Only If I Can Lend You My Eyes

I woke to a knock at my door.

Knock, knock.

"Wathone."

I lay still for a moment, listening.

"Wathone, it's me. The monk. I want to talk to you."

"Okay. Wait a minute."

I opened the door. The monk stood in the hallway, and behind him, with their heads down, stood Sein Htun and Paing Phyo.

"Hehe. Wathone, are you awake yet? If not, I'm sorry, but I came to apologize for these boys. They're always like this, always teasing people. Haha."

His voice sounded desperate. He wasn't afraid of me. He was afraid of the phone number saved in my father's name. The two boys said nothing.

"Say sorry, you stupid clowns," the monk said.

"Wathone, I'm sorry for teasing you yesterday," Paing Phyo said. "I didn't mean it."

"We were only teasing, Wathone," Sein Htun said.

"Well, Wathone? What do you say?"

"It's fine. Nothing happened." I had crawled out through the hole, after all.

"Then give them your dirty robe. They'll wash it for you."

"I hung it downstairs. Go and get it, Paing Phyo."

"Oh, yes, Wathone." He hesitated. "Are you U Nanda's son? I thought you were one of those relatives who walked here."

"Yes. But never mind."

"Hahaha. Wathone, you've grown more mature," the monk said. "Well, you're late for breakfast. Get ready and come down."

"If you need anything, just call us, Wathone," Sein Htun said.

"See you, Wathone," Paing Phyo said.

"Okay. Bye."

My phone rang. It was my father.

"Wathone. Your mother and I are going on a trip today. If you're free, go home and feed the statue."

"Dad, you said one week."

"Just do it."

"Okay, Dad."

"Oh, and your building is almost finished. Go and check it out, whether you like it or not."

"Okay, Dad. See you."

"Bye."

The call ended.

I went downstairs to join the monks for breakfast.

"You're Wathone, right?" a student monk said. "Come sit here, Wathone."

"Sir, yes, that's him," Paing Phyo said.

"Paing Phyo, I wasn't asking you."

"Okay, sir. Sorry."

"Wathone, how do you find living here? Is it different from your house?"

"The place isn't a problem, sir. A lot of people make me nervous."

"Haha. You'll get used to it."

I ate my meal and watched Paing Phyo and Sein Htun across the room. They ate like pigs. Dirty, dumb idiots. I decided I didn't want to reward them anymore. But perhaps the man sitting in front of me.

"What's your name, sir?"

"Kaung Kyaw, sir."

"Well, it's nice to know you."

"You too, sir. It's a pleasure." He shook my hand. "I'll get going now. When you finish your meal, take your plate to the kitchen, Wathone."

"Very well, sir."

He walked toward the kitchen, then looked back at me. "Oh, Wathone. If you're free, meet me by that tree. The monk wants you to learn more Pali. I'll teach you."

"I'll be there, sir."

He seemed decent. All the more reason to get to know him better.

I finished my meal and stood up.

"It's fine, Wathone," Sein Htun said. "I'll take your plate. Leave it."

"Okay. Thank you."

I hurried up to my room, picked up my phone and scrolled through the news for a while. My brother Ye Naing was on it again. Every day now, the people of Myanmar called him the Future Leader of Myanmar. They had overlooked me. He was out there in the light, and I was stuck in here.

Then a face I knew appeared on the screen, in a recorded address from abroad. It was Mr. Lester.

"Good evening.

Tonight, my heart goes out to the people of Myanmar, who have endured years of suffering, fear, and uncertainty.

Families have been torn apart, innocent lives have been lost, and countless people have been forced to leave their homes. No child should have to grow up surrounded by violence, and no family should have to live in constant fear for their future.

We call for an end to violence against civilians, greater humanitarian support, and a peaceful future where people can live with dignity, freedom, and security.

To the people of Myanmar, you are not forgotten. Your courage and hope in the face of hardship deserve the world's respect and support.

May peace return to your communities, may families be reunited, and may a brighter future come for every person who calls Myanmar home.

Thank you."

Not one name in the whole speech. Nobody had done anything to anyone. The violence had just happened, like weather. I knew a thing or two about sentences like that.

What was going on this week? He sounded caring, and not caring, at the same time.

Well. I should get going. The tree. Kaung Kyaw must be waiting.

"Ah, Wathone. Sit down," Kaung Kyaw said. "How old are you now?"

"I'm twenty-six, sir. My birthday was just a couple of weeks ago."

"Oh, great. Here, take this book. Read it, and ask me about anything you don't understand."

I read the book aloud, spelling out each word, and Kaung Kyaw helped me with the ones I couldn't read. At one word he stopped me and tapped the page.

"Cakkhu. It means eye. My teacher used to say that nobody can make another person see. You can only lend someone your eyes for a little while, and hope they look."

"And if they don't?"

"Then they stay blind, Wathone. But the offer stays open. I can only help you see if you let me lend you my eyes."

I said nothing. I had my own eyes. I had never wanted anyone else's.

We passed the hours like that until the afternoon. Now and then a guard came to check on me.

"Well, I guess that's enough for today," Kaung Kyaw said. "But I have to ask you something. Do you think your father is a good person?"

"Yes, sir."

"Based on what?"

"He looks like one."

"You know, my father was a good person too." He looked down at the ground.

"Really? Where does he live now?"

"He died, Wathone. A military airstrike took both my parents. After that, I moved to the monastery and became a monk. I had no choice. My life was over that day. We lost everything. And here I am, teaching you how to read."

I waited for the feeling people are supposed to have. Sadness, or something like it. Nothing came. I only watched his hands, steady on the book, and wondered how a man could lose everything and still sit under a tree teaching someone like me to read.

"Do you mean my father did that?"

"It's in the past. As a monk, I forgive whatever happened in the past." He stood. "I have to go. You should get some rest too, Wathone. We'll continue tomorrow."

I watched him walk away. For the first time, I felt like I was doing something wrong, and I didn't like it. It wasn't his story that did it. It was the way he forgave, and the way he said it to my face. Nobody had ever dared to confront me like this. It made me feel weird. He had insulted my father. We would meet again, sir. I was sure of that.

"Sir Wathone, it's getting late," a guard said.

"It's fine. Follow me. I want to drive around. I feel strange today."

"Yes, sir. I'll tell the others."

I walked to the car. The monk watched me from his window.

"Guards. The keys."

"Sir, but we drive—"

"I'll drive."

"Oh. Yes, sir."

"Get in, all of you."

We drove to the bar in Sanchaung. My robes would draw attention, so I only watched the nightlife through the window, and then I drove toward home. From the car, the house looked lifeless and quiet. What was my sister doing now?

Wait. Was that my sister, with luggage and bags? Where was she going? This couldn't be. She couldn't go.

I got out of the car and walked to the gate.

"Hey! Open the gate!"

"Ah, sir, we weren't expecting you," the guard said.

"Open the door. Two of you come with me. The rest wait outside."

"Yes, sir."

My sister looked shocked and scared when I walked up to her. Two suitcases stood beside her, packed so full they bulged. In her hand she was holding a passport.

"Where are you going? What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm just going on a trip to Mandalay."

"Don't lie to me, sister. You're going to Mandalay with two suitcases and a passport? I'll call Father."

"Wathone, wait," my mother said.

"Mom? I thought you went on the trip with Father."

"What? Did he really say that? I'm not going anywhere, Wathone. Your sister would be home alone. How could I go?"

"Then who is Father going with?"

"It doesn't matter. Look, Wathone, don't tell him about your sister. Let her go."

"No. You can't. Father said no."

"Please, Wathone. I'm sorry. She has a future. She can't stay here forever."

"No. She stays. Guards!"

"Guards, listen to me, please," my mother said.

"Um, madam," one of them said.

"Hold them both."

"Yes, sir."

"Wathone, please," my mother said.

"Wathone, I need to go," my sister said. "I just want a home that has lights every day."

"Why are you both crying? Shut up."

"Wathone, your mother is talking to you."

"Guards, hit her if she talks."

"Yes, sir."

"Wathone—" my sister said.

I punched her in the stomach. She fell down. I called my father. It rang and rang, and he didn't pick up. I would have to handle this myself. I stomped on her face.

"Please, Wathone," my sister said.

"You should have listened to me."

The street had gone quiet. Even the dog had stopped barking. I stood there breathing, listening to my sister's sobs and my mother's ragged, wet breath, and I felt something warm and slow spread through my chest. I wasn't angry anymore. I was calm.

"Guards, get me the hammer near the flowerpot."

"Um, sir, are you—"

"Now!"

"Yes, sir."

"Give it to me."

I smelled the tip of the hammer. It reminded me of the good old days. Anyway.

"Guards, hold her down. Sister, spread your fingers."

"No, no, wait, Wathone."

"Wathone, what are you doing, son? Wait—" my mother said.

One of the guards struck my mother in the face, and she passed out.

"Oh, what a shame, Mom. So the monastery was your idea. You cried to the monk, you talked Father into it, and you really thought the monks could change me. Make me a good person. And while I was gone, you would send my sister to another country. Two birds, one stone. I almost fell for it. Hahaha."

It felt great, laughing at their small, little plan, falling apart.

"Hahahaha. Sister, I have a gift for you. Next time you break Father's rules, you're dead. For now, here it is."

I swung the hammer at her fingers, one by one. Each swing made my hand go numb. I swung as hard as I could.

"Ahhhhhhhh! Mom!"

A dog barked.

She was crying loud and hard, and the neighbors came out to watch. I looked at their faces over the gates. Nobody came in. Nobody said a word. My father hadn't answered his phone, and I hadn't needed him. I had handled it myself, in front of everyone, and nobody had stopped me. My father had his trip. My brother had the news. And I had this street, watching me. From now on I was no longer a normal boy. Now, I thought, was the time.

"Today I declare myself the next successor of this country. Watch me as I grow. I am the true leader who will guide you all to Paradise and a bright future."

I turned to the people at their gates.

"My neighbors. Don't be surprised. Remember my name. I am Wathone, son of U Nanda. From now on, I am the Law. I am justice. I am the voice of the people. Gather here! I have spoken."

They stared at me with wide, wondering eyes. A few of my relatives, the ones who lived nearby, came to the gate to see what was happening, but when they saw my face, they ran away. It was time to use the power I had learned.

"Speak! If you disagree with me, speak!"

A silence filled the night. One by one, my neighbors went back inside their houses.

"Well. I'm finished here. Time to go back to the monastery. I have unfinished business. Guards, drive me there."

"Sir, what about your mother and—"

"Drive. Here are the keys."

"Yes, sir."

I looked at my crying sister one last time. I wondered, for a second, what she looked like through someone else's eyes. Then I stopped wondering, and looked up at the sky.

"If you exist," I said, "come and stop me."

The sky stayed empty. Nobody had lent me their eyes, and I had never asked.

"Sir, we're ready."

I climbed into the car and changed out of my stained robes into the spare set I keep in the back, and we drove toward the monastery. One last job before I became what I wanted.

To be continued...