หนังสือบุหลันวรรณกรรม

“You must be brave.”
“I’m not brave.”
“I’ll punch you if you’re not.”
Almost an hour went by and they could not settle.
The matter then went to Big Mama who rushed limping into the room
on the third floor. She got rid of Taengkhao, Chuenchaba and
Somwandaeng, told Muansaiphin to go out as well, and then plonked
herself down on the old musty mattress. Big Mama called
Muansaikham closer and stroked her cheek while beaming her godly
smile once again.
“I’ve travelled along a very long road before you. The
human mind is very deep, but not beyond my reach. Dear
Muansaikham, do you know that in the four chambers of every
human heart the two on the right are for courage while the two on the
left are for balance by displaying fear and shame over all sins at all
times? Often we can’t accomplish things simply because of those
latter two chambers. So go and block them!”
“What! Block what?”
“Block your shy heart, my dear. You’re a good girl, I know.
But your goodness was born in the wrong place in the wrong country.
What else do you possess besides love, greed, anger and obsession,
like everyone else? You lack wealth and education, and in a world
full of wolves, you’re still afraid of showing your only treasure: your
beauty. I love all my children. That’s why I want to help. But do you
trust me?”
Muansaikham listened in silence. Some words touched her
heart and caused tears to run down her cheeks. She thought of her
grandparents who had raised her instead of her mother. Both of them
had lost all their teeth and had to chew food with only their gums.

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That heart-breaking picture quietened the sound of all prayers. She
made a decision. “I believe in Big Mama.”
Then Big Mama told her the way. “Go to Soi Patpong at
eleven tonight when there are pole dancers on stage and those
seeking lust are on their way. Stop in the middle of that lane. I’ll call
a veteran ladyboy with a fly tattoo on her forehead to pick you up.
She’ll bring you to see an old witch who is one hundred and
orty-three years old and who has made herself a holy person. She
lives on the third floor of the black building at number 54. She’ll
perform magic on you by using a sacred clot of baked clay to seal up
your heart chambers of shame and fear of sin so that they can’t affect
you anymore. Only the chambers of courage will be left intact, both
of which will bring you victory and success. Believe me. Go block
them up tonight. Whether you go by taxi or take a bus is up to you.”
Having said this, Big Mama loaned her two hundred baht for
the taxi fare and two thousand baht for the witch’s fee.
She also pacified Muansaikham with a string of anecdotes about
other people who had gone through the magic successfully.

2
At 8pm after she had taken a shower and got dressed, Muansaikham
felt weak again. It seemed that the heart chambers of shame were
working flat out, causing red-hot flashes all over her entire body, even
the tip of her clitoris. With this and the equivocation that comes from
wrath, she wanted to cry over her condition. Then, making up her
mind to fight, she wanted to laugh at her grandparents’ prayers. OK,
enough is enough, she thought. Right now she only needed to pull
herself together to get to the old witch’s room. After her heart

470 Bulan Sastra

chambers of fear and shame were sealed up by the sacred clot of clay,
it would be easy for her to do things.
A plodding Muansaikham took a short cut to the path
lining the railways leading to Hua Lamphong Station. She had to go
through this path to reach the bus stop. Big Mama’s letter to the witch
was in the half-folded Robinson shopping bag in her hand. She had
heard of the dark magic practice of putting buffalo skin in one’s
stomach, but sealing the heart with a sacred clot of baked clay was
really twisted and should not be happening to her at all.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no!”
An adult-like moan was heard from the path she was
taking. When she turned around, there were only rail tracks
everywhere. Apart from the people under the neon lights of the
faraway station, there were only a few children having fun teasing a
dog. The moans could still be heard along with the sound of the
children playing. She risked walking towards that area. When she got
near she saw a big hairy dog moaning, its mouth wide open. The first
child was pulling its tail while the second poked its ribs with a stick
and the third pressed on its head with his foot. She felt so much pity
that she scolded those children, calling them names until they scattered
away.
“Doggy, why are you moaning like a man?”
“I’m not a dog. I’m a lion.”
“Wow, you can speak my language! You’re a lion. Oh my
god, are you going to eat me?”
The young lion sat up, wiped away his tears with his paws
and shook his fluffy mane into place. The light from the tall street pole
shone on the dirty body which bore many scratches. Even though he

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had lost the aura of the king of animals, his mightiness still dwelt in
those gigantic paws with their sharp claws. The lion tried to stop
moaning when she stared at him. Muansaikham gathered her courage
and handed him her penguin-patterned handkerchief before asking
him for his story.
“I’ve just killed a man,” said the lion with a sob.
“Oh no!”
“I was hired to devour that poor fellow. It’s grotesque. I’d
never killed or eaten a soul before. This time I had to. My, oh my!”
“You’re a murderer,” Muansaikham exclaimed.
“I know. But the blame should be on those dogs, cats, meni-
als and stupid common people who laugh at me, the king of animals,
serving tables, wiping windows, ushering cars into petrol stations. At
first I didn’t mind those jobs, but later on after I was constantly
insulted, I hated such jobs and quitted in the end. Then I became a
poor lion wandering city streets until I got hungry. I miss the time
when I played with hedgehogs, elephants and bulls. I needed money
in order to go back to the woods. Then someone offered me a job.”
“He made you a killer,” Muansaikham concluded.
“Yes, sister. He hired me at thirty thousand baht to eat his
creditor.”
The lion filled in the complete details then asked her for her
story. Muansaikham poured it out of her chest and even cried at the
end. The young lion showed his sorrow by licking her face. Then he
realised that he could eat her, so he stepped back. When Muansaikham
looked him in the eyes again, she saw some kind of sparkle. He then
said, “Sister, please take me to the witch, too. She can block my sen-
sitive heart with a clot of baked clay so that I won’t regret my actions
later. I could earn money more easily with only the heart chambers

472 Bulan Sastra

of courage. Just one large sum of money, and I’ll live in the woods
forever.”
Muansaikham was a little ashamed of having told him of her
dirty life. But never mind … Men and animals are almost alike in
some mannerisms. Who would pay attention to that tonight? There
was some hidden rage in the smile she gave the lion as she said
loudly, “Believe in Big Mama”. Then she began to run ahead of the
lion along the rail track. An express train came whooshing by from
the opposite side, its bright spotlight slashing through the darkness
with its ray.
Muansaikham then changed to riding on the back of the lion
through Hua Lamphong Station, where homeless people slept like
animals. She saw that some had grown tails – a true sign of being
animals. The lion took a long step, jumped across the footpath, stepped
on the roofs of the cars in the traffic jam, past a clock repair shop, a
noodle shop and a restaurant selling red pork until he reached the bus
stop. Muansaikham, feeling that it was crowded and that they were
starting to attract attention, told the lion to trot to the next bus stop
where there were fewer people. But an even more shocking scene
awaited them there.
Both saw a pair of legs at the top of a huge dustbin made
out of an oil drum. The body and head seemed to have been put inside.
The lion roared, “Arhhh!” Muansaikham cried out, “Ohhh!”
“Anybody there? Help me!” a voice came out through the
stink of putrid garbage.
Muansaikham jumped off the back of the lion and told him
to ram into the bin until it toppled. Then he carefully pulled the
owner of that voice out with his powerful jaw. That body was
wearing a blue peasant-like outfit with many buttons missing. There

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was a black hat on his head. Strangely, the parts of the body seen
outside his outfit were of compressed straw with several wooden
skewers poking out.
“Wow, Mr Scarecrow, what are you doing here?” the lion
roared. “Can you speak a human language?”
The scarecrow quickly expressed his thanks. Both of them
helped pull out the skewers and he conveyed his thanks again. While
Muansaikham got him to talk, some people drove by observing them
with interest and some kind of pleasure knowing that they were
better off.
“This is all because I want to be human. I’m tired of
sacrificing myself standing outdoors all the time with no hope or
entertainment. Who would have thought that one day my empty brain
would get some information from my favourite crow about water
eroding part of the ground beneath my feet with a black ridge
emerging. We then dug it up and found that it was a big black
James-Bond-style suitcase stuffed with one-thousand-baht banknotes.
Neither of us gave any thought to finding the owner or returning it to
anybody. All we did was shout out loud in the field saying that we
were rich and would get out of there.”
Then the scarecrow lowered his head and wrapped his hands
around it. His body was trembling as if he was frightened. Muansaikham
had to shake him hard for him to continue with his story.
“I have to admit that such a lot of money stressed me out.
I wanted to be a party guy with cars and girls, the one people look up
to. I secretly made a rough count of the money in the suitcase and
knew it wasn’t enough if I had to share it with that crow. So I …
I killed him. I strangled him to death with my own hands. I betrayed
my friend. Oh God!”

474 Bulan Sastra

The scarecrow started to cry out loud. He said he felt
remorse. He had wanted to be ordained, but couldn’t. So he fled to
Bangkok. Anyhow, the murder scene in which the crow was strangled
until its eyes popped out haunted him so much that he almost went
crazy. People passing by also liked to play pranks on him, dogs liked
to chase him, children splashed water on him; some skewered him
with grilling sticks. The worst was when some teenage punks grabbed
and chucked him head down into the dustbin.
Although Muansaikham was appalled by such betrayal, she
knew he was really suffering, judging from his wrecked state,
absentmindedness and stress. She consoled him by telling about the
witch and jokingly invited him to join her. Although she wasn’t sure
whether it was good or bad to lead people to the land of shyness
termination, she thought that a lifetime of prolonged remorse would
be an unforgivable blunder. When the scarecrow heard her
invitation, he immediately begged her to take him to the witch as well,
at any price. Muansaikham and the lion laughed, and then set off when
they saw the bus they wanted reach the bus stop. Finally they all got
on the bus.
The bus was fast. There weren’t many passengers. The city
air at night was filled with wind and pollution blowing right in her
face, so she used her Robinson shopping bag as a shield. The front
seats were for her and the scarecrow. She didn’t pay attention to the
back seats until a hand poked at her. She turned around.
“Well now, young woman.”
“Oh no!” she screamed when she saw that the one whose
hand was poking at her was not a human being but a robot with a
funny face similar to an outdated twin-tub washing machine.
His limbs were black like sewers. When the lion and the scarecrow

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turned around to look at him, the robot was so startled that his body
parts squeaked.
“Ah, sorry. I’m Robot Man. I happened to overhear your
conversation at the bus stop that you were going to see a magic witch.
I was so interested that I jumped in.”
Then he started explaining that he wanted to die because of
his obsolescence. He had been kicked out by his owner like some
used-up milk can. Then he was sold by a drug addict to a circus. The
people at the circus took him in and made him up to look like a drag
queen. They made him tell dirty jokes and dance like a simpleton as
well as turned him into a target for hurtful tricks. So he ran away in
great shame, as he had been a leader of technology now downgraded
to such worthless low life. He wanted the witch to block his programme
of fear and shame entirely so that he wouldn’t have to think about his
fall from grace. The lion suggested that he could set up his own
circus after blocking that programme. The scarecrow agreed.
Muansaikham laughed. It was the first pleasant laugh of the night when
suddenly there were three more friends of the same mind.

3
At 10 pm, Muansaikham with a happy glowing face put on a jean skirt
and a check blouse. Taengkhao double-braided her hair, making her
look like a Chinese movie star. When she stepped into Soi Patpong,
there was a large crowd of night owls – just like flies flocking under
a bright lamp. They would not be disappointed as there were big and
small light bulbs hanging from side to side, building to building,
decorating the darkness into the shapes of door arches, alphabetical
letters and neon lights dear to the heart.
“If you won’t study, you’ll grow up shining shoes…”

476 Bulan Sastra

The hit song permeated the air so loudly that Muansaikham
swung her bag and shook her head along. She dreamed of being a
dancer. The lion followed her with a sense of fear and unease.
He was starting to realise the power of human beings and did not dare
to think he could ever earn his living by eating men.
The scarecrow plodded along behind him. A scantily dressed
hostess in front of a bar teased him loudly. Then a wicked guy walked
by and, to show off in front of the hostess, opened the robot’s mouth
and dropped his burning cigarette butt inside so that the robot cried
out.
They all stopped in the middle of the lane with earthly
pleasure on both sides. While many pairs of eyes were on the lookout
for profitable ventures, Muansaikham’s eyes were met with those of
the veteran ladyboy the witch had told her about. She had the fly
tattoo on her forehead. She was buxom and beautiful still, but her lips,
smeared a bright red as if she had sucked blood, were scary. When
they came to talk, Muansaikham introduced her to her newfound
friends. Then things went on. The ladyboy led them away from the
crowd into a narrow lane where some drunken foreigners teased her.
Shortly they reached a three-storey box-shaped black building with
the clear neon sign of number 54. Her group was ushered into the lift
to the third floor. They entered an air-conditioned room and went straight
to register for a membership card at the reception. Then they sat and
waited in a queue next to a young MP, an honest civil servant, an
artist, a dog and two girls with skittish faces. In front of them was a
black partition wall with a heart-shaped stained glass double door
with one black leaf and one red – the door to the witch’s den.
Eventually from 10pm to 11pm or perhaps midnight
everything was all set. The meeting with the witch was not as

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exciting as she had thought. There were some moments of shyness
when she had to bare her beautiful naked breasts in front of her friends.
The witch was like a wrinkled cloth bag in a narrow room. She
mumbled some strange spells into a jar made of clay coated with
celadon filled with candles and incense sticks. Then she pointed and
blew at each person’s heart. She would only open her mouth to speak
when she encouraged them to pay more for extra special services. And
before leaving the place, the witch’s secretary would tell every
customer that the heart with blocked chambers of shyness would be
in full operation one hour later.
The four of them came outside again. This time the lights or
the semi-naked girls didn’t touch their hearts. All were rather shaken
as they couldn’t guess how their new hearts would affect them after
an hour.
Muansaikham walked in front of the lion; the scarecrow and
the robot followed respectively. When they reached Silom Road, the
taxis parked in line were tempting. She felt annoyed and walked across
to the other side, where the crowd was lighter. Then they walked past
closed shops until they reached the front of Dusit Thani Hotel. She
saw Lumphini Park in front of her, its foliage a spread of dark
shadows. She decided to lead everyone there.
Now all of them were complaining of their heavy hearts.

4
One in the morning in Lumphini Park.
“It was too fast for a sleepy old man like me to memorise.
I saw all four bodies jumping over the fence like ghosts. I also heard
them quarrel … The lion confessed of his lust, asking to be the first
to sleep with the girl while offering her the money he’d make out of

478 Bulan Sastra

killing people. The scarecrow raised his voice to show disagreement
while his hand took out a batch of banknotes of some kind, saying
they were all hers if she slept with him first.
“The robot couldn’t stay still. He kicked the scarecrow’s legs
and the lion’s arse, telling the girl to be his wife first. He’d elope with
her to set up a famous circus together. The girl burst out laughing.
She stamped the ground with her feet as she shouted, ‘How good life
is without shame!’
“And then I saw them fighting before coming to an
agreement. I heard the girl say something about a black James-Bond
suitcase before she picked the scarecrow to be her first.
“Oh, an old man like me couldn’t use the magic clot of baked
clay anymore – no more magic. Otherwise I’d rob them for fun.”

5
Many years later, Judy Garland’s song ‘Over the rainbow’ was played
in a beautiful high-rise condominium. Muansaikham used to dream
of being a princess in no time like Cinderella, but she could only be
a ‘post-Cinderella’, a minor wife.
She didn’t regret it and said, “Because the wolves have
changed the course of the world entirely, grandma”.

Author’s note: With respect to the original work The Wizard of Oz, the classic young
adult novel by L. Frank Baum.

The guardian spirit

Mala Khamchan
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

1
Noi-yuang was very worried about the condition of Daeng, his
youngest son, aged five. This was the fourth day, but Daeng wasn’t
getting any better, even though Dr Ai came and gave him a shot
regularly. At night Daeng often screamed about scary things
unconsciously. Dr Ai said he had “Maria” fever which could be cured
with a ten-shot treatment. This would cost two hundred baht. How
could Noi-yuang afford so much? The piglet from a young mother
that he had bought on credit was not yet paid for. It would be embar-
rassing if he were to sell it. People would gossip about him from one
end of the village to the other.
It was now dusk. Some rays of light seeping through the
clouds fell on the corner of the fence at the back of the house where
the shrine of the guarding spirit was located. Noi-yuang sat by the
door at the back of his shack, gazing at the shrine while he thought.
“Daeng peed facing the shrine. He showed no respect,”
Duang, Nanloon’s twelve-year-old son, had said on the night Daeng
fell ill. He said that while they were playing hide and seek around that
area, Daeng peed facing the shrine, and did not apologise at all. That

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night several neighbours came to visit after the news about Daeng’s
illness had spread.
“I knew it!” Nanloon slapped his knee. “There must have
been something wrong. That’s why Daeng’s ‘Maria’ fever isn’t yet
gone. The guardian spirit must have punished him for sure. You must
hurry and ask Grandpa Long to make a votive prayer.”
Something caught Noi-yuang’s eye. He frowned. Dam, his
only dog, came sniffing around that area. It lifted one leg and watered
the pole of the shrine. Then it ran away.
No one knew since when the guardian spirit had been around
to protect the people within the perimeter of this fence. When he was
young, he used to squat and raise his hands together above his head
in front of the shrine with his father every moonless night and every
full-moon night. And he has kept doing this until now. Oh, why didn’t
the guardian spirit see his loyalty? Noi-yuang thought resentfully.
How could he punish Daeng, his only son?
“Dinner’s ready,” his wife called out to him as the ghosts
were beginning to gather the shrouds in the gaps between the clouds.
“I think the guardian spirit gave Daeng a lesson.”
“Uh-huh.” Noi-yuang dipped a chunk of sticky rice into an
olive chilli paste then did the same with the small grilled slices of pork
Daeng had refused to eat at noon. “I’ve already made a votive prayer.”
“Maybe you didn’t do it the right way. I think it’s a good
idea we go and see Grandma Pha, Holy Sanjai’s medium, tomorrow.”
“Grandpa Long has already made a votive prayer for Daeng.”
Noi-yuang stopped eating for a second. “But it’s a good idea.
Perhaps it could show us the bright side.”
Daeng lay moaning. Sometimes he talked in his sleep. When
he felt cold, he would quiver so hard that the whole shack shook. A
minute later he would sweat heavily and kick away his blanket. Those

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pink tablets which cost one baht for ten were useless. Both parents
watched over Daeng until almost dawn.
“Dr Ai must have tricked us.”
“I think so, too. ‘Maria’ fever, my ass! Teacher Tong’s
daughter had it last rainy season. She didn’t talk in her sleep like him.
See, he’s moaning as though something was twisting his guts. In his
case we’d better hurry, or else.”

2
Holy Sanjai was shaking heavily. After a moment, he fell on the
mattress which had been prepared in advance. Holy Sanjai put on a
square-necked shirt and a Burmese-style sarong held around the waist
by a length of pink silky cloth. He got up and danced in a jerky way
that endangered his waist.
“My little mortal men, what’s your story that needs my help?
Tell me.”
Noi-yuang raised his hands together and told him the story
and Daeng’s symptoms. Holy Sanjai sat cross-legged, eyes closed,
body rocking on the thick mattress. There was a large crowd of people.
“A small satuang of votive items must be offered as an
apology. The guardian spirit said so.”
Hardly had he finished saying this with a hoarse voice than
Holy Sanjai fell face down. Noi-yuang raised his hands together one
more time, and stepped back to give way to the next person.
The satuang, a square punnet carved out of a banana trunk,
the sides a little over a foot long, was to be filled with votive items
including tiny clay figurines in the shape of elephants, horses and
buffaloes, white rice and brown rice as well as flowers, incense, flags,
cracked pottery in lieu of coins, figurines of tua peung or zodiac
animals, with gold leaf, white thread and red thread, betel, betel nuts
and so on. Grandma Pha would be in charge of such provision.

482 Bulan Sastra

“You must offer all of it to the guardian spirit, along with
one bottle of liquor and two chickens,” the old woman said
solemnly after raising the satuang to place it on the platform of the
spirit house. A lengthy votive prayer was held the day after the visit
to the medium.

3
Kham, Noi-yuang’s wife, looked excited as she rushed down the stairs
to speak to her husband that evening.
“Daeng has a big appetite now.”
“The spirit be praised!” Noi-yuang squatted, put the hoe
down and raised his hands together above his head, facing the shrine.
“Please have mercy on Daeng. I’ll build you a new shrine.”
The next day there were some flowers, candles and incense sticks on
the shrine.
Daeng lay blinking his eyes. He no longer talked in his sleep,
but still moaned. One night while Dam was howling as the twelfth
month was approaching, after a protracted struggle Daeng died in his
mother’s embrace.
“Oh, guarding spirit! You didn’t have any mercy on me.”
Noi-yuang mourned silently.
The shrine still stood in the same spot, rain or shine.
Noi-yuang was in a state of deep thinking. Dam still barked and
howled as usual. On some nights close to dawn her puppies’ whines
could be heard. After the twelfth month, the month of animal heat,
was over, Dam had given birth to four puppies.

4
The sun shone over the mountain ridge. Kham was winnowing rice
with her threshing basket. The grains flew in the air and as they fell
her hands collected them. A mother hen called up her chicks to peck

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the bits of broken rice that fell off to the ground. While grains were
being thrown in the air, Kham was stunned.
“What are you doing?” she shouted to her husband.
She closed her threshing basket and walked towards him so fast she
was almost running. Noi-yuang was holding the pole of the shrine
and shaking it from side to side forcibly. In a moment he had
uprooted it and he threw it in the nearby bonfire.
“But… ”
Noi-yuang wiped away the sweat on his forehead with
his arm.
“Don’t pay respect to it anymore. This fucking spirit isn’t any
good. Daeng, my son, is dead, but when Dam pees on it too, it won’t
harm the dog. Go away, fucking spirit. I don’t believe in you
anymore…”

Some memories are so hazy

Rachasak Jirawat
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

1
The face of the person sitting in front of me right now is no
different from that in the photograph I saw, even though the picture
was taken twenty years ago. Although time has left some wrinkles on
her face, those sharp eyes have remained the same. They show
determination that hides the sheen of sadness within. Her hair is cut
short with strands of reddish brown to freshen it up, which makes her
look younger than her age. Her appearance reminds me of Yoko Ono
in her senior years. Yes, she has the same nationality as that of the
widow of the late superstar singer, but she communicates with me in
fluent English. And her manner is more of an academic than an artist.
It was late morning on the last Sunday in July when
I arrived at the coffee shop where we had arranged to meet.
She gave me her hand to shake and introduced herself.
“You’re Khatha, right? My name is Miyama Hiroki.”

2
Everything started with those books – the books in the book
cabinet, my father’s books.

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As every time I am free from work and have some time to
relax, I choose one of my father’s books in the cabinet to read. It is a
built-in wooden cabinet, three metres in length running from one end
of the wall to the other. There are three bookshelves inside, each
loaded with various types of books, both in Thai and in English. Some
shelves are arranged by category, some by authors’ names and some
placed in no particular order. Some books are so old that the pages
have turned yellow and that their musty smell exudes when you turn
the pages. Some books are still in good condition despite their age.
Although Father passed away two years ago, every time I stand in
front of his book cabinet and glance through those books on the shelves
I can still feel his presence and his soul. And when I pick up one of
his books to read, I feel as if I were close to him again. It is as though
we were communicating through the characters printed on the page.
Father had a particularly large collection of books written by
Kukrit Pramoj and ’Rong Wongsawan. Their books take up two of the
three shelves. When I was a secondary student and had nothing to do
during school breaks, I picked up this or that book of theirs to read,
unaware that what I was reading was the work of great authors
widely admired by the public. At the time there were many parts I did
not understand, presumably because of my limited reading experience,
so I never got to finish any of those books. But when I took them to
read again when I was a university student, I understood them and
enjoyed the words on the pages all the more. Red Bamboo and Many
Lives are still etched in my mind. Sanim Soi (The Squeamish) and
Sepleboi Jao Rai (Country Playboy) have cast a spell on me up until now.
I spent my last weekend at home as usual. This gave me time
to have enough sleep after a whole tiring week. I woke up at almost
10 am, and saw my mother’s note saying that she had gone to buy
plants at Chatuchak Weekend Market and that she had cooked my

486 Bulan Sastra

breakfast and left it in the kitchen. After taking a shower and having
breakfast, I stood in front of Father’s book cabinet, looking for an
interesting book to read while lying down as usual. Although I have
read dozens of the books in the cabinet, it does not amount to even
half of my father’s collection. Perhaps I will not have a chance to read
them all in my lifetime. However, I once made the resolution not to
buy any new books until I had read all the books in my father’s
cabinet. This meant that I might not buy a single book in my entire
life because I may not be able to finish reading such a huge
collection of my father’s books. It sounds like a crazy determination.
But every time I read his books, I felt as if he was near and could be
touched and talked with through each of the books. No need for me
then to buy new books to read. I was happy reading my father’s old
books, and even happier when I saw that there were more books in
the cabinet waiting for me to read.
Suddenly my eyes caught onto one corner of a bookshelf and
I gazed at the books there for quite a while. Doubt came to my mind,
bringing some intriguing questions. Fully aware of all the books in
the cabinet, strangely I had never thought much about them. They had
been arranged in order on the shelves and had stood there for so long
for some lonely soul to come and greet them.
More than thirty books on these shelves were about Japan:
history, literature, culture, tourist attractions, and preliminary
Japanese reading and writing textbooks.
Why did Father have so many books on Japan?
My curiosity was aroused.
As far as I remembered, Father had never shown any
particular interest in Japan. As far as I knew, he had been fluent in
two languages: Thai and English. There had been no sign of his
speaking or understanding Japanese. If there was any connection with

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 487

Japan, it must have been when he went to Japan as his firm’s
representative for two weeks. I still could remember that. I had just
entered sixth grade and had never been far away from my parents
before. Even though my father was away for just two weeks, it was
a long time for a little boy. Although my mother was with me, the
absence of my father was as if something in life was missing. At first
I cried a river because I did not want him to leave. But after a while
I got used to his absence and felt good that he was not around to tell
me off when I read comic books or stayed up late watching TV. But
that was only two weeks. Such a short period could not have made
him so attracted to Japan that he tried to learn how to read and write
Japanese or bought so many books on Japan.
I picked up each book on that shelf one by one, looking at
the front and back covers. The pale colours on those covers testified
to their age. I flicked through the contents roughly. The pages once
white had turned pale yellow. I could smell their old scent when I
breathed in. Many lines in the books were underlined with a pen to
highlight their importance and some books still had bookmarks inside.
Then my curiosity grew when I found a photograph in one
of the books. It was an old, pale photograph with a date specifying
that it had been taken twenty years ago. The portrait in the
photograph was of a woman. Her face was sweet, with a charming
smile, but her eyes were sharp, with a glimpse of seriousness inside.
Her long hair was tied to the back. She was wearing a T-shirt and a
pair of jeans. At the back of the photograph, there was a neatly
handwritten message in English. I guessed it was the handwriting of
the woman in the photograph.
It said:
Hope to see you again, Kevin.
Miyama Hiroki

488 Bulan Sastra

3
“I remember it was in July 1990 when Kevin and I met for the first
time.” Miyama Hiroki started to speak after a long look at the pho-
tograph. I had brought it for her to see. When she looked at it, a thin
smile appeared on her face. And when she saw the message at the
back, tears filled her eyes.
“Kevin was one of the representatives from a firm of
architects from Thailand who came on a business trip to visit the firm
of architects I worked for.” By Kevin she meant my father, whose
real name was Kanin, but who had gone for Kevin since
he had gone to study in the States to make it easy for his foreign
friends to pronounce his name.
“My company’s executives weren’t fluent in English.
So I had to help with most of the communication. And in the
visiting group, Kevin was the most fluent speaker in English, so he
became the team’s interpreter. Kevin and I then had more chance to
talk and exchange our opinions than anyone else,” Miyama
explained while glancing at the young woman sitting beside her who
sipped hot green tea occasionally while her eyes remained on the
Japanese book in her hand, totally isolated from the surrounding
atmosphere.
Several minutes earlier, before we started our conversation,
Miyama had introduced me to the young woman sitting beside her. It
was her only daughter, named Keiko. Keiko had bowed her head a
little to greet me, but her eyes were indifferent and her face did not
wear a smile. No ‘hello’ came out of those pink lips. Come to think
of it, I could understand that she did not need to know me.
I was just a foreigner happening to pass in her life temporarily and
then parting without anything to remember. She thus had merely bowed
her head to show good manners.

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 489

I guessed from what I saw that Keiko was eighteen or
nineteen years old or at most in her early twenties, perhaps in her first
year at university. She seemed unnaturally quiet, showing no interest
in her surroundings as if buried in her own thoughts. But there was
something that made me feel that we had met before. Her eyes looked
familiar. They resembled those of someone I knew.
“Kevin was a determined, serious young man. At the same time he
was fun and amusing.” Miyama closed her eyes as though she
recalled the past. Soon she opened them again and continued:
“At the time we got along well very quickly. We both learnt that we
had much in common. Our lifestyles and ways of thinking were alike.”
Miyama looked at Keiko again, and then looked me in the eyes.
“But I didn’t know he already had a wife and son in
Thailand.”

4
Many questions arose from that photograph – Miyama Hiroki’s
photograph in my father’s book.
My curiosity brought me to the computer desk. I turned the
computer on and went on the Internet. I typed her name in Google.
What I needed to know appeared in front of me instantly.
I clicked on various websites with the name Miyama Hiroki and put
the pieces together until I knew roughly that she had worked for a
Tokyo-based firm of architects for decades before resigning and mak-
ing a living working from home as a freelance translator. Three or
four of her photographs appeared on certain websites, mostly from the
time she had a full-time job, but how long ago they were taken I had
no way of knowing. Additionally, I found her email address, but I still
hesitated to email her.

490 Bulan Sastra

Why would I want to contact her, I asked myself. What need
did I have for wanting to know her that much? She could have been
just an old friend of my father’s, and probably did not know of his
death. Even worse, she might not even remember my father.
However, something bothered me and urged me to find the
answer. Finally, I decided to email Miyama. In that email,
I introduced myself, explained how I had come by her email
address and why I felt an urge to write to her. After sending it,
I had the secret wish that she would reply.
Miyama wrote back that evening.
She wrote in her email that she was an old friend of my
father’s whom she had met during his business visit to Tokyo. After
my father returned to Thailand, both of them still exchanged letters,
but only for two months. Then they had not got in touch again.
Incidentally, I was both glad and surprised to learn that Miyama had
been on vacation in Thailand for a week. Now she was staying in
Krabi Province, and would be in Thailand for another week before
going back to Japan. I emailed her back, asking if it would be
possible to get together before her departure. She said yes.
That was the reason why we, two strangers of different
nationalities, were sitting face to face in this coffee shop.
Miyama was silent for a long while, gazing vacantly
outside the shop. I still kept my mouth shut. My brain could not find
the right words to reply to her. Keiko was still reading her book,
slowly turning each page, her eyes on the lines and her mind on the
story proceeding on the page.
I discreetly observed Miyama’s face again. Her wrinkles were
not only the gift of time but also markers of her inner strength. Her
sharp eyes were coated with the sparkles of determination and sadness.

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 491

“I can’t imagine,” she suddenly said, “I can’t imagine Kevin
passing away so soon. It feels as though we’d met not so long ago.
His smile is still fresh in my memory.”
“Death always comes at unexpected times,” I said.
“I remember the morning of Father’s death. Before I went to work, he
still talked to me as usual. His face was smiley and radiant – no sign
of illness. But that afternoon he suddenly passed out. Mother took him
to the nearest hospital, but it was too late. The doctor said he had had
a heart attack. But the strange thing was that Father had no record of
heart disease or chest pain.”
When I finished speaking, Keiko put the book down on the
table forcefully. Miyama and I turned to her almost at the same time.
Other people in the shop also turned their heads with some interest.
Miyama said something to Keiko in Japanese, but Keiko kept silent,
gazing forward as if in oblivion. Soon she picked up her book to read
again as though nothing had happened.
“Lately Keiko has been acting strange like this. Please excuse
her,” Miyama said. I smiled at her instead of saying it was all right.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you one thing. If Keiko is rather quiet it’s because
she can’t speak.”
I was stunned when I knew why Keiko kept to herself
without saying a word. When she saw me silent, Miyama explained
further, “Keiko can’t speak since the day she was born. But I’m
surprised that she can understand every word I say although she can’t
speak back. She doesn’t have to learn sign language because she
understands everything other people say. When she wants to
communicate with me, she writes her replies on a piece of paper.”
I nodded and glanced at Keiko. She was still buried in her book.
I wondered if I was imagining things, but I had the impression I had
seen her before.

492 Bulan Sastra

“Now that her father has just passed away, she looks even
sadder than ever,” Miyama went on. She told me that Kenji, her
husband and Keiko’s father, had just been killed in the tsunami and
great earthquake in Japan earlier that year. The disaster had brought
about many changes in the country and in their lives. Miyama said
that Kenji was in Miya-ngi Province, his hometown, on that day. He
had gone to visit his parents who lived there. Once in a long while he
would take leave from work to go back home. Keiko and she had been
tied up with something in Tokyo, so they did not join him.
“As you know, the disaster caused immeasurable damage. It
took away a large number of lives, including those of Kenji and his
parents. And yes, you’re right: death often comes when we least expect
it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She smiled lightly as if to say it was all right then went on:
“Miya-ngi was one of the provinces that were deeply affected by the
tsunami. Many buildings and houses were destroyed. Many people
died and disappeared into the water. Luckily, Kenji’s body was among
the many bodies that were recovered, so we had a chance to arrange
a funeral for him.”
It seemed sadness and depression mixed with the air so much
they became palpable. That double disaster had shocked the world.
I had only learned of it from news reports on TV and the Internet.
It was beyond my expectation that today I would feel the sorrow
directly from a person who had experienced such a loss.
“Keiko and I were deeply aggrieved for a long time because
Kenji was the head of the family. Without him, both of us seemed
lost in the deep sea.” Miyama stopped for a while to check certain
feelings before continuing with a firmer voice. “But when I turned
around, I realised that it was not only my family that had

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 493

experienced losses. Many more people had faced the same fate, or
even worse for some. So I ordered myself to bear up again and
overcome this grief.”
“If this happened in Thailand or to my family, I wouldn’t
know how to cope with it.”
“We Japanese people have a trait called gaman or
stamina to go through hardship. I think we all have it inside of us, so
we can pass through all the crises.”
Well, it was gaman, then – the trait that makes Japanese
people stand out with courage through many cruel events, both
natural and manmade.
I gave her a smile, admiring her strong, determined mind.
“When I could pull myself together, I tried to continue living my life
the best I could.” Miyama glanced at Keiko again. “But poor Keiko
– she’s still in deep sorrow. She smiles less and communicates with me
less. So I decided to take her on a vacation for a change of scenery
to make her feel more relaxed. This is why we are in Thailand now.”
“Lucky for me that you are here. I have a chance to meet my
father’s old friend.”
“I couldn’t imagine I would meet Kevin’s son. If you hadn’t
emailed me, I wouldn’t have known that Kevin was gone.”
“Do you want to meet my father?”
Miyama looked confused.
“The place where his urn is kept. I can take you there if you
want.”

5
We left the coffee shop in the afternoon. And I drove Miyama and
Keiko to the temple.

494 Bulan Sastra

The afternoon sun was not as strong as expected. Perhaps it
was because of the thick clouds that blanketed the sky. But the sky
was not dark; there was still light shining through the clouds. The
atmosphere at the temple was serene. Only a few cars were in the
parking lot set along the temple’s surrounding wall. A woman selling
flowers, incense sticks and candles was listening to country songs on
a small radio to fight boredom, her little daughter reading a comic
book beside her. A man selling sets of offerings dedicated to monks
sat yawning, his hand idly swinging a fan to keep mosquitos away.
I led Miyama and Keiko to the marble mortuary urn where
my father’s ashes were kept. His photograph as well as mention of his
name, date of birth and date of demise were in full view in front of
the urn. His face looked younger than the last time I had seen him
alive. His eyes sparkled, seemingly gazing at me.
My thoughts went back to that afternoon. Mother had called
me at the office as I was clearing the work on my desk. Her voice was
shaky. She stuttered so much I hardly understood. When I realised
what had happened, I left everything on the desk, asked my boss for
half-a-day’s leave and drove to the hospital at once. When I got there,
I saw my mother’s red eyes and pale white face. She told me in her
husky voice that Father was gone. My father had passed away!
“Kevin, it’s me, Miyama,” Miyama murmured. Her earnest
eyes were tender and veiled with nostalgia. Keiko stood beside her,
her left hand in her mother’s right hand, her eyes staring and
staring at my father’s photograph as if under a spell.
“I came to Thailand with Keiko, my daughter. Khatha, your
son, has brought me to see you. It’s incredible that I happened to meet
your son here. Or maybe it is destiny.” Miyama fell silent for a while.
Then she smiled at my father, a smile mixed with feelings difficult to
explain.

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 495

“Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
The afternoon breeze was blowing gently. Keiko’s hair was
floating in the wind, revealing her well-formed face. I gazed at that
face and those eyes for so long as if some strange attraction kept me
from looking somewhere else.
That was when I remembered.
Suddenly some memories arose. This facial structure and
those eyes – I had seen them before, yes. Keiko’s facial structure and
eyes were similar to…
“What’s wrong, Keiko?” Miyama’s voice woke me from my
thoughts. Out of the blue, Keiko was down on her knees, her eyes
running, her body shaking from her sobbing. Miyama knelt down
beside her, trying to ask her questions. But Keiko was still sobbing,
and copious tears were running down her fair cheeks. Miyama pulled
her daughter into her embrace, consoling her and stroking her hair.
Her eyes were as red as Keiko’s; she was close to crying along with
her daughter. After a short while, the sobs died down and then were
gone. Keiko buried her face into her mother’s shoulder. She no
longer cried, but traces of sorrow were still visible on both cheeks.
I watched the event with pity and doubt. I could not
understand what had happened to Keiko since she was in the
coffee shop. Was she a sentimental, difficult girl? Or did she like to
attract her mother’s attention? But she was not a little girl likely to
behave that way. Or was it because she had lost her father in the
disaster earlier this year? She could be distressed and still unable to
bring her mind to peace. Seeing my father’s photograph had perhaps
made her miss her own father so much that she couldn’t help crying.
My head was full of confusing conjectures and forebodings
now. I warned myself to stop those wild thoughts as I would never

496 Bulan Sastra

know better than Keiko. What right did I have to judge her,
especially without even talking or communicating with her?
“Let’s go,” Miyama said as she walked up to me.
“We have to pack. We’re leaving for Tokyo tomorrow morning.”

6
This morning I am supposed to be at work, but I find myself standing
among people from different nationalities at the Suvarnabhumi airport,
not even knowing why I have taken time off just to see Miyama and
Keiko off to Tokyo. It is as if something had told me I had to come.
The two of them check in and have their luggage loaded;
there are still two hours left before boarding. We then sit in a
restaurant having breakfast. Keiko still sticks to her indifferent
attitude. But sometimes I feel as if she is peeking at me. When I turn
round, she looks the other way and starts eating.
“Please excuse me, I’m going to the powder room,” Miyama says to
me and turns to her daughter. Keiko shakes her head, signalling that
she will not go with her. Miyama walks away on her own.
Left alone with Keiko, I feel awkward because I know it is
useless to talk to her as she cannot respond. I smile at her and then
busy myself with my meal.
“Khatha … Mr Khatha!” I look up from my plate, turn my
head around, look for whoever it is that is calling me. But
everything in the shop remains the same. All the customers are busy
with their meals or coffees, or talking with their friends.
“Khatha, I think you should know. You should know the
truth.” I turn round again but don’t see anyone calling me. There is
no one I know in this restaurant.

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 497

Who is it then? The voice is feminine, addressing me in
English. I feel as if the voice is coming from my own head.
As I turn round, my eyes catch Keiko. She’s looking at me.
And this time she does not look away.
“I am the one talking to you.” That voice is really
echoing in my head. “It’s me, Keiko.”
I look at Keiko, puzzled. Many questions arise in my mind.
“Don’t be afraid. It’s me talking to you, through what some
people call telepathy.” Keiko’s mouth doesn’t move, but her eyes
indicate that she is communicating with me. I feel that her eyes today
are friendlier than yesterday.
“I know you have many questions in your head right now.
I’ll tell you everything. I think you should know the truth as I do.”
I gulp with difficulty, unwilling to believe what is
happening.
“I started to realise this ability when I was six. At that time
I found I could read other people’s minds through telepathy. This is
probably because I can’t talk, so I have this weird ability to
compensate. First I read my classmates’ and my teacher’s thoughts,
and knew how they thought or felt towards things around them. One
day, when the teacher was teaching us sign language, I asked her
through telepathy about particular words and their hand gestures. She
freaked out, looked around the class in a panic as if she had seen a
ghost. Then she ran away crying and yelling. After that she never
returned to the school. I later learned she thought she had gone insane
after hearing a voice in her head. She went to see a psychiatrist and
locked herself in her house. She never went out again because of her
fear of the devil’s voice.”
The voice in my head stops speaking for a while. Keiko sighs
a little then the voice in my head is back.

498 Bulan Sastra

“It was my fault my teacher was like that. From then on,
I haven’t communicated with anyone through telepathy again. What
I do is only read other people’s thoughts. That’s why my mother doesn’t
have to use sign language with me. I reply to her in writing. I’ve
never told her about this ability, and I dare not talk to her through
telepathy because I’m afraid she’d react like my teacher.”
“But you use it with me,” I say.
“I’m sorry, but it’s necessary. From today on we might not
see each other again. I need to communicate with you.”
“Fine with me.” I smile. “I think I’m getting used to your
voice in my head.”
She smiles back – the first smile from her.
“Since I was six, I’ve lived my life with this ability. When I
turned fifteen, I discovered another, that is, the ability to read someone’s
past memories, on top of reading their current thoughts. I got access
to my mother’s memory first. Then I went into my father’s memory,
and then other people I met in coffee shops, stores or movie houses.
Seeing their memories gave me another kind of fun. It was like watch-
ing films of various genres. Often I felt happy when I touched upon
their beautiful memories. But when I learned of bitter memories,
I absorbed their sorrow too. Sometimes I was down all day because
I saw their cruel memories. So I was most reluctant to use this
ability.
“But my curiosity won’t give up easily. I like to survey my
mother’s memory in order to see her daily chores, to know where she
goes or who she’s with. At the time I couldn’t go back very far. The
farthest was when I was a child. I could see how my parents had raised
me. I tried to go back further, but I couldn’t. I only saw their
memories as a hazy picture, which cleared up several times before it
became hazy again like a foggy mirror. Each time I tried to focus on

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 499

my mother’s hazy memories, I repeatedly saw a man. But his picture
wasn’t clear. I guessed from his figure and facial structure that he was
quite unlike my father. After failed attempts, I lost interest and
finally forgot about him. It was when I turned eighteen two years ago
that I could see that man clearly.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “It’s as if your mind was getting
stronger with age.”
“That’s what I thought, too.” Keiko nods. “Back then
I could suddenly explore my mother’s older memories, even back to
the time before I was born. And I could see that man’s face – the man
in my mother’s hazy memories. He wasn’t my father. His face wasn’t
even Japanese. I knew later that he was Kevin, a Thai man. Your
father, Khatha.”
“I tried to focus more until I saw and understood everything
during the time my mother got to know Kevin and became close to
him. Khatha, listen to me carefully. My mother and your father weren’t
just friends. They were intimate and romantically involved. Although
they only met for a short time, my mother deeply loved Kevin because
he was smart, intelligent and he understood her. At the same time
Kevin also loved my mother. Yes, he already had a family in Thailand,
but he couldn’t resist his heart when he was close to my mother. She
was beautiful, intelligent and well-rounded. That impressed Kevin.
The two of them became intimate on the last night before Kevin went
back to Thailand. When he was gone, my mother still missed him
every day and wrote to him. Kevin wrote to her as well, which made
her very happy. With so much love and care, she wanted to fly to
Thailand to see him, but her busy schedule at work kept her from
taking leave. After exchanging letters for two months, Kevin confessed
in one of his letters that he had a family in Thailand. When she finished
reading that letter, my mother’s heart was broken. Her strength was

500 Bulan Sastra

all gone. She cried until there were no more tears. When she calmed
down, she decided not to contact Kevin again as she didn’t want to
hurt his family in Thailand. By then she knew she was two months’
pregnant.”
All of a sudden it seems silence has taken over the
surroundings. People around us are still moving and talking, yet
I can hear nothing at all, not even Keiko’s voice in my head. Keiko
seems to understand my feelings, so she grabs my hand, sending her
understanding through those eyes, eyes that resemble my father’s.
“Now you can put the pieces together and know that Kenji
wasn’t my real father.” Keiko’s voice comes into my head again.
“I too was shocked when I knew through my mother’s memories. But
I still loved and respected him as my own father” because no one else
could treat me and my mother better than him.”
“Back then my mother didn’t tell anyone she was pregnant.
Only one close friend sharing the same rented apartment knew.
My grandparents lived upcountry. There was no way that they could
know. My mother’s feelings were gloomy like those dark clouds
before the rain. She couldn’t eat or sleep. Her mind was so concerned
with the new life she had to bear. Many kinds of fear piled up and ate
her thoughts. She was scared of my grandparents’ blame if they ever
learned the truth. She was afraid of other people’s negative criticism
that she was pregnant without a husband. Confusion, nervousness and
depression took over her mind. Until one day she decided to take a
large amount of sleeping pills. Luckily her roommate found her just
in time and rushed her off to the hospital. She and the baby she was
carrying were both safe.”
“At that time she took time off for several weeks until my
father, I mean Kenji, grew worried. Kenji was my mother’s
colleague who knew her and had been secretly in love with her for a

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 501

long time. But my mother only saw him as a good friend. Kenji was
suspicious of my mother’s long leave because she was usually diligent
and never even took a day off. He decided to come to my mother’s
apartment and thus discovered the truth. A few days later he came
back to see her again and told her he was ready to be the baby’s father
and to take good care of her. She refused because she didn’t want him
to be responsible for something he hadn’t caused. But after that
Kenji visited my mother very often. He firmly assured her each time
of his decision. My mother went soft and felt his love was sincere, so
she accepted to marry him.”
“When I was born, Kenji took good care of me. He loved
and cared for me like his own daughter. After almost two years, both
of them knew I couldn’t speak. My mother thought it was because of
the sleeping pills she had taken. This guilt was still in her mind, and
I could feel it. When I saw this, I cried and hated her. But soon I came
to terms with it and understood how fearful and melancholy it was
for her back then.”
Keiko is now quiet. Her eyes are turning red. Soon her voice
is back in my head.
“At the time I wanted to tell your father the truth,
wanted him to know that a Japanese woman hadn’t forgotten him and
that he still had a daughter there. I tried to focus my mind to the utmost
in order to find him and enter his thoughts and talk to him. I tried for
a long time, and finally I was able to connect with him. I told
everything to him through telepathy. Because he was in Thailand,
I had to concentrate very hard. I could feel my energy was gradually
eaten away. I began to lose consciousness, and suddenly everything
was blacked out.
“I regained consciousness in hospital. My mother said
I had passed out for two days. I didn’t realise that using long-distance

502 Bulan Sastra

telepathy could badly affect my body. After full recovery at home,
I could sense, instantly, that Kevin was gone. He … he had passed away.”
Now I am beginning to understand everything. I cannot
believe this is true. Keiko breathes in slowly as if trying to block her
sobs. Her eyes are red and full of tears. Her grip on my hand is
harder.
“Yes, you’ve made it out. I used too much telepathy, so that
it affected your father, causing him to have a sudden heart attack.
I … I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for it to be like this. I … I’m so sorry.”
Her tears run down her cheeks. Her sobbing makes her stutter. I now
see her face with difficulty because my own tears are blurring what
I see.
“I … I feel so guilty. Even though I never met Kevin, he
gave me my life. I … I’m so sorry.”
I am trying to prevent my intense emotions from boiling up;
I hold back my confusion, my anger and my hatred inside.
I can feel that I am losing my breath and my limbs are numb as if
there was no blood flow.
“I’ve never told my mother I know the truth, and my
mother has never thought of telling me about Kevin. It seems she
wants to keep the past to herself, not letting me know my real
background. But I’m not angry at her. I know she doesn’t want to dig
up the old pain to hurt herself again. And she might want to keep the
good times with Kevin to herself.”
Now my tears are running down my cheeks, and I close my
eyes. The memory of that day interferes with my thoughts – that of
my father’s body in hospital. This is a scene I have never imagined
before, but it suddenly appears, catching me unprepared.
And the person in front of me is the cause of my father’s
death.

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 503

Keiko holds my hand tightly. I take my hand away, get up
and rush out of the restaurant. I can’t face my father’s attacker anymore.
I dither in the corridor in front of the restaurant among people going
to and fro. My eyes are filled with tears which cloud my vision.
What should I do? This young woman killed my father.
She has ruined my family, ruined everything. But … but she and
I have the same bloodline. Every time I look at her face and her eyes,
it is as if my father was appearing in person before me.
I take a deep breath, wipe away the tears with my hand and pull
myself together. What did my father feel when he learned those things
through Keiko’s telepathy? Perhaps he was happy to have a daughter.
Or perhaps he was shocked to have made Miyama bear such a burden
and pressure by herself that she had thought of taking her own life.
Or he was sorry to have wronged my mother. Learning the truth after
twenty years must have confused him. The buried past was dug up
and put on display. If he had not passed away that day, he would have
lived with guilt all his life.
When my chaotic feelings have died down, I walk back to
the restaurant. Keiko is still sitting there. Her tearful eyes are vacant.
As if she can feel my return, she turns round and gets up from her
seat. Her red eyes are gazing at me with sadness and guilt before she
sends her voice into my head. I take her into my embrace.
“It’s all right,” I whisper in her ear. “Never mind, Keiko.
Never mind.”
Keiko holds me tight, sobbing heavily. People in the
restaurant look at us as one. But I can’t be so sure because it seems
to me there are just the two of us. I have so many thoughts and
feelings to express to let Keiko know, but I cannot speak.
But … it is all right because Keiko can read my mind.

504 Bulan Sastra

When we go back to our seats, I take out my handkerchief to wipe off
my tears. Keiko does the same. And right then Miyama walks back inside.
“Sorry for taking so long. There was a very long queue at
the ladies’ room,” she says while glancing at her watch. “It’s time to
go now. Let’s go, Keiko.”
We ask the waiter for the bill. This meal is on me.
Miyama says thank you. I smile and say it’s my pleasure, hoping she
does not notice the traces of tears on our faces.
I see Miyama and Keiko off at the immigration gate.
We shake hands and say goodbye. Miyama tells me to let her know
if I ever go to Japan. I say I will. The two of them bow deep, the
Japanese way, and walk through the gate.
Before they are out of sight, Keiko turns around to look at
me one more time.
“It’s been too short, but thanks for everything … brother.”
She smiles at me and takes a bow again before going out of
my sight.

7
That evening I stand gazing at those books for a long time – the books
in my father’s cabinet.
More than thirty books on these shelves are about Japan:
history, literature, culture, tourist attractions, and preliminary
Japanese reading and writing textbooks.
Why did my father have so many books on Japan? I now
know the answer to this question.
But I still cannot tell myself whether I am angry at my father.
Because it all happened a long time ago, it is no use digging this up.
Come to think of it, these memories of my father’s were burned to

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 505

dust along with his body. If only I had not happened to pick up that
book on the shelf…
By the way, was it just a coincidence?
“Khatha, dinner’s ready,” my mother is shouting from the
kitchen.
“I’m coming,” I shout back.
I decide not to tell my mother anything and leave it all in
the past – the bittersweet past. I take that book from the shelf again
and look at the old, pale photograph of Miyama in my hand. Then I
put the photograph back where it was. I just notice that the book where
my father kept Miyama’s photograph is an English translation of a
Japanese novel, Beauty and Sadness, written by Yasunari Kawabata,
the first Japanese author who received the Nobel Prize for Literature.
But what is it about? I must read this book one day.
I look at the cover of the book again then put it back on the shelf.

8
It is a built-in wooden cabinet, three metres in length running from
one end of the wall to the other. There are three bookshelves inside,
each loaded with various types of books, both in Thai and in English.
Some shelves are arranged by category, some by authors’ names, and
some placed in no particular order.
And now I just know that some shelves hold some
memories – hazy memories, which will be etched in my mind for a
long time to come.

The girl and the school uniform

Kla Samudavanija
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn
The first time Nisara found that school-uniform blouse in her
wardrobe, it hung among her own school uniforms. But she could tell
at first glance as she was choosing a uniform from the packed rack to
wear at school one morning that there was an odd school blouse
hanging incognito in her wardrobe.
That evening she took the mysterious blouse to Auntie Jong,
the family maid, to let her know that it was not her blouse.
“Oh, really?” Auntie Jong looked doubtful. “I saw it in the
courtyard under the balcony. I thought it was yours, so I washed and
ironed it. Come to think of it, I saw it wasn’t like any of your
blouses, but I thought it was for some special occasion. Isn’t that so?”
It was definitely not her blouse. Her high-school blouse was
all-white with no embroidery of letters or numbers and the school pin
as only accessory. This blouse she found was a sailor-collar school
blouse similar to those of secondary school students. The only
difference with the familiar government-owned school uniform was

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 507

the fact that it was a long-sleeved blouse with the acronym “SR”
stitched on the left side of the chest along with the presumably student
ID number “1932”.
Where did it come from? Or could it have been lifted by the
wind from the neighbouring house? This was unlikely because the
house on the left belonged to a couple who ran an online import
business of toys. She had not seen either of them in a month.
Actually their house was used as a storage place rather than a place
to live in. As for the house on the right, even though there was a young
couple with a girl, that girl was no more than four or five years old.
She could not have owned the blouse.
Although its origin was still unknown, she did not plan to
throw the blouse away, presumably because of the thought that its
owner might come looking for it one day. So she folded it neatly
before putting it in a zip-lock plastic bag she placed in the drawer in
the wardrobe where winter clothes, suits or rarely worn clothes
belonging to family members were kept.
Nisara could eventually have forgotten about that mysterious
school blouse if another piece of clothing of unknown origin had not
turned up on the little balcony in front of her bedroom where she hung
some personal wear she had to wash on her own.
It was a pair of thin cotton panties, a kind Nisara might have in her
possession, picked up at her usual dry laundry spot for underwear.
But this was definitely not hers. It was smaller than all of hers. Also,
its thin and light fabric was not the type she chose to wear. So she
was certain that it was not hers. At first she thought she would ask the

508 Bulan Sastra

maid, but then she changed her mind and threw the mysterious panty
in the bin with the help of a ruler, feeling partly afraid and partly
disgusted, so much that she got goose pimples from the back of her
neck to the middle of her back.
She walked to the wardrobe where she had put away that
strange school blouse back then. Intuition of some kind told her that
these panties and the mysterious blouse belonged to the same owner
or came from the same source. But when she opened the drawer where
she was certain she had put the blouse, she did not find it there. She
searched the other drawers of the wardrobe, even her own wardrobe,
but that blouse could not be found at all. It was then that Nisara felt
the threat of something she couldn’t quite put into words.
Although her family spent little time together unlike other
families, Nisara had no misgivings about her family well-being being
cause for trouble, maybe because she understood both the constraints
and the needs of each member. Besides, in terms of social standard,
her family could be regarded as an upper-middle-class family a few
steps above the lower-middle class. Her father, the head of the house-
hold, was governor in a small province in the North. He preferred his
family to stay in Bangkok instead of moving with him as he wanted
them to live a comfortable life in the capital where both his son and
daughter were educated in “good schools”. He was not disappointed,
as Nisara could enter the old elite school where her mother was an
alumna, and Nimit, her brother, had entered a co-ed secondary school
of the same rank as hers. Her father came back home to Bangkok
twice a month or sometimes more frequently if there was an official
order or special mission from his ministry.

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 509

As for her mother, after early retirement from a venerable
bank, she had chosen to follow the path of Buddhism along with her
big group of friends whom she had met after joining an elite Buddhist
club in town. Her mother and her friends went on meditation tours in
different religious places upcountry where courses were held and caught
their interest. In short, it was more than twenty days in a month when
Nisara and her brother lived on their own with Auntie Jong, the
housemaid of old, in the 640-square-metre house compound with such
a good security system that crime was out of the question. Nisara was
also a “good girl” who had long been able to take care of herself. As
a result, she could run the household with her parents’ full consent.
However, this time Nisara really wanted somebody to
become aware of the feeling of threat deriving from the appearance
of two mysterious pieces of clothing, someone who could understand
her fear and who would not think that she was being nervous just for
finding a school blouse and a pair of panties in the house
compound.
How about her brother? Lately it had to be admitted that
there had been some thin wall between him and her since he started
his ninth grade. No, it was not any quarrel or indifference. Her
teenage brother still respected and obeyed her as his elder sister. And
she helped take care of all necessary things for him. But after his
fifteenth birthday, she felt that he was quieter and had abandoned his
favourite activities such as video games and Japanese animation films.
He had begun to read more non-fiction, excluding textbooks or
comic books. It was serious reading for which he locked himself in
his room.

510 Bulan Sastra

Speaking of reading, Nisara remembered that a book had
once been delivered to their home addressed to her brother and that
she had opened the envelope out of habit. She found that it was a
social science journal which, as far as she remembered, was
rather infamous.
“Isn’t this the banned material mentioned in the news,”
she asked while handing the journal envelope to her brother.
“Oh, it’s just that they failed to register – simply a technical
problem,” he replied and went quiet for a moment before elaborating
his point: “Well . . . some issues may have been banned, but their
possession isn’t prohibited.”
“Just don’t believe everything you read,” she remembered
warning him. He took it well without any objection. Even so, she could
feel some kind of thin wall as if an invisible panel of air was able to
create a wedge in the relation between her and her brother.
Thinking about her brother, she looked at his room at the
end of the corridor. There was a joint bathroom between his
bedroom and hers. She walked to the front of his bedroom, turned the
knob and entered while glancing at the clock hanging on the corridor
wall.It was 5.23pm – not yet the time the owner of the room would
be back from school. For a moment Nisara asked herself if she was
justified in taking the liberty of entering her brother’s private space.
Her inner rationale provided an immediate answer: as the
representative of their parents, she should have the right to check on
her brother’s well-being in order to fix any problem that could arise
in a timely manner.

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 511

Her brother’s room was surprisingly clean and orderly, quite
unlike what she imagined of adolescent boys’. Although there were a
lot of books on the desk, they were piled up rather neatly beside the
computer screen. The books on the shelves might be unorganised as
they were put there randomly, but their spines were displayed
properly. The PlayStation-3 was underneath the LCD TV, with three
or four game discs stashed next to it. The bed was covered with a
bedspread. She glanced through the bookshelf and saw some comics
and game summary books along with some popular translated
fantasy novels and exam preparation manuals and keys as well as some
secondary-level extracurricular readings presumably assigned by the
Ministry of Education and some academic journals together with a
few pocketbooks from the same publisher.
Nisara was about to come out of the room with a feeling of
relief that her brother was still a good, unproblematic boy with no
sign of oddity when she saw something hanging on the clothes rack
in the corner next to the big wardrobe.
It was a girl’s school blouse.
Nisara felt a chill from the back of her neck all the way down to her
toes, and her mouth turned dry. She walked to that corner feeling
rather alarmed.
It was the same or one with a similar pattern as the one she
had found – a long-sleeved school blouse with a sailor collar and with
‘SR 1932’ stitched on its chest. She was not sure of this number, but
believed it was the same number on the blouse she had found. Nisara
touched this blouse diffidently. It was only a little damp as if it had
been washed and left to dry.

512 Bulan Sastra

Nisara slightly held her breath before deciding to open the
wardrobe. Besides the male school uniforms certain to belong to her
brother, there were two of the similar female school blouses with
pleated navy-blue skirts. Suddenly she recalled something,
so she got down and pulled the lower drawer of the wardrobe.
The right drawer contained underwear, T-shirts and a male
undervest which undoubtedly belonged to her brother. Then she felt
dizzy as if she was about to faint when she pulled the left drawer.
What she saw inside was not beyond her expectation – a number of
female underwear items folded neatly. This included a brazier,
panties and even a female undervest worn under the school blouse.
Nisara withdrew her hand with an indescribable feeling. She was sure
that those three or four rolled-up panties placed in a row were of the
same type as the one she had found on the balcony.
Although she finally had the answer for those mysterious
pieces of clothing, that answer triggered a new question which caused
even more worry. Nisara pushed back the drawer with her knee, closed
the wooden doors of the wardrobe and rubbed both hands on her hips
as if she wanted to wipe an invisible stain off her skin. Then she left
her brother’s room, her presence of mind more than half gone.
Nisara posted what she had discovered on a mental health-related
web board, using a pseudonym. Then she read many viewpoints from
those who responded to her post. Two or three seemed to make sense;
that is, her brother might have homosexual inclinations known as
cross-dressing, or CD, whereby opposite-sex clothing is put on while
masturbating, or her brother might sneak a girl in to stay overnight.

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 513

Alternatively, some people looking on the bright side suggested that
her brother might have to act in a play as a schoolgirl. Those who
suspected her brother to be a cross-dresser suggested she measure the
blouse and panty to see if they fitted him. If so, it was highly likely
that their assumption was correct.
Without having to go and check, the girl could tell
straightaway that no, the clothes she saw were, without the
slightest doubt, for a lean, small-bodied girl, a skinny type whose
clothes she herself might not be able to wear. Instead, her brother was
tall and well-built, similar in size to any fifteen-year-old athletic boy.
It was almost impossible that he could squeeze into those clothes. And
by the same token, the optimistic assumption about dressing for a play
was out of the question.
In that case, did it mean that he brought in a girl to sleep
with? She could not believe that this was true. There was not a single
day that he came home without Auntie Jong or herself opening the
door. It was she who had imposed the measure of not allowing her
brother to carry house keys so that he could not sneak in and out of
the house without anyone seeing him. And it was difficult to assume
that there was any rendezvous because the security system of the
estate did not allow any unauthorised person to enter without
permission from the house owner.
A more sensible ground could be that her brother’s girlfriend
was a schoolgirl living in the same estate who sneaked in at night
while she or Auntie Jong were asleep. This assumption came close to
being a fiction with an unduly favourable bias to boot.

514 Bulan Sastra

The person who helped her find the answer was her close
friend. Nisara told him her worry, though concealing some key facts
and twisting reality by expressing her worry that her brother might
smoke secretly or possess some inappropriate items in his room. She
also wanted to monitor his behaviour without him knowing it. After
the lunch break, her friend gave her a USB flash drive.
“This is the Super Spy Cam system. It will turn any
computer with a webcam into a CCTV which we can watch or
control from our computer,” he explained.
The way this amazing program worked was scary. This
spyware would embed itself into the target computer and transmit
the images from its webcam to the mother computer. It could aptly
disguise itself. Even though the user might hit the shutdown button to
turn off the target computer, the programme would still secretly work
by faking the shutdown of just the computer screen and other display
lights.
“Whoa . . . have you ever sneaked it into my computer,” she
asked him in a friendly yet serious way. He laughed but did not answer,
so she nudged him a few times.
As soon as she got home, Nisara installed the program on
her brother’s computer and her own. After testing it, she found that
its efficiency was great yet worrisome, as her friend had boasted, so
great that she had to cover the webcam on her computer screen with
a piece of dark-coloured cloth.
The dinner went by quietly. Her brother read a magazine
while eating the pat thai with shrimp Auntie Jong had cooked.
The girl shot sideways glances at her brother several times.

บหุ ลนั วรรณกรรม 515

Occasionally visions of him in schoolgirl uniform flashed through her
mind to haunt her, giving her goose pimples now and again. After
dinner, she hurried to take a shower, got dressed and turned on her
computer to open the spy-cam program in order to command the
opening of the camera on the only target computer connected, her
brother’s.
His face appeared in full on the screen, which startled her
before she realised that at this hour he was probably doing his
homework or studying in front of the computer. Her brother took turns
looking at the screen and at the keyboard. From his manner, he was
probably reading something on the net and typing answers. An
occasional doubt crossed his otherwise impassive face. Sometimes he
put his hand under his chin, as if pondering. Nisara shifted to sit on
the bed, looking casually at his image.
Twenty minutes later the computer owner on the other side got up and
took off his school shirt followed by his white undervest and black
trousers respectively. She closed her eyes in time just before her
brother rolled down his underwear. He grabbed a towel to wrap
himself. Then Nisara heard the sound of his door swing open, his thick
footsteps on the parquet floor, and later the opening and closing sounds
of the adjacent bathroom door followed by the sound of water
pouring down on the tiled bathroom floor. The girl, feeling hot
flashes in her throat and chest, swallowed her saliva. Her brother spent
thirty minutes in the bathroom before returning to the bedroom and
getting changed into just an old, big T-shirt and satin-like football
shorts. Nisara could not turn her head from the screen in time when
he removed his towel. The vision of his fully grown genitals under

516 Bulan Sastra

black pubic hair caught her eyes for half a second. Simultaneously
she recalled the days when he was too young to wear pants and ran
around the house naked. She then blamed herself loudly in her mind.
The girl almost shut down this hideous program, but her
curiosity took over and pressed her shoulders down to the bed.
The image on the screen: the bedroom owner lying on his
bed reading a book, facing the computer he believed he had turned
off. He placed the book on the bed and read page by page slowly.
The camera angle didn’t allow seeingwhich book he was reading.
The girl on the mother computer gazed attentively. Time passed by
without anyone counting. Eventually the brother got up and switched
off the main florescent lighting unit, leaving only the golden desk lamp
in front of the computer. The webcam then needed to reduce the
shutter speed and increase the contrastto the maximum. The image
from the screen became reddish and disturbed by bright dots
indicating a technology shortfall, but everything could still be observed
clearly.
The boy on the screen opened the wardrobe, took out a
schoolgirl uniform on its hanger. Nisara gulped; she was about to
receive an answer a few minutes from now. He spread the
sailor-collar, long-sleeved blouse on the bed and laid out the pleated
blue skirt beside it. Then he opened the left drawer, chose a pair of
panties, a brazier, the undervest and a pair of white socks. He
unbuttoned the already spread blouse, put the laced spaghetti-strapped
undervest inside the open blouse, and gently slipped the brazier under
it before buttoning up the blouse. The next item was the pair of white
filmy panties. He gradually slipped them under the skirt. And his final

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 517

task was the pair of white socks he spread two feet away from the
blue skirt. Such movement was a constantly broken image on screen
due to the decreasing webcam speed resulting from the unstable
lighting index. This reached his sister’s eyes, which were half aware
half glazed. Her brother climbed onto the bed and lay down next to
those clothes. His eyes closed and his right hand clenched on the left
side of the blouse where “SR 1932” was stitched. The other hand went
rotating upon his left chest in the same rhythm.
ll of a sudden Nisara felt as if the school blouse had
gradually levitated. She got out of bed to better see the screen and
found that the blouse did not levitate but was inflated, a kind of
inflation as though a balloon was being blown in harmony with his
chest touching. That school uniform inflated to human size. Unnoticed
to her, in the blink on an eye, there were hands and feet popping up
from the school uniform on the bed. Also red hair like red tea
without milk spread on the bed. Even before she could become
suspicious, there was a delicately slim girl lying next to her
brother on the mattress.
The boy kissed the lips of the girl who had suddenly
appeared from the school uniform. After a short while both of them
got out of bed and embraced each other. Nisara saw her brother
stroking the girl’s long reddish brown hair with tender loving care.
When the embrace was released, the mysterious girl stood up straight.
The picture on the screen could tell roughly that this mysterious girl
was a bit taller than her brother, with a height of about 170 cm. Her
body was slender and of fair skin, which could be noticed even through
the computer webcam with little light. Her long shiny straight hair

518 Bulan Sastra