Could It Be Called as A Revenge?

By Min Zan

AROUND 1972-73, when I was a tenth-grade stu­dent, there was a class­mate of mine to whom It felt like a hair was pricking my eyes when I looked at him. I only knew him as one of the students attending school in a village. I didn’t know which village he was from, and since we didn’t interact much, we never became close friends. He was living with his uncle and attending the same high school as us in the tenth grade. He had fair skin, was of medium height, and had a slim build – that was his natural appearance.

At that time, I was also a tenth-grade student. Like him, I was attending the same class. In March 1973, we took the exams, and after that, I didn’t see him anymore; I guess he went back to his village. In July, when the exam results came out, only 14 students passed the ‘A’ list, and both he and I were among them. In September, we started college, and I enrolled in Pathein Degree College, majoring in Zoology. To my surprise, I ran into him at Pathein College, where he had also enrolled.

While in town, I didn’t pay much attention to him, but now that we were both in the same college and from the same high school, we started interacting. I then found out that he was also majoring in Zoology, just like me. To my further amazement, we were assigned to the same dor­mitory block. He was in room 6, and I was in room 3 of A Block, so our rooms were quite close to each other.

Since we were living in the same dormitory and studying the same major, we began to interact more often. Sometimes, we would meet on the way to school or eat together in the dining hall. We would even share food that our families had sent us. By the end of the first semester, I had learned a lot about him, and we became quite close. He was a cheerful per­son, and since his father owned a rice mill, he could afford to spend more money than I could. I, on the other hand, was studying on a government scholarship of 75 kyats, so our financial situations were quite different.

Despite this, I noticed that he never treated anyone different­ly based on social class. He was friendly with everyone, and we got along very well. It was funny how, back in tenth grade, we didn’t get along at all. I used to think of him as just a boy, and it felt like his hair was pricking my eyes when I looked at it, but now that we were studying together, I realized how wrong I was about him.

We spent four years together at Pathein College, from our first year to our final year. We partic­ipated in many dormitories and major activities together. I was happy to have found a good friend who shared my interests. His fam­ily was from Kyonpyaw Township, not far from my hometown, but it was a difficult journey to get there. I went to his village once, starting from my town Kyaung­gon. We took a motorboat to Wet Chaung village, which was about six miles away. From Wet Chaung, we walked about twenty minutes to A Suu Gyi village and then con­tinued on foot to Za Yat Su village.

Even when we reached Za Yat Su, we weren’t close to his village yet. We had to walk fur­ther to Phoe Laing Kwin village, which was visible from outside Za Yat Su, but since it was the rainy season, the whole journey was muddy, and it took us about an hour to get through the mud between the two villages. After passing Phoe Laing Kwin, the path improved, and we finally ar­rived at his village, called ‘Eain Ma.’ The journey was exhausting. This story takes place after we finish school and visit his village.

He was better off than I was. Not only did his father own many farms, but at that time, he also owned a rice mill. Because of this, he led a life where he could spend freely. Later, his father bought him a rice mill in a small village near Yegyi called ‘Padautchaung.’ From being the son of a mill own­er, he himself became the owner of a rice mill. At that time, I was just a lower division clerk earning 126 kyats per month at the Coop­erative Department.

While we were still trying hard to save up for a ‘Maung Ba Mar’ (မောင်ဗမာ) bicycle, he was already riding a fancy bicycle called ‘Flower of the World’ (ပန်း ကမ္ဘာ) made in Thailand. Not long after, this guy was already riding a motorcycle. At that time, Chinese goods like motorcycles hadn’t yet entered Myanmar, but this guy came home riding a CG 125 motorcycle. Back when we were students, even though we were in the same class, same major, and stayed in the same dormitory, the difference wasn’t very noticeable. However, once we entered the workforce, he became a rice mill owner while I was just a lower-di­vision clerk. The gap between us became apparent. However, this didn’t change our friendship. Just like in our student days, we still hung out together, joked around, and had fun. It made me real­ize that he had a good heart and hadn’t changed his attitude to­ward his friends. I was happy to see that he remained the same as before.

In 1986, I quit my job and en­tered the tutoring world full-time. I had already been tutoring for a few years before that. However, since the new laws prevented gov­ernment employees from tutor­ing, I left my job and registered as a full-time tutor. After registering, I started teaching, and after about a year, my tutoring business be­gan to grow. Around the summer of 1988, things were going well for my tutoring business, and my students were passing their ex­ams with good grades. My English students even scored distinctions in the matriculation exams. More students joined my classes, and it got to the point where there wer­en’t enough chairs for everyone.

However, while my business was doing well, the political sit­uation in the country was at its worst. As we all know, schools were closed, and I became unem­ployed. Everyone predicted that the school closures could last for at least two years. At that time, my tutoring business was doing okay, but I didn’t have any signif­icant savings. I started to wonder how I would survive for two years without work and no extra money. I lived alone, and my adoptive mother, who had raised me, had passed away about two years ago.

While I was in this difficult situation, an idea came to me. I thought of opening a small shop to make a living by selling goods. However, I didn’t have any capital, nor did I have gold to pawn. Even if I sold the old house my adoptive mother had left me, it might take some time to find a buyer, and in the meantime, I would struggle to cover my living expenses. So, I thought of pawning the house to get some initial capital.

The plan was good, but I won­dered who would accept the house as collateral. The house was old, but it was a two-story zinc-roofed house in the town centre, so it should be desirable. While think­ing this through, I remembered my friend ... “He’s a rice mill own­er. If I pawn my house to him, he could probably help me out,” I thought. That gave me a sense of relief. Since mobile phones wer­en’t common back then, I had to find out where he was and go to meet him directly.

Although this person’s rice mill was located in Padautchaung village, he lived in the town of Yay Kyi, which was about a mile away from Padautchaung. Without de­laying much, I decided to head to Yegyi, where he lived. At that time, I heard he was serving as the chairman of the Rice Mill Owners’ Association of Yegyi. With high hopes, I prepared to visit him.

One morning, I set out ear­ly on a cool day, riding a small bicycle to Yegyi, where he was staying. The distance between Yegyi and Kyaunggon was over 20 miles. The farthest I had ever cycled was about 10 miles, so with over 20 miles to cover, I had to take breaks along the way. I left Kyaunggon at around 7 a.m., and after stopping at three or four places, I arrived at Yegyi around 9 am. When I reached his house in Bahtuu Ward, 4th Street, I found him quite busy. Without wasting any time, I explained my situa­tion to him. I told him that due to my circumstances, I was out of work and had no capital, so I had come to him for help. I didn’t want to borrow money but instead wanted to pawn my house to bor­row 200,000 kyats. I even brought along the necessary documents to prove it.

He didn’t say anything good or bad about my proposal. In­stead, he informed me that he had to leave for Hinthada as his wife was working at the Au­dit Office there, and a train was arriving soon, so he needed to leave immediately. While he was getting ready, I sat in his living room, watching him prepare for his journey. After a short while, he headed to the station. I followed him, pushing my bike alongside him to the Yegyi station. Along the way, I mentioned again about pawning my house and borrowing K200,000.

However, he didn’t discuss my request at all. When we reached the station, the train had already arrived. He boarded the train, and within two minutes of him getting on, it departed. I was left standing on the platform, watch­ing the train leave, thinking about how I had cycled over 20 miles, full of hope, relying on a wealthy rice mill owner friend for help. I’m sure, dear readers, you can imagine how those hopes ended.

All of these happened in early November 1988.

One day in 2016, while I was at a computer shop in Kyaunggon, I received a phone call from an unfamiliar number. When I an­swered, I heard a voice I hadn’t heard in years calling my name and speaking in a familiar tone. It was him – the rice mill owner. He told me that he had diabetes and that his condition was quite seri­ous. He also mentioned that he was out of work and that his wife was now working as an economics tutor at a private high school in Yangon. He had lost one of his toes due to the diabetes.

Without asking anything about me, he continued talking about himself, explaining that he was in financial trouble and need­ed K50,000 transferred to him from a bank. I didn’t respond to his request right away, but he didn’t ask about my situation either. He kept insisting that I transfer the money immediately. In the end, I told him I was currently outside and couldn’t go to the bank right then. His tone made it seem like he expected the money from me as if I had to send it as I had bor­rowed it from him.

When I returned home, I called a mutual friend, someone who knew him well. That’s when I learned the truth. The rice mill owner’s son had also become a rice mill owner, but the father’s business had collapsed. He had to pay the government over K600 million for damaged rice stocks. His health had deteriorated, and his life had fallen apart. He had already borrowed money from many of his friends, including the K50,000 he was asking me for. My friend also told me that it was he who had given him my phone number.

During the thirty years when we lost touch, his life had become quite tragic. I never transferred him the money. Was my decision an act of revenge? Later on, I found his Facebook account, and a few months later, I saw a post from his son announcing that he had passed away.

(A True Story)