No More Learning

‘That fact iss, my friend, there iss a most unpleasant business afoot. You will perhaps
laugh — it sounds nothing — but I am in serious trouble. Or rather, I am in danger of
trouble. It iss an underground business. You Europeans will never hear of it directly. In
this place’ — he waved a hand towards the bazaar — ‘there iss perpetual conspiracies and
plottings of which you do not hear. But to us they mean much. ’

‘What’s been happening, then? ’

‘It iss this. An intrigue iss brewing against me. A most serious intrigue which iss intended
to blacken my character and ruin my official career. Ass an Englishman you will not
understand these things. I have incurred the enmity of a man you probably do not know,



U Po Kyin, the Sub-divisional Magistrate. He iss a most dangerous man. The damage that
he can do to me iss incalculable. ’


‘U Po Kyin? Which one is that? ’

‘The great fat man with many teeth. Hiss house iss down the road there, a hundred yards
away. ’

‘Oh, that fat scoundrel? I know him well. ’

‘No, no, my friend, no, no! ’ exclaimed the doctor quite eagerly; ‘it cannot be that you
know him. Only an Oriental could know him. You, an English gentleman, cannot sink
your mind to the depth of such ass U Po Kyin. He iss more than a scoundrel, he iss —
what shall I say? Words fail me. He recalls to me a crocodile in human shape. He hass the
cunning of the crocodile, its cruelty, its bestiality. If you knew the record of that man!
The outrages he hass committed! The extortions, the briberies! The girls he hass ruined,
raping them before the very eyes of their mothers! Ah, an English gentleman cannot
imagine such a character. And thiss iss the man who hass taken hiss oath to ruin me. ’

‘I’ve heard a good deal about U Po Kyin from various sources,’ Flory said. ‘He seems a
fair sample of a Burmese magistrate. A Burman told me that during the war U Po Kyin
was at work recruiting, and he raised a battalion from his own illegitimate sons. Is that
true? ’

‘It could hardly be so,’ said the doctor, ‘for they would not have been old enough. But of
hiss villainy there iss no doubt. And now he iss determined upon ruining me. In the first
place he hates me because I know too much about him; and besides, he iss the enemy of
any reasonably honest man. He will proceed — such iss the practice of such men — by
calumny. He will spread reports about me — reports of the most appalling and untrue
descriptions. Already he iss beginning them. ’

‘But would anyone believe a fellow like that against you? He’s only a lowdown
magistrate. You’re a high official. ’



‘Ah, Mr Flory, you do not understand Oriental cunning. U Po Kyin hass ruined higher
officials than I. He will know ways to make himself believed. And therefore — ah, it iss a
difficult business! ’

The doctor took a step or two up and down the veranda, polishing his glasses with his
handkerchief. It was clear that there was something more which delicacy prevented him
from saying. For a moment his manner was so troubled that Flory would have liked to
ask whether he could not help in some way, but he did not, for he knew the uselessness of
interfering in Oriental quarrels. No European ever gets to the bottom of these quarrels;
there is always something impervious to the European mind, a conspiracy behind the
conspiracy, a plot within the plot. Besides, to keep out of ‘native’ quarrels is one of the
Ten Precepts of the pukka sahib. He said doubtfully:

‘What is a difficult business? ’

‘It iss, if only — ah, my friend, you will laugh at me, I fear. But it iss this: if only I were a
member of your European Club! If only! How different would my position be! ’

‘The Club? Why? How would that help you? ’

‘My friend, in these matters prestige iss everything. It iss not that U Po Kyin will attack
me openly; he would never dare; it iss that he will libel me and backbite me. And whether
he iss believed or not depends entirely upon my standing with the Europeans. It iss so
that things happen in India. If our prestige iss good, we rise; if bad, we fall. A nod and a
wink will accomplish more than a thousand official reports. And you do not know what
prestige it gives to an Indian to be a member of the European Club. In the Club,
practically he ISS a European. No calumny can touch him. A Club member iss
sacrosanct. ’

Flory looked away over the veranda rail. He had got up as though to go. It always made
him ashamed and uncomfortable when it had to be admitted between them that the
doctor, because of his black skin, could not be received in the Club. It is a disagreeable
thing when one’s close friend is not one’s social equal; but it is a thing native to the very
air of India.



‘They might elect you at the next general meeting,’ he said. ‘I don’t say they will, but it’s
not impossible. ’


‘I trust, Mr Flory, that you do not think I am asking you to propose me for the Club?
Heaven forbid! I know that that iss impossible for you. Simply I wass remarking that if I
were a member of the Club, I should be forthwith invulnerable — ’

Flory cocked his Terai hat loosely on his head and stirred Flo up with his stick. She was
asleep under the chair. Flory felt very uncomfortable. He knew that in all probability, if
he had the courage to face a few rows with Ellis, he could secure Dr Veraswami’s
election to the Club. And the doctor, after all, was his friend, indeed, almost the sole
friend he had in Burma. They had talked and argued together a hundred times, the doctor
had dined at his house, he had even proposed to introduce Flory to his wife — but she, a
pious Hindu, had refused with horror. They had made shooting trips together — the
doctor, equipped with bandoliers and hunting knives, panting up hillsides slippery with
bamboo leaves and blazing his gun at nothing. In common decency it was his duty to
support the doctor. But he knew also that the doctor would never ask for any support, and
that there would be an ugly row before an Oriental was got into the Club. No, he could
not face that row! It was not worth it. He said:

‘To tell you the truth, there’s been talk about this already. They were discussing it this
morning, and that little beast Ellis was preaching his usual “dirty nigger” sermon.
Macgregor has suggested electing one native member. He’s had orders to do so, I
imagine. ’

‘Yes, I heard that. We hear all these things. It wass that that put the idea into my head. ’

‘It’s to come up at the general meeting in June. I don’t know what’ll happen — it depends
on Macgregor, I think. I’ll give you my vote, but I can’t do more than that. I’m sorry, but
I simply can’t. You don’t know the row there’ll be. Very likely they will elect you, but
they’ll do it as an unpleasant duty, under protest. They’ve made a perfect fetish of
keeping this Club all-white, as they call it. ’

‘Of course, of course, my friend! I understand perfectly. Heaven forbid that you should
get into trouble with your European friends on my behalf. Please, please, never to



embroil yourself! The mere fact that you are known to be my friend benefits me more
than you can imagine. Prestige, Mr Flory, iss like a barometer. Every time you are seen to
enter my house the mercury rises half a degree. ’

‘Well, we must try and keep it at “Set Fair”. That’s about all I can do for you, I’m afraid. ’

‘Even that iss much, my friend. And for that, there iss another thing of which I would
warn you, though you will laugh, I fear. It iss that you yourself should beware of U Po
Kyin. Beware of the crocodile! For sure he will strike at you when he knows that you are
befriending me. ’

‘All right, doctor, I’ll beware of the crocodile. I don’t fancy he can do me much hann,
though. ’

‘At least he will try. I know him. It will be hiss policy to detach my friends from me.
Possibly he would even dare to spread hiss libels about you also. ’

‘About me? Good gracious, no one would believe anything against ME. Civis Romanus
sum. I’m an Englishman — quite above suspicion. ’

‘Nevertheless, beware of hiss calumnies, my friend. Do not underrate him. He will know
how to strike at you. He iss a crocodile. And like the crocodile’ — the doctor nipped his
thumb and finger impressively; his images became mixed sometimes — Tike the
crocodile, he strikes always at the weakest spot! ’

‘Do crocodiles always strike at the weakest spot, doctor? ’

Both men laughed. They were intimate enough to laugh over the doctor’s queer English
occasionally. Perhaps, at the bottom of his heart, the doctor was a little disappointed that
Flory had not promised to propose him for the Club, but he would have perished rather
than say so. And Flory was glad to drop the subject, an uncomfortable one which he
wished had never been raised.

‘Well, I really must be going, doctor. Good-bye in case I don’t see you again. I hope it’ll
be all right at the general meeting. Macgregor’s not a bad old stick. I dare say he’ll insist
on their electing you. ’



‘Let us hope so, my friend. With that I can defy a hundred U Po Kyins. A thousand!
Good-bye, my friend, good-bye. ’


Then Flory settled his Terai hat on his head and went home across the glaring maidan, to
his breakfast, for which the long morning of drinking, smoking and talking had left him
no appetite.


CHAPTER 4

Flory lay asleep, naked except for black Shan trousers, upon his sweat-damp bed. He had
been idling all day. He spent approximately three weeks of every month in camp, coming
into Kyauktada for a few days at a time, chiefly in order to idle, for he had very little
clerical work to do.

The bedroom was a large square room with white plaster walls, open doorways and no
ceiling, but only rafters in which sparrows nested. There was no furniture except the big
four-poster bed, with its furled mosquito net like a canopy, and a wicker table and chair
and a small mirror; also some rough bookshelves, containing several hundred books, all
mildewed by many rainy seasons and riddled by silver fish. A tuktoo clung to the wall,
flat and motionless like a heraldic dragon. Beyond the veranda eaves the light rained
down like glistening white oil. Some doves in a bamboo thicket kept up a dull droning
noise, curiously appropriate to the heat — a sleepy sound, but with the sleepiness of
chloroform rather than a lullaby.

Down at Mr Macgregor’s bungalow, two hundred yards away, a durwan, like a living
clock, hammered four strokes on a section of iron rail. Ko STa, Flory’s servant,
awakened by the sound, went into the cookhouse, blew up the embers of the woodfire
and boiled the kettle for tea. Then he put on his pink gaungbaung and muslin ingyi and
brought the tea-tray to his master’s bedside.



Ko S’la (his real name was Maung San Hla; Ko S’la was an abbreviation) was a short,
square-shouldered, rustic-looking Burman with a very dark skin and a harassed
expression. He wore a black moustache which curved downwards round his mouth, but
like most Burmans he was quite beardless. He had been Flory’s servant since his first day
in Burma. The two men were within a month of one another’s age. They had been boys
together, had tramped side by side after snipe and duck, sat together in machans waiting
for tigers that never came, shared the discomforts of a thousand camps and marches; and
Ko STa had pimped for Flory and borrowed money for him from the Chinese money-
lenders, carried him to bed when he was drunk, tended him through bouts of fever. In Ko
S’la’s eyes Flory, because a bachelor, was a boy still; whereas Ko STa had married,
begotten five children, married again and become one of the obscure martyrs of bigamy.
Like all bachelors’ servants, Ko STa was lazy and dirty, and yet he was devoted to Flory.
He would never let anyone else serve Flory at table, or carry his gun or hold his pony’s
head while he mounted. On the march, if they came to a stream, he would carry Flory
across on his back. He was inclined to pity Flory, partly because he thought him childish
and easily deceived, and partly because of the birthmark, which he considered a dreadful
thing.

Ko STa put the tea-tray down on the table very quietly, and then went round to the end of
the bed and tickled Flory’s toes. He knew by experience that this was the only way of
waking Flory without putting him in a bad temper. Flory rolled over, swore, and pressed
his forehead into the pillow.

‘Four o’clock has struck, most holy god,’ Ko STa said. ‘I have brought two teacups,
because THE WOMAN said that she was coming. ’

THE WOMAN was Ma Hla May, Flory’s mistress. Ko STa always called her THE
WOMAN, to show his disapproval — not that he disapproved of Flory for keeping a
mistress, but he was jealous of Ma Hla May’s influence in the house.

‘Will the holy one play tinnis this evening? ’ Ko STa asked.


‘No, it’s too hot,’ said Flory in English. ‘I don’t want anything to eat. Take this muck
away and bring some whisky. ’



Ko S’ la understood English very well, though he could not speak it. He brought a bottle
of whisky, and also Flory’s tennis racquet, which he laid in a meaning manner against the
wall opposite the bed. Tennis, according to his notions, was a mysterious ritual
incumbent on ah Englishmen, and he did not like to see his master idling in the evenings.

Flory pushed away in disgust the toast and butter that Ko STa had brought, but he mixed
some whisky in a cup of tea and felt better after drinking it. He had slept since noon, and
his head and ah his bones ached, and there was a taste like burnt paper in his mouth. It
was years since he had enjoyed a meal. Ah European food in Burma is more or less
disgusting — the bread is spongy stuff leavened with palm-toddy and tasting like a penny
bun gone wrong, the butter comes out of a tin, and so does the milk, unless it is the grey
watery catlap of the dudh- wallah. As Ko STa left the room there was a scraping of
sandals outside, and a Bunnese girl’s high-pitched voice said, ‘Is my master awake? ’

‘Come in,’ said Flory rather bad temperedly.

Ma Hla May came in, kicking off red-lacquered sandals in the doorway. She was allowed
to come to tea, as a special privilege, but not to other meals, nor to wear her sandals in
her master’s presence.

Ma Hla May was a woman of twenty-two or — three, and perhaps five feet tall. She was
dressed in a longyi of pale blue embroidered Chinese satin, and a starched white muslin
ingyi on which several gold lockets hung.
Her hair was coiled in a tight black cylinder like ebony, and decorated with jasmine flowers. Her tiny, straight, slender body was a
contourless as a bas-relief carved upon a tree. She was like a doll, with her oval, still face
the colour of new copper, and her narrow eyes; an outlandish doll and yet a grotesquely
beautiful one. A scent of sandalwood and coco-nut oil came into the room with her.

Ma Hla May came across to the bed, sat down on the edge and put her arms rather
abruptly round Flory. She smelled at his cheek with her flat nose, in the Burmese fashion.

‘Why did my master not send for me this afternoon? ’ she said.


‘I was sleeping. It is too hot for that kind of thing. ’



‘So you would rather sleep alone than with Ma Hla May? How ugly you must think me,
then! Am I ugly, master? ’

‘Go away,’ he said, pushing her back. ‘I don’t want you at this time of day. ’

‘At least touch me with your lips, then. (There is no Burmese word for to kiss. ) All white
men do that to their women. ’

‘There you are, then. Now leave me alone. Fetch some cigarettes and give me one. ’

‘Why is it that nowadays you never want to make love to me? Ah, two years ago it was
so different! You loved me in those days. You gave me presents of gold bangles and silk
longyis from Mandalay. And now look’ — Ma Hla May held out one tiny muslin-clad
ann — ‘not a single bangle. Last month I had thirty, and now all of them are pawned. How
can I go to the bazaar without my bangles, and wearing the same longyi over and over
again? I am ashamed before the other women. ’

‘Is it my fault if you pawn your bangles? ’

‘Two years ago you would have redeemed them for me. Ah, you do not love Ma Hla May
any longer! ’

She put her anns round him again and kissed him, a European habit which he had taught
her. A mingled scent of sandalwood, garlic, coco-nut oil and the jasmine in her hair
floated from her. It was a scent that always made his teeth tingle. Rather abstractedly he
pressed her head back upon the pillow and looked down at her queer, youthful face, with
its high cheekbones, stretched eyelids and short, shapely lips. She had rather nice teeth,
like the teeth of a kitten. He had bought her from her parents two years ago, for three
hundred rupees. He began to stroke her brown throat, rising like a smooth, slender stalk
from the collarless ingyi.

‘You only like me because I am a white man and have money,’ he said.

‘Master, I love you, I love you more than anything in the world. Why do you say that?
Have I not always been faithful to you? ’



‘You have a Burmese lover. ’


‘Ugh! ’ Ma Hla May affected to shudder at the thought. ‘To think of their horrible brown
hands, touching me! I should die if a Burman touched me! ’

‘Liar. ’

He put his hand on her breast. Privately, Ma Hla May did not like this, for it reminded her
that her breasts existed — the ideal of a Burmese woman being to have no breasts. She lay
and let him do as he wished with her, quite passive yet pleased and faintly smiling, like a
cat which allows one to stroke it. Flory’s embraces meant nothing to her (Ba Pe, Ko
S’la’s younger brother, was secretly her lover), yet she was bitterly hurt when he
neglected them. Sometimes she had even put love-philtres in his food. It was the idle
concubine’s life that she loved, and the visits to her village dressed in all her finery, when
she could boast of her position as a ‘bo-kadaw’ — a white man’s wife; for she had
persuaded everyone, herself included, that she was Flory’s legal wife.

When Flory had done with her he turned away, jaded and ashamed, and lay silent with his
left hand covering his birthmark. He always remembered the birthmark when he had done
something to be ashamed of. He buried his face disgustedly in the pillow, which was
damp and smelt of coco-nut oil. It was horribly hot, and the doves outside were still
droning. Ma Hla May, naked, reclined beside Flory, fanning him gently with a wicker fan
she had taken from the table.

Presently she got up and dressed herself, and lighted a cigarette. Then, coming back to
the bed, she sat down and began stroking Flory’s bare shoulder. The whiteness of his skin
had a fascination for her, because of its strangeness and the sense of power it gave her.
But Flory twitched his shoulder to shake her hand away. At these times she was
nauseating and dreadful to him. His sole wish was to get her out of his sight.

‘Get out,’ he said.

Ma Hla May took her cigarette from her mouth and tried to offer it to Flory. ‘Why is
master always so angry with me when he has made love to me? ’ she said.


‘Get out,’ he repeated.



Ma Hla May continued to stroke Flory’s shoulder. She had never learned the wisdom of
leaving him alone at these times. She believed that lechery was a fonn of witchcraft,
giving a woman magical powers over a man, until in the end she could weaken him to a
half-idiotic slave. Each successive embrace sapped Flory’s will and made the spell
stronger — this was her belief. She began tormenting him to begin over again. She laid
down her cigarette and put her arms round him, trying to turn him towards her and kiss
his averted face, reproaching him for his coldness.

‘Go away, go away! ’ he said angrily. ‘Look in the pocket of my shorts. There is money
there. Take five rupees and go. ’

Ma Hla May found the five-rupee note and stuffed it into the bosom of her ingyi, but she
still would not go. She hovered about the bed, worrying Flory until at last he grew angry
and jumped up.

‘Get out of this room! I told you to go. I don’t want you in here after Eve done with you. ’

‘That is a nice way to speak to me! You treat me as though I were a prostitute. ’

‘So you are. Out you go,’ he said, pushing her out of the room by her shoulders. He
kicked her sandals after her. Their encounters often ended in this way.

Flory stood in the middle of the room, yawning. Should he go down to the Club for tennis
after all? No, it meant shaving, and he could not face the effort of shaving until he had a
few drinks inside him. He felt his scrubby chin and lounged across to the mirror to
examine it, but then turned away. He did not want to see the yellow, su nk en face that
would look back at him. For several minutes he stood slack-limbed, watching the tuktoo
stalk a moth above the bookshelves. The cigarette that Ma Hla May had dropped burned
down with an acrid smell, browning the paper. Flory took a book from the shelves,
opened it and then threw it away in distaste. He had not even the energy to read. Oh God,
God, what to do with the rest of this bloody evening?

Flo waddled into the room, wagging her tail and asking to be taken for a walk. Flory went
sulkily into the little stone-floored bathroom that gave on to the bedroom, splashed
himself with lukewarm water and put on his shirt and shorts. He must take some kind of



exercise before the sun went down. In India it is in some way evil to spend a day without
being once in a muck-sweat. It gives one a deeper sense of sin than a thousand lecheries.
In the dark evening, after a quite idle day, one’s ennui reaches a pitch that is frantic,
suicidal. Work, prayer, books, drinking, talking — they are all powerless against it; it can
only be sweated out through the pores of the skin.

Flory went out and followed the road uphill into the jungle. It was scrub jungle at first,
with dense stunted bushes, and the only trees were half-wild mangoes, bearing little
turpentiny fruits the size of plums. Then the road struck among taller trees. The jungle
was dried-up and lifeless at this time of year. The trees lined the road in close, dusty
ranks, with leaves a dull olive-green. No birds were visible except some ragged brown
creatures like disreputable thrushes, which hopped clumsily under the bushes; in the
distance some other bird uttered a cry of ‘AH ha ha! AH ha ha! ’ — a lonely, hollow sound
like the echo of a laugh. There was a poisonous, ivy-like smell of crushed leaves. It was
still hot, though the sun was losing its glare and the slanting light was yellow.

After two miles the road ended at the ford of a shallow stream. The jungle grew greener
here, because of the water, and the trees were taller. At the edge of the stream there was a
huge dead pyinkado tree festooned with spidery orchids, and there were some wild lime
bushes with white waxen flowers. They had a sharp scent like bergamot. Flory had
walked fast and the sweat had drenched his shirt and dribbled, stinging, into his eyes. He
had sweated himself into a better mood. Also, the sight of this stream always heartened
him; its water was quite clear, rarest of sights in a miry country. He crossed the stream by
the stepping stones, Flo splashing after him, and turned into a narrow track he knew,
which led through the bushes. It was a track that cattle had made, coming to the stream to
drink, and few human beings ever followed it. It led to a pool fifty yards upstream. Here a
peepul tree grew, a great buttressed thing six feet thick, woven of innumerable strands of
wood, like a wooden cable twisted by a giant. The roots of the tree made a natural cavern,
under which the clear greenish water bubbled. Above and all around dense foliage shut
out the light, turning the place into a green grotto walled with leaves.

Flory threw off his clothes and stepped into the water. It was a shade cooler than the air,
and it came up to his neck when he sat down. Shoals of silvery mahseer, no bigger than
sardines, came nosing and nibbling at his body. Flo had also flopped into the water, and



she swam round silently, otter-like, with her webbed feet. She knew the pool well, for
they often came here when Flory was at Kyauktada.

There was a stirring high up in the peepul tree, and a bubbling noise like pots boiling. A
flock of green pigeons were up there, eating the berries. Flory gazed up into the great
green dome of the tree, trying to distinguish the birds; they were invisible, they matched
the leaves so perfectly, and yet the whole tree was alive with them, shimmering, as
though the ghosts of birds were shaking it. Flo rested herself against the roots and
growled up at the invisible creatures. Then a single green pigeon fluttered down and
perched on a lower branch. It did not know that it was being watched. It was a tender
thing, smaller than a tame dove, with jade-green back as smooth as velvet, and neck and
breast of iridescent colours. Its legs were like the pink wax that dentists use.

The pigeon rocked itself backwards and forwards on the bough, swelling out its breast
feathers and laying its coralline beak upon them. A pang went through Flory. Alone,
alone, the bitterness of being alone! So often like this, in lonely places in the forest, he
would come upon something — bird, flower, tree — beautiful beyond all words, if there
had been a soul with whom to share it. Beauty is meaningless until it is shared. If he had
one person, just one, to halve his loneliness! Suddenly the pigeon saw the man and dog
below, sprang into the air and dashed away swift as a bullet, with a rattle of wings. One
does not often see green pigeons so closely when they are alive. They are high-flying
birds, living in the treetops, and they do not come to the ground, or only to drink. When
one shoots them, if they are not killed outright, they cling to the branch until they die, and
drop long after one has given up waiting and gone away.

Flory got out of the water, put on his clothes and recrossed the stream. He did not go
home by the road, but followed a foot- track southward into the jungle, intending to make
a detour and pass through a village that lay in the fringe of the jungle not far from his
house. Flo frisked in and out of the undergrowth, yelping sometimes when her long ears
caught in the thorns. She had once turned up a hare near here. Flory walked slowly. The
smoke of his pipe floated straight upwards in still plumes. He was happy and at peace
after the walk and the clear water. It was cooler now, except for patches of heat lingering
under the thicker trees, and the light was gentle. Bullock-cart wheels were screaming
peacefully in the distance.



Soon they had lost their way in the jungle, and were wandering in a maze of dead trees
and tangled bushes. They came to an impasse where the path was blocked by large ugly
plants like magnified aspidistras, whose leaves terminated in long lashes anned with
thorns. A firefly glowed greenish at the bottom of a bush; it was getting twilight in the
thicker places. Presently the bullock-cart wheels screamed nearer, taking a parallel
course.

‘Hey, saya gyi, saya gyi! ’ Flory shouted, taking Flo by the collar to prevent her running
away.

‘Ba le-de? ’ the Bunnan shouted back. There was the sound of plunging hooves and of
yells to the bullocks.

‘Come here, if you please, O venerable and learned sir! We have lost our way. Stop a
moment, O great builder of pagodas! ’

The Bunnan left his cart and pushed through the jungle, slicing the creepers with his dah.
He was a squat middle-aged man with one eye. He led the way back to the track, and
Flory climbed on to the flat, uncomfortable bullock cart. The Bunnan took up the string
reins, yelled to the bullocks, prodded the roots of their tails with his short stick, and the
cart jolted on with a shriek of wheels. The Burmese bullock-cart drivers seldom grease
their axles, probably because they believe that the screaming keeps away evil spirits,
though when questioned they will say that it is because they are too poor to buy grease.

They passed a whitewashed wooden pagoda, no taller than a man and half hidden by the
tendrils of creeping plants. Then the track wound into the village, which consisted of
twenty ruinous, wooden huts roofed with thatch, and a well beneath some barren date-
palms. The egrets that roosted in the palms were streaming homewards over the treetops
like white flights of arrows. A fat yellow woman with her longyi hitched under her
annpits was chasing a dog round a hut, smacking at it with a bamboo and laughing, and
the dog was also laughing in its fashion. The village was called Nyaunglebin — ‘the four
peepul trees’; there were no peepul trees there now, probably they had been cut down and
forgotten a century ago. The villagers cultivated a narrow strip of fields that lay between
the town and the jungle, and they also made bullock carts which they sold in Kyauktada.



Bullock-cart wheels were littered everywhere under the houses; massive things five feet
across, with spokes roughly but strongly carved.

Flory got off the cart and gave the driver a present of four annas. Some brindled curs
hurried from beneath the houses to sniff at Flo, and a flock of pot-bellied, naked children,
with their hair tied in top-knots, also appeared, curious about the white man but keeping
their distance. The village headman, a wizened, leaf-brown old man, came out of his
house, and there were shikoings. Flory sat down on the steps of the headman’s house and
relighted his pipe. He was thirsty.

‘Is the water in your well good to drink, thugyi-min? ’

The headman reflected, scratching the calf of his left leg with his right big toenail. ‘Those
who drink it, drink it, thakin. And those who do not drink it, do not drink it. ’

‘Ah. That is wisdom. ’

The fat woman who had chased the pariah brought a blackened earthenware teapot and a
handleless bowl, and gave Flory some pale green tea, tasting of wood-smoke.