the hill with an air of
nonchalance, fearless of anything in the world. Of course, it was
because of its gigantic body. Everyone’s jaws dropped while
watching the giant truck moving majestically as if flattening
everything under its claws. It’s possible that at the time everyone
thought this was the most important innovation in the world. No one
knew why Headman Wai had brought six or seven of his men. Old
So then thought that the only structures as majestic as the
giant truck were Wat Phra That Phanom and the Temple of the
Emerald Buddha Old So had seen during a journey when he was
young. In a short period of time, yet long in his memory, Old So came
to realise with a sudden fright that they were not rightfully
comparable. Phra That Phanom is the most sacred place on earth. Just
visiting it once can lead you to heaven. The Temple of the Emerald
Buddha is nothing but a miniature of celestial heaven. It is of the same
worthiness as Phra That Phanom. Once you have a chance to worship
it, you are assured to live happily in heaven. Old So has worshipped
both places, so when his time on earth is over, his spirit will
definitely float to heaven. The giant truck could be something of
similar magic. Magical truck, magical machine, magical temple: which
is the most magical? Or must we distinguish between secular and
dharma, as the monks tell us? Before he could think it through in
order to understand it or rather admit to having no clues to work out
this damned puzzle, Old So at that moment was left to watch with his
eyes wide open the giant truck which turned to face the group of
people lying on the ground in fear of the power of the spirit in
possession of Old Phrom, who had leapt up to stand on a tall branch
of the big rubber tree. What else did the giant truck carry? What kind
of a monster was it? It had hands that looked like shells or, at

440 Bulan Sastra

another glance, like large clam-shell-shaped baskets. These baskets
were connected to bent iron bars that looked like arms. Its iron feet
were as big as big wooden boats. No one knew how its iron feet were
built as they were complicated, an assemblage of interconnected parts
with shapes too difficult to describe. Under control, the truck could
stand up, its feet emerging from somewhere Old So couldn’t imagine.
All the village folks were so stunned that they didn’t dare to move.
When the giant truck came to a complete stop, an aura of
violence exuded from its body. The six or seven men crammed inside
stepped out to stretch their legs, shoulders and backs. They shook off
the crimson dust from their clothes until the air was full of dust. But
the particles that blended with rainwater buried deep into the clothes
until they turned a brick-like red. The villagers then surrounded Tit
Wai, asking him about the giant truck and its strange cargo. Tit Wai
boasted to the villagers by saying something like this:
“Let alone the rubber tree, our crane can demolish everything
even ten times as big!” For years afterwards, the villagers called the
long-necked truck a crane until someone told them that actually this
type of destroy-all truck worthy of its ad was called a backhoe. Then
all the villagers decided to call it a Macro.
“And these…” Tit Wai pointed to five small machines
similar to water pumps which were chained together with tight locks
attached to the truck’s iron structure. These machines had blades like
white shiny saws that seemed to be able to cut down all things. “…
these are electric saws,” Tit Wai said proudly. “If you see how they
cut trees, in an instant a big log becomes poles and timber boards.”
The folks around sounded impressed and ventured views
based on their background knowledge, which didn’t go beyond the

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 441

shape of the ten-wheeled crane and the electric saws. Then Tit Wai
continued: “Let’s see if this rubber tree can endure the power of the
crane and survive the blades of the electric saws. We’ll see with our
own eyes, my friends.” He spoke with an air of enthusiasm. The crowd
let out a moan. Old So felt terrible on behalf of the tree. Tit Wai didn’t
seem to fear his ancestors’ spirits at all, as if he had gone crazy and
wanted to beat something without knowing what and for which
purpose, apart from building the common pavilion, which was
seemingly secondary now. What Tit Wai spoke of most frequently
was how the rubber tree could be cut down. Then he became startled
and asked someone next to him, “Well, what’s up with a damn storm
in the middle of the drought season?”
That person looked puzzled. Suddenly it seemed as though people’s
brains were connected to the scary incident that had happened
before the ten-wheeled truck moved in and parked grandly. No one
could figure out when the great storm had subsided. Everybody turned
to look at the rubber tree. What caught their eyes was Old Phrom
lying flat on the ground surrounded by rice stubble in the thick shade
of the big rubber tree. Just a short while ago he was jumping in the
air as though he were on the ground. Everyone seemed to remember
all at once that before the mechanical magic occurred they were
facing the majestic power of the spirit; then all sorts of discordant
noises started to resound. In sum, there was only confusion when they
tried to remember how the chaos began then abruptly came to an end
when the people turned and saw Old Phrom lying unconscious on the
field of rice stubble. By then it was late afternoon, almost evening.
All corners of the sky were clear and bright, with scattered clouds
spreading beauty as if the world had just started a festival of joy in
contrast to what had happened in the last few hours when the village

442 Bulan Sastra

seemed to be totally cut off from the rest of the world. A few young
men carried Old Phrom and put him in a carriage to be taken back to
his house.
The storm wasn’t over yet, but the storm was inside Old
Phrom, not outdoors. Indeed the spirit hadn’t gone anywhere but lurked
in Old Phrom’s body – only this time it was shaking as if prey to
jungle fever, with fearful and jerky manners. Old Phrom
unconsciously kept groaning, “Take it away! Take it away!” Once in
a long while he would make a long statement whose gist could be
captured as follows:
“Those wicked children! They couldn’t defeat my power, so
they go and fetch a giant to come and eat me. How could you
prosper, calling on a giant to harm your own ancestors? You believe
in it so much you’re ready to slay my soul. You believe that your rice
cookers are filled by some magic of theirs. Even when they say you
will no longer be poor by cockcrow tomorrow morning, you still
believe them. They just have to say that your children won’t have to
remain farmers with no future but will become respectable officials
with titles, and you believe them. When they say it isn’t difficult to fly
instead of walking, you still believe them. They say tomorrow
everyone’s poop will be gold, and you believe them. When they tell
you you’ll live like kings from now on, you believe them to the point
of fetching a giant to eat up my innards. You, ungrateful children!”
The last sentence seemed to be uttered repeatedly by the spirit
possessing Old Phrom.
“When you destroy even your ancestors, what then will you
keep? I predict that in future you won’t have a place to sleep at night,
let alone a house, and you’ll become a homeless crowd shunned
everywhere you go. You won’t be able to settle down for two or three

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 443

generations, and some families will never be able to. In future, you
who used to live under wide skies and wander in fenceless fields, when
you lie down you won’t be able to stretch your legs fully. You’ll
become destitute, and worse. Each meal will be scarce. Your children
will roam the streets. I pity your progeny, and you. Why won’t you
do good and make merit while you can? Why are you so prone to
sinful actions which will pile up throughout your lives? You are all
grown-ups, you can think, you can get out of it. But for those who
haven’t yet been born, what karma was theirs to deserve such
sinful difficulties? Or is it that they have sinned in their past lives?
This is too complicated for me to understand.”
The spirit in the medium said something delusional like this,
though not exactly. Who would remember after almost forty years?
Old So didn’t understand every word. Actually he could barely
understand at the time. But now that time has passed, those words
from the spirit possessing Old Phrom make him think twice. Even
after giving it some thought, Old So still believes it’s just a coincidence
– the spirit’s prediction that many would be homeless and wander
without settlement. Now this is an obvious reality for many people.
Who would have imagined that one day some old familiar faces would
become landless, with not even a tiny spot of land to build a shack to
sleep in? Who would have imagined that small debts at first could
lead to bankruptcy, causing some people to migrate to the capital to
survive? News from village folks revealed how they found migrant
groups living under the expressways or in slums, making ends meet
selling scraps from garbage bins to recycle shops. Old So sighs with
pity, not knowing what to blame. He swallows his sobs back in his
chest, feeling sorry for his village folks whom he has known since
their birth. He thinks of Old Ma, his friend of the same age. How

444 Bulan Sastra

could Old Ma live that kind of life? His whole life was a romp over
open fields. Old Ma, like the others, couldn’t foresee how his first debt
would expand until it became the giant which ate him alive.
On that day the Bank for Agriculture and Agricultural
Cooperatives wasn’t as big as today when it has become the
master of our village folks. At that time the lenders who gave money
to those who placed their title deeds or certificates of utilisation as
collateral were Sia4 Thong and a few associates. When most lands
have now become Sia Thong’s, who would rent his own land to grow
rice? Most went away, entering the woods, working their way to
prepare new harvest land. Everywhere there was news about the
pioneers’ communities: risk of poisonous snakes or wild animals,
malaria fever, other men’s guns. Those who didn’t settle down in the
woods packed their belongings and tried their luck in the cities. Even
so, everyone said that if they had money, they would have bought the
land where their ancestors’ ashes were buried.
“When the festive season comes, how can one’s life be
happy without pouring water on the little urn that contains the ashes
of one’s forefathers?” Many people said so, but, as a twist of fate, no
one returned to their hometowns. Some carried their cloth bags and
came home to pay their respects by pouring water on their forefathers’
ashes with care. They stayed over at their relatives’ or old
acquaintances’ houses, having an open-hearted talk before bidding
farewell.
“It’s as if something was calling me from home.” They all
said the same when coming back. The farthest Old So had ventured
was in the main provincial town during his stay at the hospital

4 Sia: a form of address of a wealthy, usually Chinese, local godfather.

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 445

watching over his daughter, Janpha, giving birth. Just that and he was
so homesick that tears filled his eyes. Nothing was comfortable there,
especially during his stay at the hospital. It was obviously hell.
Every scene was a scene of suffering: bellows like those of animals
being slaughtered, screams before some patients’ relatives passed out
after learning of those patients’ deaths. During that time, Old So was
awkward as he didn’t know what to do. Roast chicken with papaya
salad and boiled beef were bland and tasteless like chewing straw.
These kinds of food he seldom eats. At home he mainly eats rice with
chilli paste and vegetables. But the food at home is like a treat,
delicious at every bite. It makes him proud of being so highly
blessed. He recalls what the Chinese in the market are wont to say:
one who always enjoys his meal and can sleep well anywhere is
truly blessed. Old So thinks that this belief is one-million-per-cent
true. One who always enjoys his meal and can sleep well anywhere
won’t desire anything more. What’s the point of having so much
money when everything you swallow tastes like pebbles? What’s the
point of having so much gold at home when you rest your head on
the pillow and feel so hot like lying on a fire? On the day when Old
So returned from the hospital, after getting off the pickup taxi, he
threw up again and again until nothing was left, as if everything in
his stomach had been torn off and expelled. He was bedridden for half
a month, with his wife nursing him until he gradually recovered, and
was finally healed after taking Old Phrom’s magic medicine.
Old So recalls the morning after the disastrous night was
over. No one knew whether the spirit was showing off its power
until it got tired and fell asleep or whether it had just returned to
heaven, leaving the medium, Old Phrom, lying almost unconscious on
the mattress. By then some people were bringing tribute trays of

446 Bulan Sastra

flowers, joss sticks and candles to pay their respects to the new angel
of the village.
That morning the incident grew so serious that it became
terrifying when a frightening scream of utmost horror came from Old
Phrom’s house at the same time as an elephant-like roar and ghoul-
like howling were heard all over the village. Then there were all kinds
of noises: muse-like giggles, then unanimous screams, silence for a
while, then some sudden roars as if ten elephant herds were tearing
up the jungle. The most realistic one was the ghoul’s howling, which
was just as one imagined. Suddenly the world seemed to stop
revolving and nothing breathed when there was an even louder roar
which could shake the stars in the next seven seas. No one had ever
heard such a loud noise, as if the world was collapsing. Even the
flowers in bloom rolled back their petals. Hatching eggs became dead
eggs. The spirits just about to enter the wombs to revivify the babies
were so startled that they rushed back to heaven. The cattle were still
as statues before starting to jump about and run forcefully as they do
in the racing season, leaving clouds of dust as if yesterday’s storm had
returned. The village was full of noises as though the earth was
breaking apart. When people could pull themselves together and listen
carefully, they finally realised that the skyrocketing roar came from
Tit Wai’s house.
Everyone headed for Tit Wai’s house, taking along some gun,
slingshot, dagger or stick just in case. One couldn’t be too careful. In
an unfortunate situation, despite the inability to protect others, at least
you could defend yourself against something you had yet to figure
out.
But in Tit Wai’s yard, there was no intense drama to worry
about. A huge drinking circle, similar to those arranged for visiting

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 447

high-ranking officials, was in full swing. Everybody was smiling and
laughing as though life had entered a state of euphoria that had
never been experienced before. Strong, thickset young men like the
monsters in local folksongs stood smilingly bearing proudly on their
shoulders the electric saws that Tit Wai had displayed to the villagers
the day before. They did something that made those saws roar from
time to time. But the thundering sound which could not be compared
to anything was continuously heard. Sometimes it was like diving so
deep into the water that underground sounds resonate in your ears.
Sometimes it was like a million bees flying together and blocking out
the sky. When those strong men like the villain soldiers in local
folksongs made those electric saws roar, nothing could compare to
them better than the imaginary shrieks of ever-hungry ghouls. It seemed
that those white, shiny saw blades were sharper than Commander
Tarp’s top-notch iron sword. Commander Tarp once helped lead an
army defending the capital and was rewarded with the title of kamnan
of Thung Sala Sub-district, a title which remained with him until his
death. It was Commander Tarp who owned a long flintlock musket
like that of King Naresuan, and a top-notch iron sword which could
tear a body apart in one blow. Actually no one had seen Commander
Tarp use his sword on anything or anyone. He just kept it in its sheath
and carried it with him. On full-moon nights he would take it out to
sharpen it in front of his children. But these electric saws could well
be much sharper than Commander Tarp’s bright-green
top-notch iron sword. Their blades were moving automatically as if
alive or directed by magic. Yes, magic. Now the village was
undoubtedly under the spell of some kind of magic. Why? It was
because of the wrongful attempt to bring down the communal spirit’s
abode.

448 Bulan Sastra

Suddenly all the villagers were no longer in doubt. All of
them, except those who knew, were too stunned to move. That giant
tractor came from behind the ancient bamboo grove planted by some
forgotten generation, which had then become a wall so high people
had to lift their heads to see beyond. The moving tractor seemed to
shake and trample everything under its iron feet. Old So didn’t know
if those feet could grow legs which could walk. However, the tractor’s
feet consisting of small complicated iron components spun round like
the wheels of a common vehicle. The only difference was that while
most wheels are round and attached to all four sides of a vehicle, the
tractor’s wheels were flat like wooden boats. The iron sheets covering
the tractor’s wheels looked like bicycle chains. These giant chains
helped move its feet. All of a sudden the earth was shaking as if we
were standing on a branch while a giant hand shook the tree. The
tractor progressed for a while and then stopped. Then its body started
revolving at waist level, sending off a heartrending shriek. During its
circling move, women, children and even some men let out cries of
sheer terror. The tractor revolved some ten times, on and off, with half
circles to the left and then half circles to the right, and then vice
versa. Those who didn’t cry out stood still as if they had been cursed
to turn into stones. Suddenly the tractor headed towards the crowd at
great speed. This time the villagers took to their heels, as they had
yesterday when they fled from the spirit’s power. Young mothers
either carried their children on their hips or held their hands as they
rushed away from the marching devil. Chaos reigned again exactly
like the day before, except that the place had shifted from a field to a
courtyard. Many bumped into one another. If there had been more
people, Old So believes, there would have been a stampede.

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 449

Suddenly the tractor stopped and did something even more
horrifying: it stretched its long arm to the sky as if ready to strike the
crowd to pieces. Although the villagers ran helter-skelter for dear life,
they also hid behind bushes and looked up, or turned their heads as
they ran to look. All of a sudden the mechanical hand hit the ground,
echoing a stumping sound as though someone had driven a stake
through your heart. Everybody turned to stone, as if their hearts had
stopped beating, as if the giant hand of the tractor had penetrated their
souls. The core of Tit Wai’s yard, which was swept clean and hard
like cement, was struck by the tractor’s hand, which went deep down
about two metres. The earthy ground was breaking apart like a dry
swamp in the drought season. The giant hand furrowed deep down in
between those clumsy iron feet, leaving behind a long deep scar. Right
then, Old So thought of Devadatta, who was swallowed up by the
earth. At the same time people started to notice that the drinking group
was not frightened like them. Those people sat gracefully in a circle,
watching the tractor, looking full of admiration and postures. Then
the villagers saw that there was an actual person inside the main body
of the giant tractor. People gradually stepped towards the tractor, one
at a time, soon forming a crowd which gathered as close to the
tractor as possible. When Piam, who was around five or six years old,
tried to touch the tractor, Tit Wai shouted at him to desist, while
looking apprehensively at one of the men who had come with the
truck and who was later known as their chief. This man with a bushy
beard said it was alright and offered to take children for a ride or two.
This raised shouts of joy among them. Many adults too showed
interest in taking a ride in the truck around the village. The bearded
fellow asked only that children as well as adults be prohibited from
coming near his tools. He said that if anything went wrong, it might

450 Bulan Sastra

cost a life. Old So thought that everyone by now was well aware of
this.
Now the person inside the tractor stopped it making noise,
and the electric saws too were switched off. Once the various sounds
of machinery had died down, the world returned to silence, but before
anyone had a chance to ask about the recent miracle, harsh laughter
was heard from the back, the kind of laughter that triggered goose
bumps. That laugher was in tune with the earth, the leaves and the
surrounding wind. Heads all turned to look at the source: Old Phrom,
of course.
Old Phrom stood up like a big mountain, sneering as if ready
to fight any war without fear. His eyes, gazing towards the drinking
circle, were dark red as if soaked in blood. His shirtless body was
laced with gnarled and swollen greenish veins, messily twisted and
tied into a big knot in the middle of his forehead like a third eye. Old
Phrom’s body today was exactly like the day before, so at this stage
village folks surrendered, as did Tit Wai. Only the tractor drivers were
still puzzled.
The main reason why the villagers froze before those fiery
red eyes, as fierce as fire, was the black iron axe with a white shiny
blade in Old Phrom’s hand.
Everyone knew that this iron axe was too heavy for even
strong children and women to lift. Old Phrom had Craftsman Leng,
the village blacksmith, make it specifically. With one limping leg, Old
Phrom’s lower torso was slow to move. Somehow, his strength
multiplied, especially in both arms which became as powerful as a
strong man’s legs. His chest was the size of a fat water jar. Now it
even seemed as though he wouldn’t feel a thing if struck with a house
pole. When he threw the axe from his left hand to his right, even those

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 451

big tractor fellows – not as big as Old Phrom, however – sat down
on the ground, hands pressed together to show respect like the
villagers. One of them even dropped his electric saw on the ground,
making a noise similar to a fallen tree of considerable size. Deep
sounds resounded of something or other breaking apart. By now no
one dared to look up. When someone in the front row crouched down
flat on the ground paying homage and lay in that position, a few
others did the same. After that, the rest, including the tractor fellows,
decided to press their hands together and crouch down to pay homage
on the ground. The whole area was silent. Only the sound of the wind,
similar to the buzz of a million bees, was heard. Terror clouded the
minds of those crouching down on the ground. Old So could not know
whose mind was on what. Even though he was in fear, his mind thought
of many things. This was one of the strangest incidents in his life.
These two days were like a dream. Or perhaps human life goes on
like a dream. When we die, maybe we wake up in another world. In
that world beyond, he might not be Old So. He could be a king, and
not of Thai nationality. He could be a western king or an Indian king
with hundreds or thousands of servants. Whatever he dreamt of would
come true. Despite old age, he could surround himself with concubines.
Thinking about this, he was so carried away that he let out a soft laugh.
Suddenly, beyond all expectation, someone let out a loud fart
behind Old So, of a kind that showed it was beyond containment.
The crowd of over a hundred people immediately burst into
irrepressible laughter, an uproar as loud as the sound of the collapsing
earth which, combined with the sight of other people laughing, increased
hilarity a hundredfold. Once such a feeling reached its peak, nothing
could stop it. It was the humour nerve being pulled into action. So the
villagers laughed their hearts out and forgot the wickedness exuded

452 Bulan Sastra

by Old Phrom, who stood in front of them like a mountain. The
laughter poured out as if someone had suddenly pulled out the stake
from deep inside our chests freeing all feelings skewered inside. It
was like a sky which suddenly opened up, or like the hand of God
sweeping away the thunderstorm ready to strike the earth in its entirety.
Eventually such an unexpected incident came to an end.
Everyone had to confront the terror, as huge as a big mountain, in
front of them. After the last laugh vaporised in the scorching
sunlight, the villagers almost all at the same time looked up to see
Old Phrom. If Old So’s eyes didn’t lie, Old Phrom’s face seemed to
be lit up with a smile and lingering sparkles of hilarity in his eyes.
By then everyone was forced back to reality – the real world where
no one knew what he was confronting and what fate would befall him.
The farting of a while ago was like an up-close big storm that had
passed leaving only silence in the real world. This time there was no
intrusive sound. The world of reality was then destroyed. What was
left was the angry face full of gnarled, swollen veins tightly twisted
like knotted ropes.
Suddenly Old Phrom banged the head of the axe on the
ground repeatedly as if the terrible footsteps of time had been
waiting to strike the village folks. His loud laughter echoed in the sky
and shook the air as though all trees and blades of grass had joined
in. His eyes were dark red as if soaked in blood; they were so still
that Old So thought the whole world would be conquered by Old
Phrom alone. That body then uttered, “So you’ve decided to replace
my home with some useless building for sure?” Old Phrom lifted the
gigantic iron axe and pointed it towards the villagers, who lowered
their chins in silence. Just a few people dared to risk a glance at the
standing monster.

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 453

“Indeed I should curse your village to be swallowed up by
the earth, turning it into a sea like Nong Han Luang in the past. I’m
about to do that if you insist on going ahead with your
decision. I won’t talk to you again because I’ve said it all. I warn you
one last time as your grandfather – if you keep up with your
stubbornness, a calamity beyond expectation will strike down upon
you. You won’t even be able to save your lives. This is my last
warning.”
Old Phrom stood majestically like an unbreakable statue to
which time or rain could do no harm. He held the big iron axe in one
hand. It was an axe that any strong man would judge too heavy to lift
with both hands, but Old Phrom handled it as if it was a hatchet. He
swung it as he spoke. When he had spoken, his right hand was swung
back to the utmost, to the amazement of the crowd. No one was
moving or even thinking while the giant axe flew and broke the
windshield of the tractor in a resounding explosion. Some people who
saw this said that sparks came out of the tractor like fireworks. But
what everyone saw was that the tractor had been wrecked as if struck
by a log. After the explosion, the crowd was dead silent, not knowing
what to do. You could have heard a needle drop. A cloud of smoke
came out of the tractor. After that there were sparks here and there.
A sustained gurgle similar to boiling oil inside the tractor could be
heard. The tractor was shaking like a trembling person. This giant
which terrified everybody became a rickety cart. It was like a shipwreck
that made it to the shore waiting for the wind of time to blow its
timber apart. Old So then had a mixed feeling of sorrow and terror
which was utterly confusing. Since he was born, this was the first time
he had witnessed such a strange happening. Even when Ms Lamyai
became possessed, it hadn’t been this complicated and troublesome.

454 Bulan Sastra

As if under a spell, no one could keep their eyes off the
giant tractor. Sometimes the tractor seemed to be crushed to
pieces. Every iron component of its engine was consumed by
devilish termites. After that everything was digested and spat out like
black dust. The mountain-sized tractor once digested would leave
maybe two pouches of ashes. That was how Old So felt. Actually the
tractor had lost all its pride and arrogance. Ruin had taken over like
vultures consuming animal carcasses and before long leaving behind
piles of white bones. The tractor was also like a cornered boxer
completely beaten up until only his flesh was left on the canvas ring.
In the end the giant tractor was like that. After all the sparks
had exploded until none was left, it was quiet. Only smoke lingered
like a spent forest fire. The smoke looked forlorn like a deserted
shelter left without care. Finally it was all forlornness as if we were
alone in the world. The giant tractor did not collapse into a pile of
ashes as it seemed it might earlier, but it became a piece of old iron,
seemingly worthless and useless – just one more scrap of litter on the
world. Everything went suddenly quiet, all noises had subsided. If
someone had said this was Judgement Day, Old So would have
believed it. Or it could be the first day the earth was created.
When the villagers turned round, they saw Old Phrom curled
up as if he was dead. For a long while no one dared to speak or touch
the dusty body on the ground. That body seemed to have used up its
power like the tractor, its main enemy. Finally Tit Pham, Old Phrom’s
son, got up and walked over to shake his father’s body. He also called
him loudly a couple of times until Old Phrom lifted his slumberous
head while lying on the dusty ground. Even so, the crowd backed
away. Many were getting ready to run, but were still waiting to make
sure that what they saw was the real lame Old Phrom. Once reassured,

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 455

they gathered around him to ask questions, and not to waste time,
many asked for the winning lottery numbers. With such a request, it
seemed complications were almost all gone. Those doubts and fear
over what had happened now hid away in heart corners as the craving
for those numbers grew like an unstoppable volcano fire. The tractor
fellows were no exception. Their fright and care for the ruined tractor
had gone – no one knew where. The spark of craving for the winning
lottery numbers lit up their eyes. But then Old Phrom cut this short,
which somehow sparked more hope among the crowd.
“Let’s talk at home.”
Then the truth was revealed to everyone: during the two days
of chaos Old Phrom hadn’t been aware of anything. He had come to
his senses when Tit Pham woke him up as he lay on the dusty ground
at Headman Wai’s. All this led to a big issue which spread like a
disease eating its way up to the core of a body. The village folks
agreed that the spirit’s rubber tree was untouchable. After such a
calamity, if they insisted on cutting down the big rubber tree, no one
knew what would happen to the village. In addition, Old Sun carried
a fully loaded flintlock musket. Its big bullets would certainly ensure
death. Old Sun said that anyone who dared to touch the spirit’s rubber
tree would have to eat his musket’s bullet first, and that upon
survival he would not have to fear any spirit anymore. If Old Sun, the
former thug, said so, who would ever dare to risk his life? At the time
carrying a gun was no big deal, nor was it illegal. One just had to be
discreet. The villagers did not need Old Sun’s threat as they were
already scared out of their wits. The important thing was that the
ruined tractor had to be taken care of.
With obvious consideration mixed with fear, the bearded
leader of the tractor gang said that he himself did not want any

456 Bulan Sastra

money for the damage as he had seen the spirit’s power with his own
eyes, but the tractor was not his, it was his boss’s, and when he returned
with such a ruin he would be the one responsible for the damage costs.
This was not complicated. Hearing one another out, the
villagers were willing to donate in order to clear the holy medium’s
name. How could we let the heavenly creature fall into trouble?
The villagers asked the bearded fellow to return the tractor to his boss
so that the damage could be evaluated. Headman Wai would go with
him, and would beg and explain the incident to his boss. Headman
Wai said it was possible that this boss would rate the damage
honestly without inflating the price as Chinese people were wont to
do because he loved the performance of holy mediums and
supernatural powers as well. Actually the tractor was not totally ruined
as reckoned at first. Upon close investigation, only the windshield was
broken, as the axe had flown through the window. Why had it looked
as if the tractor was suddenly reduced to ashes after Old Phrom had
flung his axe? No use finding out reasons, right? In the past two days
Old So’s life had been like a crazy dream.
That is how the rubber tree was left standing majestically
with all of its branches up until now. Old Phrom has become the holy
medium whose task it is to cure diseases and drive away undesirable
woes from the victim’s spirits – a remarkable god with no equal at
Ban Khok Si, Thung Sala Sub-District. Indeed, the whole country has
come to Holy Phrom to have their lives blessed with wealth and health.
Even people of high ranks have come in numbers crawling in to pay
their respects. This indicates that Old Phrom is a real god.
Old Phrom has had a chance to get rich from these
disciples all the time, but he has chosen to lead the same life. The
only betterment is his half-timber half-concrete residence built with

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 457

donations from people who have faith in him. Also he doesn’t have
to buy his booze on credit as he used to when the seller got sick and
tired of his lack of money.
True, Old Phrom is a real god, but that other, young
fellow is definitely an ogre or a living ghost, no doubt about it. He
has displayed that ogre-like behaviour for so long. Which sane
person would live in a house as messy as a tiger’s den? For years he
has barely talked to anyone. When he speaks, he doesn’t make eye
contact. Old So massages his temples and neck to get rid of the
dizziness that suddenly gets hold of him. The wind blows into his left
ear and lingers there for a while before blowing out through the right
ear, causing a blurred vision, a heavy head and unclear thoughts. His
sticky saliva dries up in his throat and dribbles out from the corners
of his lips. Wind escapes from his stomach with enough force to rip
out his innards. Old So gets up and feels like throwing up, but
nothing comes out except some disgusting odour that lingers in the
air for a long while until Old So gets startled and murmurs, “Am I
rotten inside or something?” He lets himself down to sit on the ground
without strength. Mumbled words pass through his lips. “Damn!
Whether he is an ogre or a living ghost doesn’t concern me.” After a
while he gradually forces himself up and starts his brain going, rusty
like an old dirty knife so rusty that it could break when tapped on a
branch: it is time to drive his cows back to the village.
Alienated and desolate for an inner conversation
Thaen watches the painting “Inner Conversation Number 14”.
He has been obsessed with it for two weeks, looking at it while sitting,
while lying on his side, looking at it with half-opened eyes, from a
short distance and from a long distance. He is trying to work out the

458 Bulan Sastra

underlying meaning in the picture, to get at the power he might have
overlooked despite the fact that he is its creator. “Inner Conversation”
– an old-fashioned title? It’s like the title of a poem in experimental
times while the world is interested in postmodernism. He doesn’t know
which post-era exactly, as those western concepts are not part of his
expertise although he can talk about western artists for hours.
He is working on the “Inner Conversation” series in which
forty paintings are planned. But when he reached Number 14, he
suffered artist’s block. It’s no big deal, but he’s so lazy that he has lost
interest in doing anything. That won’t do, though. Although painting
doesn’t give as much back to him compared to his dedication, like
dust and mountain, he somehow can make a living from it. Thaen also
has the dumb belief that he can achieve a world-class masterpiece.
He doesn’t know which spirit is behind such odd thinking. Thaen
thinks that in the future when someone names world-famous artists,
there is no reason why his name shouldn’t be included. Somsak
Jamkratoke – this name should be well remembered. He used to
proclaim this crazy dream when his spirits were high until he got bored
doing it.
Now that he is in his middle age in which serenity
surrounds his life, Thaen tells himself that he lives for his artwork,
not for fame or wealth. He only wants the four basic requirements to
live. Actually it’s just three, as he doesn’t have to use medicine on a
daily basis. Apart from treatment for fever or headache or any kind
of disease, medicine and he seem to be in different worlds. He does
sometimes smoke Black Cat cigarettes and occasional cannabis, though.
When his thinking reaches this point, he believes that he has
fully attained the heart of Buddhism. This makes him babble
pitifully – I’ll be an artist in this life only; if there really is a next life,

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 459

I must achieve the state of Arahant. For this life as an artist, it is his
destiny to continue as such to the end. In his next life, Thaen aims to
reach the Buddhist state of being the Perfect One.
He feels helpless when thinking about the villagers. It is a
pleasurable helplessness, because he has chosen to create an
atmosphere different from that in the Lisu village where he became
attached to both villagers and the mountain. At the time Thaen had
gone to paint the series “In the Mountain’s Embrace” – another
old-fashioned title. Some friends said it was similar to some book
title. That author can’t have been as well-known as him. He sold five
paintings in that series, giving him a considerable amount of money
compared to a farmer’s earnings. But five years later he has had no
solo exhibition, only a few collective ones where none of his paintings
could be sold.
But Thaen doesn’t want to do anything else. He doesn’t care
for other occupations; his mind focuses back on painting every time
he does anything else. If only he could bear working in an organisation
… He could have done that in one place, because his boss, a friend
who was his university senior, had invited him to work there without
high hope for innovation, expecting him only to perform his basic
duty so that he could make ends meet as other people do. This way
Thaen wouldn’t have to be so poor all the time. In the evening he
could step with pride into a pub and join his friends without worrying
about who would pay for his meal, which was pathetic.
If Thaen could turn a blind eye and stay like that, he would
be a bore who came to the office only to wait for the office hours to
end. That is what he hates most. He has even denounced such
people repeatedly. He couldn’t bear it if he behaved in the same way
in order to get his pay check each month without human

460 Bulan Sastra

dignity. He feels that it’s kind of cheating. When he feels too
uncomfortable, he leaves his job, time and time again. Until now he
has never thought of any full-time job anywhere. And given his age,
it seems inappropriate to become an employee again.
He loves to paint, to carve wood with mallet and chisel, to
create iron, concrete and rubber sculptures.
He feels helpless when thinking about the villagers. It is a
pleasant helplessness, as he intends his living atmosphere to be like
that. “Alienated and desolate on an inner quest”? Umm, how about
putting “alienated and desolate” into his series’ title: “Alienated and
Desolate for Inner Conversation” or “An Alienated and Desolate
Person’s Inner Conversation”. Never mind. By the time he finishes all
forty paintings, the proper title will have come up.
Thaen thinks of the first day of his exhibition, especially of
the compliments and appreciation of its value to be expected from
those interested in art. This could light up his world after burying
himself in a dark cave for so long.
The villagers barely understand who Thaen is. Mr Mi, the
house owner, is a friend’s relative. They met in a drinking circle and
got into talking until he heard that Mr Mi had a house in pretty good
condition, good enough to stay to create artwork, good enough to
invite friends around and good enough to occasionally entice a
woman to come over.
Thaen thinks of the many summers he has had to spend in
crammers teaching kids to draw or paint in return for some
payment even though he saw no benefits in such a course.
Whenever he got a chance, he would say to everyone honestly that it
was better to let kids play as they wanted in order to build their own

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 461

style and imagination in art than to lock them up in a training room
to make polymaths out of them.
From dancing to calculating faster than a calculator, if
everyone becomes so special, what can make one or the other
creation stand out? If everything is flawless, such perfection will be
ordinary. Everywhere is filled with perfection. Everyone is special.
But can that really be? He thinks back to the villagers. Even though
he tries his utmost, reading analytical articles by scholars, talking to
friends who are into politics, Thaen cannot even believe that people
can actually take seriously a discourse such as “poverty will be gone
tomorrow”.
Actually he isn’t supposed to express his opinion so much.
He is just a painter with no signs of success. But Thaen thinks that
people should be more advanced, more advanced than praising
politicians obsessively, because as a matter of principle, politicians
must serve the people, not make the people serve them. But this is
just a principle. In practice, it might never be possible. That fools are
victims of clever people is only too common. And fools are easily
victimised if they are made to believe they are smart.
Even “you know who”. Thaen wants to tell “you know who”
not to believe the villagers so much. The villagers are small-size
reflections of “you know who”. In those innumerable reflections, there
could be someone who resembles and becomes “you know who”. But
“you know who” would definitely know this well, because “you know
who” is not a fool. Others are fools. Having thought this far, Thaen
is shocked. He is also a villager. His parents are villagers. His
ancestral roots spring from villagers. All this could be just a political
development. In any place such development must go through a steep
rocky path before reaching a smooth and open avenue. Suddenly it is

462 Bulan Sastra

like a needle pricking the middle of his heart. It means that at every
historical step there are foolish and dead people. The earth could reach
its end before Judgement Day, right? Soon the earth would enter some
natural crisis which could wipe away all living creatures. The process
of social development is still in its initial phase before our country
can reach perfection, according to politicians of all persuasions, who
knows how many hundreds of years from now. If so, won’t the world
have already ended?
But Thaen is not a supporter of the opposite side of “you
know who”. He gives that side credit for exposing the politicians’ evil
conduct, if there is any truth in it. He believes that people should not
side with the politicians, let alone be under their control. We must be
the inspectors, or if possible, the supervisors.
The human fighting field is not about class, but about how
to make what the universe gives us – this thing called the earth –
continue to survive. Thaen thinks that we would be defeated if most
people are this shallow.
When he was a university student, many friends went for
high-sounding rhetoric: “Human beings are too prone to split hairs.
If we tried to use our feelings, the world would not be so chaotic” – or
something like this. How is it now? Our country bases everything
upon feelings. I feel, you feel, I love, you hate, I like, you despise.
I want this, you want that.
But Thaen has to pay attention to the course of the world.
At the very least for the sake of his work.
Thinking about work, Thaen feels the fright in his heart. It’s
about time to leave the hammock. Too much thinking doesn’t do him
any good, especially money-wise. Everything is just a phenomenon.

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 463

As long as human beings are foolish, the act of killing is commonplace.
Why should he be concerned? It’s better to think about his
work. If he were to warn anyone, it would be done through his paint-
ings. Thaen thinks of his friends who devote themselves to different
sides in politics although they used to be on the same side, serving
the people wholeheartedly. Now they are opponents who can barely
look at one another. This conflict could be viewed with humour, al-
beit a bitter one. But this is a challenge of thought, a challenge of
wisdom to see if we can keep up with the phenomenon. Each side
accuses the other of foolishness. When will human beings be
totally liberated, free from all kinds of rulings, and become liberal
spirits flying in the sky? Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Thaen is
amazed that many do not dare to dream of being free under the sky
without any ruling figure no matter from which system. Upon realis-
ing the difference between dream and reality, at least we must dare to
step into the beautiful land of our dream.
The afternoon sun is less powerful. It is time to leave the
hammock. Today he has stayed there all day without eating anything.
He will go out for a run, happily running under the evening sun, run-
ning to puzzle the villagers whose eyes will stare at him with suspicion.
But he will not explain anything. As already stated, these days he has
“inner conversations”, even though he has reached only fourteen of
those. Anyhow, he will accomplish his dream.
This time the world might change. Thaen closes his eyes, thinking of
the big long applause and appreciative looks everyone will give him
on the first day of his painting exhibition “Inner Conversation”. Uh,
or should it be a different title? Never mind. By the time he finishes
all forty paintings, the proper title will have come up. He has wasted

464 Bulan Sastra

an awful lot of time thinking about nonsensical things. Tonight his
“inner conversation” will finally resume.

The witch in the building

Paretas Hutanggura
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

1
In a faraway land in the northern mist called Chankapho, the same
name as a masterly song, she did not know of Van Gogh or Picasso,
let alone Joseph Bay or Andy Warhol, all of whom were the artists
rocking this world. But as to Kentucky Fried Chicken, French fries,
the Grammy Music Company and the RS Entertainment Company, she
would not miss them for the world.
Her name was Muansaikham, a girl of reproductive age who
had seen her childhood friends, Ueang and Koi, disappear in the bright
lights of pubs in the city. In this shitty local community of a crappy
district, people did whatever they wanted in order to make ends meet.
For those with power, the law was for dogs only. Civil servants
regarded themselves as self-servants. Though Muansaikham was a
shy girl, she could not help but curse the crazily oppressive atmosphere
around her. She gradually surrendered to wrath with the deception
prevalent in this country. Goddamn education had done nothing more
than create awareness that money was the key to heaven on earth, a
fact acknowledged especially when you earned it quickly.

466 Bulan Sastra

Now the hot rays of April light shone into the room when
Muansaiphin, her beautiful elder sister, came to visit. She came with
such beauty, like a decorated pick-up truck, a sight for sore eyes. She
did not forget to bring money in the form of small folded banknotes
to her old folks. Then Muansaikham decided to leave her barren future
behind and packed her bag before following her sister to the city to
seek her own fortune.
For half a year, Muansaikham shared a room with her sister
and three of her sister’s friends. Muansaiphin and her friends had the
right to wake up late, but had to dress up to the nines before noon in
order to work in the beauty parlour downstairs. The front glass
window was coated with dark film as though the world was limited
to night time only. These girls entertained clients until midnight.
After that, whether they took on an extra job or not was nobody’s
business.
With her being exposed to a multitude of TV soap operas
such as Dao Phra Suk, Lamyong, Daorueang and Thatdao-Busaya,
Muansaikham could see at once that her sister was a sinning-lady
character, not a lead actress. The beauty parlour jobs were just front
covers allowing these girls to take men upstairs to tiny rooms
separated with plywood partitions in dull green colour which
reminded her of phlegm or mucus and made her feel sick. But she had
to put up with her task of cleaning for which her sister had asked Big
Mama to hire her.
One day Muansaikham felt bored and murmured to herself
in the mirror, “What will I get from this job? I’m eighteen now. My
body isn’t different from those girls’. Why can’t I have the same job
as ’Saiphin? That way I can earn money quickly.”

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 467

Having entertained this thought for many days, she
finally overcame her shyness and opened up to her sister who, though
she agreed with her, slapped her, leaving her cheeks as red as lychee
shells, after which both fell into each other’s arms and cried while
Taengkhao, Chuenchaba and Somwandaeng, their roommates, stood
watching with overwhelming feelings.
“Can Muansaikham join us soon?” Muansaiphin asked Big
Mama, a kind woman with huge pieces of gold accessories. Big Mama
gave her a smile similar to that of Guan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy,
stroked her hair and gave her a Bavarian doughnut and some advance
money before telling her to get her curvaceous sister ready.
“Tomorrow it is,” Muansaikham murmured in front of the
mirror. “Tomorrow will be the day I have to take my bra and
knickers off for a stranger. Can I bear it? Well, I can just close my
eyes and get it over with. Pity my poor old folks who pray heavily in
front of the Buddha image at home! Their prayers are all about me:
to be good, to be prosperous, to be honourable, to be superior, to
behave like a lady. Ah, I’m starting to fear. What if I meet a beast-like
man?”
Muansaikham kept repeating these thoughts until she saw
herself in the mirror as a leading actress ready to condemn the female
villain on the opposite side of the mirror. Then…
“’Saiphin, I … I can’t do it, I’m sorry.”
“Why, ’Saikham? What are you afraid of? We’ve taken the
money. I know you dream of becoming a singer. But it’s really
difficult, you know. Whoever you are, you can’t escape from bad men.
Listen to Big Mama. Have faith in her. Believe in her. Let’s help each
other out. We can save money to open a grocery store back home.”
“But I’m afraid.”

468 Bulan Sastra