Mandalay

Bullock carts, blowing horns and beetal leaf paan. Thanaka rubbed on a baby's nose. The smell of roasting peanuts and wood fire permiate the streets. Puddles from fresh rainfall vibrate as a lorry passes by.

The sky is overcast and a moist breeze is welcomed as I walk further and further along a rickety bridge.

I waited for a sunset that never came.

Monks in crimson and saffron pass by with folded palms and smiles. They greet me with gracious gazes as I wonder through their sacred place.

A gong, hit 3 times and the infectious giggles of children while they run barefoot crossing my path. The tip tap of their tiny feet and the chiming pagoda are a new music - a rejuvenation of the air around me.

And so I bend my knees, rock forward and place my forehead on the marble floor. Facing towards Him, I rise again and the words roll off my tongue.

This is the mantra. Surrender, surrender. To what is, what was, and what is to come. The universal will.

And it is within those walls of white marble and jade, the chaos and the clatter of Mandalay and the world disappears. Quiet. Silent. Sound, no more.

All that is left of me is my own voice, and that's left of Him is His ears that listen.

Memories of Myanmar

Trishanna Persaud

06/04/2018