Arakan Library - AN ARAKANESE POEM OF THE 16TH CENTURY

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research papers on OLD ARBY - U SAN SHWE BU

AN ARAKANESE POEM OF THE 16TH CENTURY by M.S.Collis

J.B.R.S. Vol. XIII, Part 3. 1923

Mr. San Shwe Bu in Volume IX, Part III, of the Burma Research Journal has already given a sketch of the life of Ugga Byan, the author of the poem translated below. But for the convenience of the reader and in order to complete the subject under one head, I will here retrace shortly the main facts of his history. The authorities which mention him are the Maha Razawin, the Dannyawaddi Ayedawpon and the Nga Lat Rone Razawin, all Arakanese MSS in the library of Mr. San Shwe Bu. There is also, however, a considerable unwritten tradition, in which he assumes the proportions of a mythical hero. The account here will be confined to the historical facts of his career.

We find his name first mentioned about the year 1593 A.D. as the tutor of Prince Min-Khamaung, eldest son and heir of King Razagri of Arakan, the greatest king of Mrauk-U dynasty and the grandfather of Thri-thudhamma, whom Manrique has described so well. The prince, Min-khamaung, was wild and he found in his tutor a boon companion. They had a band of youthful supporters, Nga Ru, Nga Pru, Nga Gru, ten of them, and they lived that life of erudition and of the imagination wedded to fighting, brawling, fears of endurance, the tradition of which is familiar to us from a study of the European Renaissance.

The history of Ugga Byan’s tutorship is concerned solely with his three attempts to assassinate his pupil’s father King Razagri, and with the terrible punishment at last inflicted on the poet. On the first occasion, the ten above mentioned were told off to dispatch him. The plot was discovered and Prince Min-khamaung with his tutor retired to Pegu, then the centre of Burmese Civilization. There they had a great success.

Ugga Byan’s poems were much admired and he, like the Playboy of the Western World, moving within the halo of a parricide, cut a very fine figure. From this they were withdrawn by a free pardon from the King. A year or two later, Razagri, in the ordinary course of government, invaded Hanthawaddi and invested Pegu. He was accompanied by his son and Ugga Byan. During the siege, Ugga Byan thought he saw a favorable opportunity to accomplish what he had failed to do on a previous occasion. Again the plot failed, and he and the Prince went over to the enemy. But when it appeared likely that Razagri would take the town, Min-khamaung and his party cut their way out again. This feat so pleased the King, that he again offered a free pardon to all concerned.

Like certain persons mentioned by DeQuincey in his “Murder as one of the Fine Arts”, there must have been something about Razagri which invited assassination. The MSS do not reveal what it was. Perhaps his excessive amiability caused an irritation, an itching. One cannot tell. Suffice it to say that hardly had the army returned from Pegu, when the poet had his third attempt on him. This time it was more in the nature of a rebellion. Min-Khamaung and he were down at Sandoway, visiting the pagodas. The town was full of Pagoda slaves. Mahomedan prisoners of war confined there to sweep out the three sacred shrines, Andaw, Nandaw and Sandaw,- all desperate men. A word was enough for such fellows. At the head of this army of pagodas slaves, the Prince with his tutor marched on Mrauk-U, the capital. But Razagri met, defeated and captured them. The king was evidently a man who learnt by experience, for he now made up his mind that Ugga Byan was not a safe tutor for his son and decided to terminate the appointment. And, observing that the poet evidently found himself at home with pagoda-slaves, he attached him in that capacity to the temple of Mahamuni. It is difficult for us to understand the full significance of that punishment. It was the most complete social downfall that could overtake a man. For one who had strutted in King’s Courts, a poet and a hero, the equal of princes, it was death, and Ugga Byan accepted it as such.

Years later, when Razagri had been succeeded by Min-Khamaung, the new King remembered his old tutor and boon companion, once so brilliant a nobleman, and offered to reinstate him. But Ugga Byan refused. He quoted the law “A pagoda-slave dedicated by one King cannot be freed except by the command of a greater king.” This was too blunt for Min-khamaung and it is not recorded that he ever approached Ugga Byan again. The poet’s words may sound like a retort, the cry of an embittered man. In fact they were nothing but the sober truth. Public opinion, immemorial custom weighed on him. Once a pagoda-slave, always a pagoda-slave. It would have required a much greater King than Min-khamaung to have overcome that conviction and to have reintroduced Ugga Byan into society. He was a disgraced man and in this utter degradation he remained for the rest of his life. Such is the history of Min-khamaung’s tutor, such is the life of the poet who composed the poem here translated.

The work is said to have been written about the year 1595 A.D. When Ugga Byan was in Pegu. It is in the form of a Ra-tu and is his only extent piece. The word Ra-tu means “Seasonal” and is a form of poetical composition much affected both in India and Burma. The poet speaks through the mouth of a woman, a wife left at home by her husband, who is abroad, traveling, fighting or exiled. The wife pictures their town, the common sights of the countryside and her love, and sends the poem to him. He reads it and overcome by homesickness, returned back. It is on such lines that a Ra-tu is generally written. In the particular Ra-tu is generally written. In the particular Ra-tu here translated, it is supposed that Min-khamoung’s favorite wife, left at Mrauk-U while he is away at Pegu, is the speaker and begs him to return to her.

The poem has been preserved on palm-leaf, and one of the few MSS, copies in existence is in Mr. San Shwe Bu’s library. Though well known to the older generation it is now a very rare work. It is written in archaic Arakanese and offered the most stubborn resistance to its translator. The ungarnished literal rendering, upon which the verse translation is made, was the combined effort of several persons. Mr. San Shwe Bu informs me that the had to consult hpontyis, his grand-mother and various other elderly people before he was satisfied that he had arrived at the exact sense. It was then for me to present it in some form which would suggest the original. Anyone who has attempted translations from foreign verse will appreciate my difficulty. There are two schools of translation; according to one an exact word for word rendering of the original is essential; according to the other the translator should concern himself chiefly with recreating for the modern world the old life and emotion of his model. I will let my readers determine to which school. I belong but Mr.San Shwe Bu allows me to record that in his opinion the verse translation here given is a close and accurate version of his manuscript. The poem is certainly a valuable document on the social and religious life of Arakan at the end of the 16th century, and serves as a background for Manrique’s almost, contemporary account. He described the outside; this Ra-tu shows what was going on within. As has often been observed before, the thoughts and feelings of humanity do not change with the centuries; it is only the outward expression which varies. But Ugga Byan’s poem remains very true of Arakan to this day, both inside and out. The weather is the same; many of the festivals still survive; the temperament of the people is identical; Mahamuni has been carried away and Mrauk-U is in ruins, but still races are held on the Thinganaddi, processions pass to the sacred hill and flowers are laid at the knees of the Exalted.

M.S. COLLIS.

I. Tabaung - March

To - day I took early the forest path; There a dry wind was driving the withered leaves; But already the new sprays were on the bouths,

So green, so fresh, that tears came to my eyes. By the pathside were all the flowers of Tabaung, Each is his choice place, like a gem well set,

The silver flower, the Flower - of - a hundred passions, And many more, the forest flowers of spring. So in the mild air, neither hot nor cold, Hushed by their odours, prayerfully I went, Plucking now here, now there a precious flower. With these I mounted the Pagoda steps And laid them at the kness of the Exalted.

II. Tagu, - April.

Let me recite my prayer with lifted hands. Tabaung is over and gone; Tagu begins The New Year comes; but I am sorrowful, For you are far from me at a foreign court. The rains will soon fall, but you have not written; No word, no message of love has come from you. Have you no longing to return at this season? I heard a bird sing in the forest today: Its voice was my voice, calling you to come back. What if the King of Heaven from his seat on Mount Meru Should hear and transport you suddenly to me? Would we not go together to the Water Festival? This year the boat-races are on the Thinganaddi, South of the city of golden Mrauk-U.

III. Kason. - May

The water feast is past; a new moon waxes; Still my thoughts follow you incessantly. Everywhere doves are cooing; through the leaves. The light seems every colour of gay green Or misty showers pass over in thin drizzle. But all these only make my heart more sad, For thinking I must see them without you, So that three parts of the night I often lie Wakeful and wishing you were by me here, That we might watch together the moving sky, See the Rain-king marshall his thunder clouds And make his lightings flicker; see the Sun-king; In his rich coat of a thousand scarlet flames, Drive out and set his horses at a gallop In circuit of Mount Meru; on the summit the King of Heaven sits; smiling at this, Until, an amber rod in his left hand, His right upon a sword, he shouts gain. At once the Rain-king summons back the clouds, Darkens the sky, darts lighting everywhere, And a shower rushing down settles the dust.

IV. Nayon. - June

Last month the Monsoon struggled to break loose; But now the free rain-wind has set south-west, A wind of clouds, which rise from a dark sea

And hang in folds of black over the land. Heavy showers fall now, the rain spills on earth, And countrymen look to their ploughs and cattle; the birds, with their fat fledglings close behind, Walk in the fields, searching the ground for food, And fly away, wing to wing, happy and found. These sights, the cattle plough, the waiting field, The play last night of lighting in the leaves - All these increase my longing and my love. How can I live without you a whole year? I am distracted with the dismal thought.

V. Waza - July

Summer is far departed; rain increases; The sky was overcast of a sudden today And I heard thunder rumble and thought of you - Your princes thinks only of love of you! How the time hurries! Monks prepare for Lent Already in wonderful monasteries of the Jungle; The Sun-king shows himself no more in the sky, And rain falls all day long, though with head bowed I have besought the King of Heaven to stop it, For such rain damps the heart with you away. My bed is cold and humid, half my bed. Your half, and when I look on it, I weep, Lying awake, oppressed by anxious thoughs, Listening to distant drums and cymbals struck Far off in the midnight streets or temple yards, My sadness growing till the first cock-crow And the wild mingled notes of early birds.

VI. Wagaung: - August.

Wazo indeed was wet, but in Wagaung A rain, a torrent rushes out of heaven, Filling the hollows, falling day and night On field-embankment, flooding every land that lies by river fringe or forked creek-side, A sea-born rain, that south-west winds renew, Sucking it from the ends of a dark sea, Lit of no sun, but by the flares of light ning, Where thunder crashes louder than heavy waves. If such rain ceased and paddy fields lacked water, The offer of right gifts to the King of Heaven Could certainly invoke it back again. But you nor prayer nor grief brings back to me:

Your heart is harder now than it was once: Could days are near - Oh, can you still forget!

VII. Tawthalin. - September:

The last of the rain drops feebly away: Tawthalin’s ripening glow spreads through the land; On every hillside patch of rice men laugh: From every hilltop garden they scare birds: Watching the crops go yellow, they are cheered. The farmer’s house is gay with talk and friends: Bird-song and bee-drone swell the hum of gladness: Filled with all sounds, the forest trembles with life, And he that walks in it, feels no fatigue.

Ah, Love, all the love-thoughts, all the old longings Of so many months rise and assail me now; If in this time of Tawthalin we two Could lie down side by side on this bed of mine, I’d have you as close by me as the gem That rests upon my throat; not the Abodes Of Tavatimsa could yield me more bliss, For we’d be indivisible and one.

VIII. Wagyut. - October

Wagyut is in, the month of festivals, The time of pleasures and gladness in the country. Some make umbrellas, wrap up rice in jack-leaves,

Arrange flower stands and set out lamps in a row, All these they offer to pagodas and images: Some observe also the Five and the Eight-Precepts, Doing much charity as befits a Buddhist; Others betake themselves beyond the city. And there together swill down pots of drink

Till all are drunk and some abuse each other, Some fight among themselves and some are sick: And others make cooked rice into pagoda,

Stand in a ring and sing old songs in chorus, Clapping the time with bamboos and with hands. So they keep festival throughout the country,

And every where in noise, confusion and music Processions pass to the pagoda-hill. Such was the end of Lent. The mist still hangs A half-seen wrapping, till the north winds blow From the unmelting snows of Himavanta. Love, Love, had you known all my love for you, Would you have stayed from me so long a while? Come back-I beg you on my knees - Come back!

IX. Tasaungmon. - November

The sign of Tasaungmon is a chilly wind. Still festivals and fairs are in every village: Those who would worship the Sulamuni Set up a bamboo sixty cubits in height And run a rope of lamps to the top of it, With music and the rhythm of rural song. That I could offer up such lamps with you! Day in, day out, my prayers for your return Have gone to the holy relics of the Buddha, But no one hears me, no one sends you back,

Though the north-eastern wind is cold and bites Me through the blankets. Will you never come! I hope no longer, without hope exist, A wretched woman, hardly toughing food, Taking no drink, in mind and body ill, Utterly miserable, like one half dead. X. Nadaw. - December:

Flowers of Nadaw have come, but nights are cold, Savagely cold for one who waits alone, Her poor mind fluttering, as she longs to feel

The close warmth of your arms consoling her. Sleepless she lies now through the bitter nights, Fixing her thoughts on you, but cold to the bone, Why do the Nats who inhabit the Six Regions Allow so cruel a cold to chill us here? Night after night I have complained to them,

Till I am weary complaining; they do not hear. Wherefore I raise my hands in the form of a bud, Wherefore appeal over the Nats to Buddha,

To those two certain Shapes of Him that exist, To Mahamuni, which lies beyond the city, And to Sulamuni in Tavatimsa,

XI. Pyath. - January

This is a colder winter than last year, A bright sun, but a north wind, and a mist In the mornings like a blanket of woolly cotton; And though I settle cloth screens round my bed, The draught gets under them and makes me shiver, If only you were back with me again, Wearing that gold chain I remember well! I can exactly see you as you looked The morning when you left me and set out, Your eye as large and liquid as a planet, But in your air something obscure and lofty. There is a region where sun never shines, the icy valleys of the Hinavanta; The lake Anadatta there overflows The rock Tilangana, the mount Trisaana: From those strange mountain places winds are blow-ing, That wreak their cold on me and wring my heart With longing for your safe and quick return.

XII. Tabodwe. - February.

Today was the festival of Tug-of-war: The cold had gone; though the mild evening air Holiday crowds entered the capital, Singing their old songs to the old-time tunes, Till the whole city was full of their sound. Laughing and shouting in lightheartedness, Groups of them gathered at the tugs-of-war, Setting their friends and sisters ready in line, Urging the girls to grip well on the rope And the boys to give a strong pull together. So for hours they were happy and high spirited, In bright clothes, very bright in their gold ornaments, The beat of the band-music always high When a new tug began or the victors danced. Night advanced; the moon rose over the city. The streets were still full of the same mad crowd That posed and pironetted, shouting jests, Not one of them with any thought of sleep. I sat on watching; midnight was long gone;

The morning cocks were crowing; still I lingered, More saddened now by reason of their joy. But suddenly the sun burst out of ground,

Rousing the birds, making them hop and stretch, Open their wings and wheel above the tops, And fill the forest morning with their songs.

My eyes went after them, I saw beyond Flowers everywhere, on tree and every bush A fire of flowers, the same wild flowers of spring

I’d plucked a year ago with such fond prayers, With such fond hopes had laid before the Exalted - Fond foolish hopes, for you have not come back.

M.S. COLLIS