Chapter 28 - Maung Tun Kyaing

Sooner than I expected, I came across a second case of pre-natal remembrance which was even more remarkable, because it offered ample means of verification -- though for my own person it matters little whether we can prove the fact of rebirth or not, as it seems to me the most obvious and natural thing in the world, in accordance with reason, fitting into the evolutionary tendencies of all organic life, as the discoveries of biology and depth-psychology have revealed.

It was in Maymyo, the summer capital of Burma in the northern Shan States, where Nyanatiloka Thera and myself had gone to escape the heat of Mandalay, that we heard of a little boy whose name was Maung Tun Kyaing and who was in full possession of his pre-natal remembrance and knowledge, so that even the Governor of Burma (Sir Henry Butler) had called him to his Residency in Maymyo in order to convince himself of the truth of this extraordinary phenomenon. The little boy created such a favourable impression upon the Governor and all who were present during that memorable interview that he was encouraged to visit even the prisons all over the country, so that he might bring light and hope to those who were in the greatest darkness. Since then he was moving from place to place, and thousands of people were listening to him wherever he went.

However, his present whereabouts were not known, and as I had decided to continue my journey northwards through Upper Burma and from there into China (Yunnan), I took leave from Ven. Nyanatiloka, returned to Mandalay, and travelled up the Irrawaddy to Bhamo, from where the caravan route into Yunnan started. I put up in a kyaung (monastery) near the so-called Bell Pagoda and was housed in a spacious temple hall, where I set up my camp-bed for the night. It gave me a somewhat eerie feeling to find myself alone in the night with three silent marble Buddha statues smiling down upon me in a strange place, among strange people. There was nobody who knew English in that monastery. Before retiring, I had tried to find out what the time was in order to set my watch, which had stopped because I had forgotten to wind it. But nobody seemed to be able to give me any information. Consequently, I had no idea how long I had slept when I woke up the next morning and found people coming into the hall. They carried buckets full of water, and before I could quite grasp where I was and what they wanted they rushed towards the Buddha-images and with several well-aimed throws emptied the buckets over them, as if the temple was on fire. I had no idea what was the purpose of this strange performance and expected any moment to share the fate of the Buddha-images, when to my great relief the people left as unexpectedly as they had come, without taking the least notice of me.

It was only afterwards that I learned that this was the day of the water festival, on which it is customary to 'bathe' the Buddha-images as well as to throw water at each other in the streets -- only those in yellow robes being exempted. Only this had saved me from a cold douche, apparently. At any rate, I thought it expedient to get up and be prepared for further developments. These came soon in the form of a watchmaker, who explained that he had been sent for to repair my watch. The poor fellow had come all the way from the town to this out-of-the-way monastery because he had been told that my watch was out of order.

When I cleared up the misunderstanding and convinced him that my watch was in perfect working order, he had a good laugh and assured me that he did not mind having come all the distance, since it had given him the opportunity of making my acquaintance. I, on my part, assured him that I, was equally pleased to have found somebody who knew English.

In the meantime tea was brought, and we settled down to a friendly talk in the course of which I mentioned what I had heard about Maung Tun Kyaing, wondering whether I might have a chance to meet him one day. 'Why', said the watchmaker, 'there is nothing simpler than that. Maung Tun Kyaing is just here in Bhamo and will be preaching in a neighbouring monastery today'.

'What a strange coincidence!' I exclaimed, 'that my way should have brought me here exactly on this day without having the slightest indication that Maung Tun Kyaing was even in this part of the country. It seems that my mere wish was sufficient to bring about its fulfillment.'

'Surely it is the right wish' he said, 'that draws us to the right place. Nothing of importance happens accidentally in our life. I am sure that even our meeting here, though due to a misunderstanding, was not merely accidental, but a necessary link to bring about the fulfilment of your wish'.

'I agree with you', I said, 'and I am certainly most grateful to you for having come here and having given me this information'.

When I arrived at the monastery where Maung Tun Kyaing was staying he was addressing a vast audience that filled the entire courtyard in front of the temple. It was an astonishing sight to see a small boy speaking with the ease and self-assurance of a practised speaker, his face radiant with happiness and his voice clear and melodious like a bell. Though I could not understand a word, it was a joy to hear this voice, that seemed to come straight from the depth of his heart like the song of a bird.

After the sermon, to which all present had listened with spellbound attention, I was introduced to the little boy, who was accompanied by his father and his younger brother. Both the boys were clad in yellow robes, though they did not yet officially belong to the Sangha, being below the age of admission. Maung Tun Kyaing looked to me hardly more than six years old, and his younger brother about five. But I was told that Maung Tun Kyaing was eight years old, while his brother was seven. But what a difference between the two! The younger brother looked like any other normal child of about that age; Maung Tun Kyaing, however, was of exceptional beauty I have seldom seen such absolute purity and radiance in a human face, combined with an expression of uncommon intelligence and alertness. He was not in the least embarrassed when I examined the various auspicious signs of his body, which the father pointed out and the interpreter explained to me in detail. To all my questions the boy answered without hesitation and in perfect naturalness.

His story, mostly told by his father, a simple, very sincere man, was verified by Maung Tun Kyaing and all who were present, monks as well as laymen, and seemed to me the most interesting and significant verification of the idea of rebirth and the fact of pre-natal remembrance. Fortunately, I had taken with me notepaper and pencil, so that I was able to take notes of all important details of the interview, which now lies thirty-four years back. Consulting my notes, this is the story of Maung Tun Kyaing as it emerged from this interview: He was the son of very poor, illiterate mat-weavers. When he was four years old, the father took him and his younger brother to a fair in a neighbouring village. On their way they, met a man with a bundle of sugarcane, which he wanted to sell at the fair. Seeing the two little boys and realising that the father was too poor to buy anything, he offered a piece of cane to each boy. But while the smaller one greedily put the cane into his mouth, Maung Tun Kyaing exhorted him not to eat before having expressed his gratitude to the giver in form of a blessing. ('Sukhi hotu' -- 'May he be happy!'—is the appropriate Pāli formula, used by monks). While admonishing him thus, it was as if the gates of his memory were suddenly opened, and he asked his father to lift him on to his shoulders, because he wanted to preach to the people on the virtue of giving (the first of the 'ten great virtues' of the Buddhist religion). The father, good-humouredly lifted him up on to his shoulders, thinking it nothing more than a childish whim. But to his and the bystander's surprise the little boy began to preach a most beautiful sermon on the blessedness of giving, as even a religious teacher could not have done better. The people in the street began to crowd around the little preacher, and the father was bewildered at the sudden change that had come over his little boy: The latter, however, was undaunted and said, after he had finished his sermon: 'Come, Father, let us go to my Khyaung'.

'What do you mean by your Khyaung?'

'The monastery over there; don't you know?'

'I don't remember that you have ever been there', retorted the father, 'but nevertheless let us go and see it'.

When they arrived at the monastery they met an elderly monk, who in fact was the abbot of the Khyaung; but Maung Tun Kyaing seemed to be absorbed in thoughts and simply looked at him without observing the customary forms of greeting, so that the father scolded him and said: 'Will you not pay your respects to the venerable Thera?' Whereupon the boy greeted the monk as if he were his equal -- instead of prostrating himself in the prescribed manner.

'Don't you know who I am?' asked the abbot.

'Certainly I know!' said the boy without the slightest hesitation. And when the Thera looked at him in surprise the boy mentioned the Thera's name.

'How do you know? Did somebody tell you?'

'No', said the boy 'Don't you remember me? I was your teacher, U Pandeissa'.

The abbot was taken aback but in order to test him he asked the boy: 'If that is so, what was my name before I entered the Order? If you know it you may whisper it into my ear."^[1]

The boy did so. And when the Thera heard his name, which nobody knew, except those who had grown old with him and had known him intimately, he fell at the boy's feet, touched the ground with his forehead, and exclaimed with tears in his eyes: 'Now I know, you are indeed my teacher!'

And he took him, together with his father and his little brother, into the monastery, where Maung Tun Kyaing pointed out the room which he had occupied in the eastern wing of the building, the place where he used to meditate, the particular image before which he used to light candles and incense, and many other details which the old Thera remembered. After all, it was not so many years ago that U Pandeissa had been the abbot of Yunkhyaung, as the monastery was called.

The most significant thing, however, was that Maung Tun Kyaing not only remembered the general circumstances of his previous life but that he had retained even his former knowledge. When the Thera showed him some of the ancient Pāli scriptures the boy proved to be able to read and to understand them, though he had never had any schooling and had been brought up in a home where nobody knew how to write or read—let alone the knowledge of Pāli. If there had been any doubt about his pre-natal remembrances here was a clear proof.

When the father and the two children were about to return to their village, which was situated on the bank of the same river (the Irrawaddy, if I remember rightly) as the monastery, the abbot suggested that they should take one of the boats which belonged to Yunkhyaung. They went down to the river, and as there were several boats to choose from, the abbot asked Maung Tun Kyaing which of them he would like to use, and without hesitation the boy pointed out one of them, which he said was his own.

Burmese boats are generally painted with vivid colours and with eyes on their prow, giving them the individuality of a living being, in accordance with the animistic beliefs of ancient Burma, that all things possess a life of their own or are the abodes of spirits ('Nats'). But as he who knows the 'name' of a thing thus animated and identified with the indwelling Nat gets power over it, the name is not revealed to strangers and therefore not painted on the boat. The name is only known to the owner and his family or his friends.

The abbot, therefore, said: You claim that this is your boat, but do you know its name?' The boy immediately mentioned the correct name.

After all these proofs, nobody doubted that Maung Tun Kyaing was the rebirth of U Pandeissa, the former abbot of Yunkhyaung, and everybody wanted to hear him preach. From all sides, he received invitations and his people were afraid that his health might break down under the strain, but he said: 'The Buddha spent innumerable lives in self-sacrificing deeds, striving to attain enlightenment. I too, therefore should not spare any pains in striving after Buddhahood, only by attaining the highest aim can I work for the benefit of all living beings'.

His sermons were so inspiring that people by the thousands came to hear and to see him, and once it so happened that a monastery collapsed under the weight of the crowd-but fortunately without killing anybody, because monasteries in Burma are mostly built of wood, resting on high stilts, and when the structure gave way there was still enough time for the people to get out.

Soon Maung Tun Kyaing's fame reached the ears of the Governor of Burma, who at that time was Sir Henry Butler. While in his summer residence at Maymyo, he sent for the boy in order to convince himself whether the stories, which he had heard about Maung Tun Kyaing's extraordinary gifts and his remembrance of his former life, were true.

Maung Tun Kyaing not only acquitted himself most creditably but gave a masterful exposition of the religious tenets of Buddhism, and Sir Henry was so pleased with the little boy that he presented him with a box of sweets and a hundred-rupee note. Neither Maung Tun Kyaing nor his father had probably even seen such a big note or possessed such a sum -- but the boy refused to accept it -- because, as he said, he could not sell the Dharma and, besides, Buddhist monks are not allowed to accept money. But he explained that he could accept the sweets, as the rules allowed a Bhikkhu to take food that was offered to him. Though these rules were not yet binding on Maung Tun Kyaing, who on account of his young age could not yet be a member of the Buddhist Order, he inwardly regarded himself a Bhikkhu, as he had been in his previous life and as he would continue to be in this.

Maung Tun Kyaing, however, also wanted to give a present to the Governor, and the only thing he possessed was his rosary. He carefully unwound it from his wrist and handed it over to Sir Henry, who was greatly touched by this gesture and smilingly accepted the gift. 'But now you must tell me how to use this rosary', he said, whereupon Maung Tun Kyaing explained: 'This is to meditate on the three marks of existence, "anicca" (impermanence), "dukkha" (suffering), and "anattā" (egolessness)'. And then he explained the meaning of these three words in detail.

To hear these profound truths from the mouth of a little child greatly impressed the Governor. How was it possible that a little boy at the age of four could speak with the wisdom of an old man? And he spoke not like one who had been taught to repeat words which he himself could not yet fully understand -- on the contrary, he spoke with such conviction and sincerity that Sir Henry was visibly moved and encouraged the boy to bring his message to all the people of Burma. 'You should go from one end of the country to the other', he said, and preach to high and low, even to the prisoners in the jails, because nobody could touch the heart of the people deeper than you. Even the hardest criminal would melt in the presence of such genuine faith and sincere goodwill.

And thus it happened that even the gates of the jails were opened to Maung Tun Kyaing, and wherever he went he inspired the people with new religious fervour, strengthening their convictions and filling them with fresh life.

Footnotes and references:

[1]:

Once a person enters the Order, he enters a new life, receives a new name, and never uses his former one again. To address a member of the Sangha by his former lay-name would be an insult, and even to ask him about it and his family would be disrespectful, because one who has entered the 'family of the Enlightened Ones' can no longer be regarded from the point of view of blood relationship, social background, caste, or class, all of which he has left: behind. In this connection it may be recalled that when the five ascetics, who had abandoned the Buddha before his enlightenment, because he had given up his extreme self mortification, ventured to address the Buddha by his family name, he rebuked them for doing so.