A Man Who Walked a Different Path  

Wai Yan Hpone

A Special Day
In a modest wooden house that stood on a half-acre land located in a quiet suburb in Yangon, a slim man stood before a blackboard propped up against the wall in the living room. Though still in his mid-30s, his grey hair was visible, and made him look older. His shining eyes, distinct on his face, contemplated four children sitting on a mat on the wooden floor.

Despite the hot season, the nearby forests and cool breeze from Lake Kandawgyi made everyone comfortable. The kids had known him as a private educator who taught high school English and biology, but his writings on the board had nothing to do with any academic topic. He had written with a chalk ten words in Burmese script in vertical order.

1. Lobha

2. Dosa

3. Moha

4. Māna

5. Thina Middha

6. Uddhicca Kukkucca

7. Ahirika

8. Anottappa

9. Ditthi

10. Vicikiccha

The four children were ignorant of the words save for the first three: lobha (greed), dosa (hatred), and moha (ignorance) as those Pali words had totally been imported to the Burmese lexicon.

‘They are called the kilesas or mental defilements,’ the man began his talk. ‘Humanly, animal or celestial, every living being embodies those ten kilesas as innate mental faculties. The kilesas are similar to actors and actresses who come onstage and play their roles. Any kilesa comes to mind when conditioned, and stimulates you to perform particular physical, verbal or mental actions.’

He went on to explain the meaning and the nature of each kilesa in detail, describing the abstract, metaphysical ideas that are usually studied only by adults, in a language that children could understand. He paused to ensure if his audience followed him, and resumed.

‘Among those ten kilesas,’ he continued, ‘a person who has totally got rid of the two, ditthi (wrong view) and vicikiccha (doubt), is called a Sotāpanna person (stream-enterer) who has achieved the first of the four levels of Awakening, or Nibbana. A Sotāpanna has still six more rebirths in the samsara (cycle of death and rebirth) but they will not be reborn in the four lowest planes of suffering.’

The higher three levels of Awakening got rid of the remaining kilesas in phases. And the corresponding persons who have achieved those stages are known as the Sakadāgāmi, Anāgāmi, and Arahant. He concluded that an Arahant, the highest, is fully free from all kilesas, and a person’s journey from awakening as a Sotāpanna to becoming an Arahant can take a blink, a lifetime, or a maximum of seven lifetimes.

His talk was over but his audience still had questions: what Nibbana’s nature is, how it is achieved, and how a putthujjana (blind worldling) — who is driven and made trapped in the samsara by the forces of the ten kilesas–strive to eliminate them, first by becoming a Sotāpanna.

It would be too greedy of the kids if they wanted to learn in one sitting the whole syllabus of the Abhidhamma, the higher teachings of the Buddha. But they needn’t have worried, for their dhamma teacher was none other than their beloved uncle who lived in the same city, and paid them a visit every weekend.

My memories of that afternoon from some 30 years ago are still vivid. I was among the audience, as a 10-year-old boy who heard such a scholarly Buddhist lecture for the first time. I am not sure whether scholarly was the right word because the audience, which included me and my three older cousins, were too young to be scholars at that time. But I am convinced that the kind of talk we heard from our youngest uncle that day could only be expected in an advanced Buddhist class.

My gradual learning of the literature in my older years was thanks to my own reading but Lay Lay Aung (Little Uncle Aung), as we all called him, was my foremost teacher of Buddhism and Buddhist meditation, and I am so thankful to him for that.

That particular day was the most special in my life.

A Special Child
I believe that many people who befriended Lay Lay Aung also had their own special days with him. In fact, his coming into this world itself could be special, and unique in its own way. And if a family story about him was ever true, he would be one who killed two birds with one stone.

He was the sixth of seven surviving children in his family. Years before he was born, his parents had lost a girl who died in her young age of natural causes. His mother had loved that child so much, and it looked as if her grieving would never end. She prayed to the nats (spirits believed to have power to bless or curse humans) every day to get her daughter back.

One night, she dreamed that an old man in all white brought her a small boy in similar attire. In Burmese belief, an all-white dress is the symbol of holy beings or good spirits. The old man said in the dream that the boy was going to live with her. Soon, she was pregnant, and ten months later she gave birth to a boy.

Her new-born son had many similar characteristics with her deceased daughter, in addition to some physical resemblance. My grandmother was very happy that her girl had come back as a boy.

The loss of her daughter also introduced my future grandmother to the vipassana. In an attempt to find solace, she joined a meditation course, and it was worth giving a try. She found peace of mind, and came to realize anicca, the nature of impermanence in life.

My grandmother became convinced that no one lived forever, and that death may come at any minute. So, she began sending her four sons and the remaining daughter, my mother, to the meditation centre every year after their final exams. Lay Lay Aung became the last to join his older siblings.

One evening in one of those retreats, my young uncle was practicing meditation in the walking posture in between two one-hour sitting sessions. He chose a quiet walkway near the abbot’s pavilion to practice. The abbot – noticing him from the corridor – gave my future uncle a casual, but very important, reminder.

‘Don’t just be mindful of your leg movements, koyin (young novice),’ the abbot instructed. ‘Be mindful of that mind of yours that is being mindful of your leg movements too.’

Lay Lay Aung said the instant he followed the abbot’s instruction, the first door of his vipassana insight opened. He had realized the difference between the nature of Nāma and Rūpa, the two most basic psycho-physical aspects of a living being. That understanding is the first of the sixteen Ñānas (insight) that lead to the Enlightenment.

Years later, he went to university to train as a veterinary surgeon for six years. On the eve of their graduation, his best friend with whom he had spent most of his time in university suddenly and unexpectedly died.

His friend’s sudden death was an event that woke him up. He felt as if death was coming for him too, and decided to put aside all other priorities.

Interest in worldly affairs fled him. He spent most of his time reading Buddhist texts and practicing meditation. Every morning, he sat before the Shwedagon pagoda, closed his eyes, and practiced mindful breathing or other distinct physical and mental phenomena.

Back from the golden stupa, he did not relax. He tried to be as mindful of his bodily, verbal, and mental actions as possible wherever he was and whatever he was doing. He gave as few hours as possible to other chores. He felt as if time was pressing for him to be prepared for death as an enlightened person, for as a Buddhist, it would be a great shame to die without bearing the dhamma in one’s heart.

He said he did find what he was looking for, two years later when he was 24 years old.

If he was truly the rebirth of the girl who had died before him, the death of his past person had left a legacy in his family that eventually came to benefit him in another human form. It could be likened to an old man who dies after he plants a mango tree, but is reborn in the same family and eats the juicy fruits from the same tree.

Lay Lay Aung has said that, since he was 24, he had been able to enjoy the foremost taste a person can ever accomplish. Nothing is more important than to bear the dhamma in one’s heart. It is only worth living and dying if one has accomplished that mission.

To know the dhamma truly, there is no way to tread other than the Buddha’s Middle Way. Also known as mindfulness meditation (vipassana), the Middle Way is a path leading a person to perfection or nobility by understanding the insight knowledge of Nibbana. 

‘The first and foremost thing to do in life is to practice mindfulness,’ he has said. ‘Do it first, and do other things later.’

My uncle never revealed what level of awakening he had ever achieved but I understood that he implied he had become at least a Sotāpanna. What ‘other things’ was he supposed to do later given that he had secured a ticket for the final Nibbana?

For the most part of his life until his death at the age of 66, he devoted himself to studying Buddhism, continuing the practice of the vipassana, and living a philosophical and responsible way of life.

A Man of Versatility?
While Lay Lay Aung walked the path of purity through the vipassana, he also pursued worldly knowledge deemed to be parallel, or sometimes conflictual with, the dhamma. Conservative Buddhists say the Lokipañña – ancient Vedic sciences concerning human behaviour, nature and fate, such as palmistry, numerology, Pali prosody, interpreting omens, and astrology – are contradictory to Buddhism.

While Lay Lay Aung agreed that those sciences belonged to old Hindu traditions, he denied that those worldly sciences are superstitions of primitive people. The Buddha himself was born amid those ancient Vedic traditions. That the Buddha did not endorse those sciences does not mean these were wrong or unwholesome, it was simply that those subjects had nothing to do with the purpose of Buddhism – to end the suffering through breaking the samsara.

‘Astrology is a subject that people can apply for various purposes because you can see your destiny through it,’ he was once quoted in a local newspaper interview a decade ago. ‘I studied astrology because I became interested in it after I’d found out that some predictions came true.’

Lay Lay Aung never believed that one’s destiny could be altered, and that astrology merely revealed a person’s ‘unchangeable’ destiny. Despite that, for him, astrology was useful for making crucial decisions in life.

‘Astrologers should be seen not as people who can provide refuge but as a means of analysing events or finding better angles before one decides something,’ my uncle said in that interview.

While he agreed that not all astrological predictions could come true, he had no doubt as to the reliability of the science.

‘Astrology can provide exact results but how correct the reading is depends on how proficient the astrologer is, and how focused his mind is.’

Lay Lay Aung not just studied those sciences but he saw at least two of the country’s most famous fortune tellers out of curiosity, Swe Swe Win (a.k.a ET) and San Zarni Bo. The former, who passed away in 2017, reportedly advised some Burmese and Thai powerful leaders including ex-junta leader Senior General Than Shwe and former Thai Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra.

While ET’s advice for my uncle is lost forever, I remember something that San Zarni Bo said to Lay Lay Aung.

‘You possess an enlightened heart,’ the soothsayer told my uncle after reading his palms.

Lay Lay Aung had two great teachers in astrology, and the second teacher, he said, was a real master, an old and frail man who had devoted his entire life to the science after becoming a cripple when he lost both his hands in an explosion during World War II.

I once asked my uncle if he thought one’s life events had already been predetermined, and he said yes.

‘Generally speaking, it’s true,’ he told me on our way back from a teashop one evening when I was a teenager. ‘Every person’s fate is too deeply written to be erased but if you have enormous samadhi (very strong mental energy), you could change your fate to some extent. But only very few persons are capable of it.’

If there is such a thing as destiny, if we all come to this world with a written script, what would be the purpose of my youngest uncle’s last coming? Was his life all the way from birth to his friend’s death later, meant to implore him to seek the dhamma in this lifetime?

My uncle himself believed so.

Special, but Single
Lay Lay Aung was never seriously interested in women or marriage, and he said his horoscope agreed with his life. Notwithstanding what his birth chart read, he had been a peculiar man since early age. His childhood female classmates remembered him as a boy too proud to make friends with, or court, girls.

‘Your uncle had a very serious face back then,’ one of his former childhood classmates once told me. ‘He barely talked to us.’

While Lay Lay Aung was a jolly uncle, a caring brother, a good friend, and a fatherly figure, he was hardly a prospective partner for women who longed for a romantic relationship with him. There were some ladies who were attracted to him, but it was sad that the man they wanted was the type who found little pleasure in sensual affairs.

‘It is a truth that I’ve neither said “I love you” nor proposed a marriage to a woman,’ he told his close ones.

But Lay Lay Aung was not intrinsically opposed to marriage at all. For him, a life partner is a gift given rather than a trophy taken. It was simply that he did not believe in marriage as a result of infatuation. There was a time we thought our uncle was seriously thinking about marrying a woman but unexpected events had finally cancelled this prospect.

Ironically, Lay Lay Aung had been a most trusted advisor among his friends for romantic affairs or for lifelong partnerships. What could make one smile was that my uncle, a single man, was asked by his friends all his life to give a speech or perform as the master of ceremony in many engagements and weddings.

The last time he was asked to perform as one, he missed it. The bride was one of his pupils, and he had bought new clothes for that occasion. But he did not have a chance to don the new clothes as he died just days before the wedding. The new clothes became his funeral attire instead.

A Near Ascetic
My uncle never lived a life of comfort or followed a lavish lifestyle. He did not have a proper bed, and slept in a Burmese-style deckchair made of wood and cloth. He slept in one for two-thirds of his life.

When he slept, mosquitoes came to suck his blood all night. He never killed them, nor did he approve when someone else did. For many years throughout his young and middle age, he relied on his own feet and public transport to commute. So much had he to walk every day as a private home tutor, his mother once remarked that her son’s ‘thighs could spark’.

Lay Lay Aung slept very few hours a day, and he sat still in his chair doing mindful breathing for much of the night. He did not believe in the mandatory eight-hour sleep rule to keep one healthy. He said despite very few sleeps, he was even healthier than those who spend more time in bed. And we hardly heard him feel sick.

‘Buddhas and Arahants sleep only a few hours a day because their bodies do not require much sleep,’ he once said. ‘Awakened Ones have a very clear and concentrated mind as they have cleansed their minds of all kilesas, and their bodies are always full of energy. In contrast, the ordinary worldlings are full of kilesa and their energies run low at the end of the day. The less active the kilesas, the fewer the resting hours.’

Lay Lay Aung had had a well-built body as a teenage boy thanks to his training in bodybuilding and martial arts. But he had remained a slim man for much of his later years as a result of eating a very strict diet following his devotion to meditation. He never ate more than his limit no matter how much he loved a particular food.

Ironically, cooking was one of his hobbies. When there was a treat, my uncle usually took care of the menu and cooking. Both his parents were good cooks, and he combined their styles with his own creativity. Anyone who had tried his cooking always gave him five stars.

Lay Lay Aung taught himself to be a tea master in a short period, and worked as one briefly in a teashop in downtown Yangon when I was a child. I remember he invited us to his roadside teashop and served us.

While Lay Lay Aung was trained in modern medical science, he had both profound knowledge of and deep faith in taing-yin-say, alternative medicine that was based on the ancient Hindu system of Ayurveda, and relied upon in Myanmar before the introduction of Western medicine.

Some time ago, a post of unknown source went viral among local Facebook users, warning of the toxicity of djenkol (Archidendron pauciflorum), a species of flowering tree in the pea family whose seeds are consumed with fish paste sauce (ngapi-yay).

Lay Lay Aung disagreed, saying that eating djenkol beans was safe because we eat them with fish paste sauce and a variety of vegetables in our meals. For my uncle, toxic acids said to be contained in djenkol beans can be negated by the raw or boiled vegetables we eat with. He made his argument based on his taing-yin-say knowledge, but unfortunately, I am too good-for-nothing to remember.

For my uncle, older generations of the Burmese did not do or eat anything without a purpose. For instance, the eating of htamanei (a delicacy of glutinous rice) in the Burmese lunar month of Tabodwe (January or February) as a festival is meant to help our bodies prepare to withstand the upcoming hot season (March to May).

A Wild Card
As I know, Lay Lay Aung had two ambitions in his life: to become a Buddhist scholar and write a book on Buddhism in English, and to contribute to the organic movement in Myanmar. For the first one, he went to the International Theravada Buddhist Missionary University in Yangon in his late 40s to learn Buddhism in a more systematic way.

While he was noted as an outstanding student, he fell out with some of his professors, particularly with the institution’s management as he was an outspoken critic of their teaching methods and curricula. Although he graduated his Bachelor’s with distinctions, he decided not to continue for a Master’s.

As for his second aspiration, he had actively participated in the country’s organic movement since his late 50s until his last day. It was his concern that genetically engineered crops have increased the use of pesticides, and promoted chemical-intensive farming models harmful to living things. He participated in regional workshops, and led many training sessions to farmers and producers alike.

While I have seen some persons that call themselves religious prefer being left alone, Lay Lay Aung did not shy away from getting entangled by the messes around him. For him, a person who embodies the dhamma is one who stands with people, and shares their joys and sorrows. He was a very patient listener who always welcomed anybody who turned up on his doorsteps for help or counsel.

Just as Lay Lay Aung was never reluctant to be engaged with people, one of his assets was his appreciation of others’ favours for him. Family or strangers, he always remembered their gratitude, repaid it, and forgave them even if they ever treated him badly another time.

If there was ever any kind of favour that my uncle was unable to do, it was financial help. But when a friend or relative got sick, he was always the family doctor if the situation was manageable, sometimes a nurse, and even a compounder who would run errands to get medicine with whatever herbal ingredients he could find. Save for financial assistance, he had always been a wild card to everybody.

Storm
My uncle’s life was not always sunny. Strong winds, heavy rains, and powerful thunderbolts plunged his life too. He was cheated of huge amounts of money; he was slandered and wrongly accused. He faced lawsuits filed against him for doing what he believed was the right thing. 

When I looked back at those times, the kind of disastrous fate Lay Lay Aung faced was devastating. I am surprised at and impressed by how he overcame the challenges with a strong will. And I never heard him blame anyone. He believed that it was his destiny: one must accept his own fate, good or bad, with equanimity.

My uncle once said that his birth horoscope did not have signs for wealth and comfort despite his stature as a respected master. That was wonderfully true. Lay Lay Aung changed one job after another but good luck never came to any of them. After all, he was born to become a man of value, not a man of success.

My uncle was always anxious about our country’s fate. He said the country’s horoscope – a diagram of the relative positions of planets and signs of the zodiac at the specific date and time of its independence (Jan 4, 1948, 4:20am) – shows a very strong planetary position in favour of the military. Because of the choice of that date and time, Myanmar has faced its ill fate to date.

He asked the specific times and dates of birth of friends and relatives, drew the respective diagrams, and copied them all in a notebook, which served as his database. Anyone could rely on him as their lifelong astrological advisor and counsellor. Of all those zodiacs, no doubt he remembered his country’s chart by heart. Just by closing his eyes, he could say the stars and planetary positions of a given time, and would give his predictions.

My uncle urged any close ones to practice the vipassana meditation as much as they can. Fate is inevitable, he said, but we are in control of our present moments. We can not do much to change our fate but we can steer our lives to our best, to pass the moments in mindfulness. It is not much good to us worrying about our past karma, but we can focus on our bodily, mental, and verbal actions in the present.

Lay Lay Aung was not particularly happy when the National League for Democracy won the 2015 elections in a landslide. He predicted at that time that the country’s curses were yet to end and that Myanmar would still face further turbulence until 2020 when a total chaos would follow. He truly predicted that U Htin Kyaw, the elected President by the NLD government in 2015, would not serve a full term.

Myanmar would only turn in a good direction in 2025 after which it would have a golden era in a scale it had never seen. Between 2020 and 2025, the country’s situation would be similar to an old house being demolished to be replaced by a completely new one. From 2030 onward, the new country would shine in a way other regional neighbours would look up to.

All the bad things in his predictions have come true so far. But he left this world too early to see what would come next. As he said, when the final day comes, one must go without protest.

He has said astrology could predict one’s final day. I do not know if he ever predicted his own. His death happened all of a sudden. He was gasping for a few hours, and then took his last breath.

I have heard that every dying person by instinct knows their fate. My uncle may or may not have known it as his clock did the final countdown. But I am sure that as a person who practiced the vipassana all his life, he would have been well mindful of his Nāma and Rūpa in his final moments. Who knows if he achieved higher levels of Awakening in his final seconds?

Seeing him die, I realized how thin the boundary between life and death is. Life is similar to an earthen pot, or a thread in the Western tradition, both vulnerable and transient. Once it breaks, its pieces cannot be stuck or tied together.

When a person is gone, they leave behind their images in the memories of those who have known them. The survived reflect the deceased one’s deeds and legacies, good or bad.

My uncle’s image as a special person will remain in the memories of close ones for many years to come. As time goes by, those memories will fade out, and disappear once we are gone too.