Still more old songs.

One of the first questions asked by U Aung Min, Vice Chairman of the Union Peacemaking Work Committee (UPWC) and Naypyitaw’s chief negotiator, when we met in Lashio on 20 March, was whether I was still writing songs. The message was obvious: He knew who I was, although I had never tried to make it a secret.

During the period 1965-69, I had written several songs in Burmese, which were sung and recorded by Sai Hsaimao and a few by the late Sai Hti Hseng. People who knew me only in later years are surprised to learn I was one of the rather noted songwriters, of all languages, in Burmese, because to them I never speak other than broken Burmese.

“Hell,” I used to retort, “every language I have been speaking is broken since I became quadrilingual.”

(But some time in mid 1970s, while I was in the midst of struggle, the inspiration somehow slipped out of my system. And since then, no matter how hard I tried, no new songs would crop up inside myself. Perhaps the growing realism within must have no room for the ever youthful romanticism.)

Two ladies who I used to know in my younger days also reminded me of my brief life as a love song writer. One informed me that my old flame from Hsipaw had passed away. How I wanted to ask when that was and whether she had a husband and a family who survived her.

But being a coward, I just said, “Yes?” and just stopped dead there.

“Well, are you going to visit Hsipaw then?” she asked. My reply was that since I had drunk and bathed in the Nampaw, a tributary of the Namtu-Dutthawaddy, that had given the town’s name, I just couldn’t help myself from returning there, even if I wanted to.

My reply came right from the last song I had written about the girl (now deceased) from Hsipaw, reiterating the local belief that everyone who has drunk and bathed in the Nampaw is certain to return to the town.

Another lady coming from Taunggyi, without my asking, likewise told me although she hadn’t seen another old flame of mine for a long time she had often run into her younger sister. She was the one who had started me on the road of song writing, stopped short of any possible stardom by my other blazing fire inside: to save the world from tyranny.

Most of my songs including the first and last were written for her. I still remember writing in the latter that “Zero is the net value of love” since I still loved her and what I got in return was her utter contempt. The result was they negated each other.

I don’t know whether I’ll be glad to meet them again in person. But so far I have told everyone that I cherish their memory so much, their youth and their beauty still so fresh in my mind, that I would hate to have it shattered by the hard reality. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.