We walk through a stream of sound as the winter sun spills its vivid paint on Mahabandula Garden Street. Hawkers out-yell each other. Car horns honk.  Music pounds out of teashops. The babbling crowd throngs on. We take a seat at Ko Tunyi teashop. It is late afternoon. Just Htoo Eain Thin (aka Ko Nhak) and me. And the rest of Yangon.

No chairs and tables here. We take a pew on skimpy rattan mats on the sidewalk, street side. We’d met up at the offices of Tharaphu literary journal on 30th street. I found my friend, Ko Nhak, on the ground floor, flat on his back, reading a copy of Tharaphu, a heap of old magazines for his pillow. He heard my steps, called out a greeting and continued to read. I didn’t want to disturb him. I went on to see Kyak Ni in the office and found him working a computer keyboard.

— —

‘DO NOT DISTURB. Editor at work. I am not like you film script millionaire. You can afford to shirk work,’ Kyak Ni teased me, deadpan. I could see how delighted he was. The reader downstairs yelled, ‘Hey Kyak Ni, cut the bullshit.’

I laughed and went back downstairs. Ko Nhak put the book away, sat up and lit a cheroot. He was clean shaven, his shoulder-length curls cropped. I’d never seen him so neat and tidy. Stranger still, he’d traded his jeans for a white shirt and a checkered paso.

‘Read on. I got all the time in the world.’   

‘I’ve already read it. And now I’m reading it all over again, because I didn’t get it the first time…’

True to form. He’s a slow and careful reader. He was reading a piece on music by the great art critic Zaw Zaw Aung. That sparked a discussion about sound.

‘Think of it, Ko Ye, every ethnic group has their own language. No matter how difficult a language may be for a foreigner it can be made into music by the people who speak it. Every language is musical. There is no ethnic group that does not have their own songs.’

Of all the pop stars I know, he’s the most bookish. His intellect shines through most conversations.

‘The poet Aung Way is thinking of turning some of his fave verses into films. What do you think, Ko Nhak?’ I asked.

He puffed on his cheroot. Behind his thick lenses his hazy eyes had that deep thinking look. 

‘It’s easy to turn a poem into a song. We’ve always done that. It’s quite common. A poem that has musical qualities can easily become a song lyric. Not every poem can become a song of course. But to turn a poem into a film? That’s crazy. No way.’

‘Not even long poems? Wouldn’t that work?’

‘Worth a try. But poetry by nature is free, individual. An evening in a poem becomes your own evening – the poem, and the evening, are what you make of it. But you turn that evening into a film scene and it’s the filmmaker’s vision. Not yours, not mine. Technology can work wonders, but it can’t give us the sublime you get from poetry.’

He loves a good argument. He will speak his mind to anyone, no matter their age or stature. His own appreciation of a piece of art is what matters most to him. It’s his suggestion to go drink some tea. We invited Kyak Ni, still at his computer.

‘Come with us.’

‘You sages go ahead. Enjoy the free and prosperous country. I have to finish typing up this manuscript tonight. Maung Noe is coming to draw an illustration for this piece, we will then set it on the film, in time for the Press Censorship Board tomorrow, and then …’

‘Shut up! You always look so hectic, but nothing important really gets done. Let’s go, Ko Ye. Leave him alone.’

— —

At Ko Tunyi he sips his black coffee and I sip my regular - chokya, sweet and strong tea. We look out at Mahabandula Street.

‘Ko Ye, you are writing film scripts and fiction. Why don’t you screen-write some of your short stories?’ The question just pops out.

‘Sure. That’s something I’d really like to do. But I’ve tried, and it's not as easy as you’d think.’

‘My man, I’m not talking about you expanding a story into a feature film.’

‘I got it. You’re talking about a string of shorts, right? Like Akira Kurosawa.’

‘Yes. A few short stories could make a terrific film. What’s stopping you?’

‘Producers! The genre is uncommon. There’s no market for it. Producers won’t throw their cash behind our experiments. They’ll only invest in films that can turn a profit. Producers are the class that shuns nightmares.’

He cracks up — I’m not even sure which of my lines makes him laugh – then gets back to his coffee and nods his head, lost in thought.

‘Hey! Ko Nhak!’ someone calls out from the crowd. We look up to see a twenty-something young man, the guitar on his back so new it’s still plastic-wrapped. ‘I am so happy to bump into you, Ko Nhak. I just bought this. Could you autograph my guitar, please? Please?’

The young man unwraps his new guitar as he speaks, and hands it to Ko Nhak like an offering. Another one of his fans. His crazy fans.  He might as well be a superhero. I sit back and watch as Ko Nhak takes the guitar and examines it. It has a beautiful spruce board and a tawny back.

‘I can’t sign this with a ballpoint pen. It won’t work. Do you have a white marker, Ko Ye?’

‘No, sorry.’

The young man looks disappointed. He has met superstar, Htoo Eain Thin, in the flesh and he doesn’t want to miss out on an autograph.

‘I’ll go buy one, then,’ says the rockstar.

‘No, please, let me go get one for you’ the boy says, disappearing.

He checks the guitar for defects, and starts to tune it. Some passers-by say, ‘Oh, it’s Htoo Eain Thin.’ ‘Look, there’s Ko Nhak!’

He expertly tunes the guitar and strums a chord or two. He frowns. He plays some notes. He doesn’t seem pleased. He seems unhappy with the guitar. I have no idea what’s not to like. The young man returns with a white-out pen, his face sweat-wet. He puts the guitar face-down on his lap and signs, “With much love, Htoo Eain Thin” on the back. The young man takes the guitar from him very gently and blows the white ink dry.

‘What do you think of the guitar, Ko Nhak?’ he asks.

‘The guitar is pretty, but the neck is a little warped. The note C in the front doesn’t sound the same as the note C in the back. Who picked this for you?’

‘The seller recommended it. I thought I liked it.’

He wags his head in disapproval and takes a look at the guitar brand. He is now on his feet. ‘These people, they are at it again. Now I will go get another guitar for you. Ko Ye, do you want to join us?’

‘Why not.’

The young man is jumpy with joy. Like a puppy after his master, he flanks his god of music now on the right side, now on the left, as we walk towards the guitar shop. I am glad to have witnessed this artist’s privilege rightfully earned.

— —

When we get to the guitar shop the owner’s already figured out why we are there.

‘You should know better’, Htoo Eain Thin scolds him.

‘This young man took his pick of four or five pieces we showed him before settling on that one’, the owner explains. ‘Ko Nhak, you are most welcome to choose another guitar for him, of course.’

Ko Nhak inspects all the guitars on the wall, takes down two and sounds them out. He picks one for the young man.

‘Bro, take this one. This sounds good.’

‘Yes, Ko Nhak.’

The young man doesn’t know what to do, holding two guitars, one picked for him by Htoo Eain Thin and the other, with Htoo Eain Thin’s autograph. He puts the guitars down and begins to count his money. He tells the shop owner, ‘I’ll take them both. But I’m 2,400 kyat short. Can I come back tomorrow and pay the difference?’

‘Bro, just one guitar is enough. Don’t be greedy.’ He pats the young man’s head, laughing.

‘I can’t leave the guitar with Ko Nhak’s autograph. And I must take this one, picked by Ko Nhak, too. Can’t I just leave my I.D. card here? I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Well, bro, I can sign this guitar too.’

‘I’ll still take both guitars. I can’t leave them here.’

‘Alright then. Take them both if you will. I will pay the remainder.’

‘Oh no Ko Nhak, don’t, please don’t.’

The young man’s face blushes with embarrassment and ahnakyin, that feeling you have when you don’t want to impose on someone’s generosity. He hands over the payment. Now the store keeper also feels obliged and drops the price to 1,500 kyat. The deal is done. The young man, a guitar in each hand, is speechless.

‘Bro, are you learning the guitar with an instructor?’

‘No, Ko Nhak. I learned to play by the ear at the roadside. I can play about twenty songs. Most of them are yours. I’ve never owned a guitar before.’

‘Then stop playing at the roadside. You can still improve a lot. Learn systematically with an instructor.’

The young man won’t stop inviting us over to his place. He keeps going on about how he wants to buy us dinner.

‘We have to go now, bro. Hope you are happy with our intervention so far. If you love the guitar, try to become a good guitarist, okay?’

‘Yes, Ko Nhak. Rest assured, I will keep your words in my heart. You’ve made me very, very happy.’

He goes his way, we go ours.  We never get to know the young man’s name.