A short story by Daw Khin Myo Chit
Looking down from the window of the thatched bamboo house, I feel happy and relaxed. My long sojourn in the city had taken away from me the leisurely ways I had been used to here as a small-town girl. Now, it’s a free and easy life for me again during my holidays in the village.
The moon beams frisk and jump on the flapping banana leaves slipping every now and then onto the grassy ground. By the banana grove is a dais about three feet high, its undulating bamboo flooring smooth and brown with age and use. I remember how I had in my younger days lain there, letting the soothing coolness of the bamboo sink into my body. This dais remains a rendezvous for young and old who gather in the twilight to talk over pots of tea, seasoned tea leaves and cheroots.
My host, an elderly man of 70, looks as robust as any man in his prime. I see him now sitting on the dais alone with his teapot. His cotton paso with its bold yellow and black check pattern can be seen from a distance in the moonlight, a signal to his neighbours that he is ready for evening gossip.