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  I was surprised that such a young man already had creditors and asked whether he had taken a loan to buy the car.

  Not for that, he said, but for his daughter’s birth. An astrologer had calculated the best day, even the best hour for the birth. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, they had elected to have a cesarean. And that was very, very expensive.

  For me that was the beginning of a journey into an utterly unfamiliar world populated by spirits, ghosts, demons, and other mystical apparitions. A world full of cryptic rituals and magical numerology, where it is not uncommon for an astrologer, an exorcist, or a medium to have the final say.

  I encountered superstition on a daily basis, often when I least expected it. One time I was traveling with a Burmese friend, and we were lamenting the notoriously bad state of the pothole-ridden roads. Suddenly the road transformed beneath us into a four-lane highway, impeccably surfaced, with good signage and a painted center line. Soon enough the miracle was over, and we were back to the accustomed bumps and jolts. I asked in confusion why that stretch of road had suddenly been in such good condition. My friend explained that an astrologer had advised the regional military commander to build something in order to court the goodwill of the stars. He would otherwise run the risk of a demotion. It must be something that served the common good. It should have a connection with traffic and involve the numbers four and five. The general commissioned the construction of this four-lane road for a length of exactly five hundred meters.

  I wondered aloud whether it had done any good.

  My friend shrugged. The commander was still in office, at any rate.

  On that drive he told me of various political decisions that were guided by the advice of astrologers. Much to the consternation of the British, it was an astrologer who had determined the time for the Burmese independence ceremony. It had to take place on January 4, 1948, at 4:20 in the morning. In this case, at least, the numbers do not seem to have brought the country much luck.

  The severe political unrest of 1987 seems also to have been unleashed by an astrologer and a general under his sway, in this case Ne Win, the most powerful man in the country. Overnight the twenty-five-, thirty-five-, and seventy-five-kyat bank notes were demonetized in favor of ninety- and forty-five-kyat notes. An astrologer had apparently prophesied doom for the dictator; only his lucky number nine could improve his fate. So Ne Win saw to it that these numbers came into the widest circulation possible. He did not allow people to exchange their worthless bills for the new ones, so many people lost their savings. Vehement protests ensued, which the military brutally suppressed.

  Even the official renaming of the country from Burma to Myanmar was instigated by an astrologer. And it was announced on May 27. Two plus seven is nine.

  Years later and quite unexpectedly the junta declared that they would construct a new national capital, Naypyidaw, in the interior. Within a few years and at the cost of hundreds of millions of U.S. dollars, the impoverished country had conjured a new seat of government out of thin air. The generals have never given a plausible public explanation of their sudden need for some capital other than Yangon. Apparently the rationale for this decision, too, lies in the prophecies of an astrologer. He strongly urged the rulers to relocate, lest catastrophe befall the land. He even set the date and time for the commencement of the transition: November 6 at 6:37 a.m.

  As part of my research for The Art of Hearing Heartbeats I decided to visit an astrologer in Kalaw. In my travels I had often seen the important role astrology played in the lives of the Burmese; now I wanted to experience for myself what a visit to an astrologer was like, so that I could later write about it.

  My friend Winston told me there was a highly regarded astrologer in Kalaw. People from far and wide sought his advice in all matters of life. Whether a couple was suited for marriage, what was the most auspicious date for a wedding, or the most favorable day for a move or a journey. He could reportedly interpret the stars like few others.

  Off we went. To this day I have never had much interest in horoscopes or astrology. I would occasionally read my horoscope in the newspaper. When it was positive, I believed it; when negative, I considered it superstitious nonsense. I had never visited a tarot reader or fortune-teller or even had any interest in doing so. When people told me about predictions that had come true for friends, I would smile and dismiss them as bunk.

  Winston brought me to an old teak house on stilts. We climbed a rickety staircase whose worn steps attested to heavy traffic over the years. We were met by an old man with white, close-cropped hair. He wore a threadbare undershirt and a longyi and offered us a seat on the floor. As we sat there, my eyes wandered around the room. On the wooden walls hung two posters in Burmese script that explained something about the various heavenly bodies. Between the posters were some calendar pages with mountainous landscapes. There was a bookcase crammed with tattered volumes and notebooks. In front of him, on the wooden floor, lay a small slate. He poured tea for us and asked us the reason for our visit. Because I was more interested in the atmosphere and ritual than in the predictions, I asked him, off the top of my head, a couple of innocent questions about my past and my future. He wanted to know the place of my birth, the exact time, the day and the year. He made notes, consulted some of the tattered books, and started calmly to write. Several minutes passed during which he calculated, wrote down combinations of numbers, wiped them away with an old cloth, added new ones. Finally he looked up and started to talk. The first few sentences were fairly general, but all correct. I was curious now, so I told him that I had been a journalist but was now an author, and that I wanted in the future to work exclusively as a novelist.

  The astrologer foretold great success. I had nothing to worry about.

  Of course I was happy to hear that, but on a whim, or perhaps in order to expose him as a fraud, I gave him the place, date, and time of birth for a young girl in my family who suffered from a rare eye disorder.

  He asked for patience and resumed the calculations that to me seemed so outlandish. Eventually he put the slate aside and said: “This child will be a source of concern for her parents.”

  Nothing odd about that, I thought, especially in the West. Could he perhaps be more precise?

  “Health problems.”

  I was briefly irritated. Of course; many children get sick. Could he say more?

  He returned to his calculations, consulted more notebooks. In the end he looked at me gravely: “Health problems in the head.”

  I felt queasy. “Could you say more?” I asked quietly.

  Yet again he turned to his inscrutable calculations.

  “The eyes.”

  I sat there in shock. There was no way that this old man in the mountains in Shan State could know anything about this child’s illness. And yet it was so.

  How? Where did he get his information? It was no mere chance; his interpretations were too precise for that. So what else was there?

  To this day I have no explanation. I would not say that I embraced a new belief in astrology. If that were so, then I would feel compelled to consult with the astrologer in Kalaw before every important decision. Yet neither can I simply go on as if that experience had never happened and claim that I do not believe in it at all. There are, I have learned during my travels in Burma, mysterious things between heaven and earth, things we do not understand and to which some people have more access than others. Or as U Ba puts it in The Art of Hearing Heartbeats: “Not all truths are explicable…And not all explicable things are true.”

  Intrigued by that first encounter, I have since sought out numerous astrologers, fortune-tellers, and exorcists in Burma, but I have never met another who even came close to providing such precise information.

  Nats play a special role in the lives of many Burmese people. I became acquainted with them on my very first visit while riding in a car through the pouring rain in the vicinity of Bagan.

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bsp; We were rattling along a rural route in a rental car when the driver suddenly stopped under an expansive banyan tree beside a pagoda. He took a wreath of fresh jasmine blossoms that he had just purchased during a rest at a teahouse, got out of the car, and walked to the tree. The rain was drumming on the windshield and roof of the car. But now I was curious, so I followed him. The gnarled trunk with its intertwining offshoots measured several yards across. Between two of the trunk’s limbs stood an altar under the shelter of a small corrugated tin roof. On the altar stood the statue of a mythical creature carved in wood and covered generously with gold leaf. It wore magnificent clothes and a sort of tall, pointed crown. Around it were plates large and small piled with bananas, coconuts, candies, pastries, and cigarettes.

  To these offerings my driver added his jasmine wreath, white and green. Here in this tree, he told me, lived a famous nat. Every time he passes the tree he makes a small offering so that the nat will protect him while driving.

  Nat? I asked, uncertain whether I had understood correctly.

  He could hardly believe I had never heard of them. They were everywhere, after all. There were spirits for the water, the trees, the air. Many rivers, buildings, pagodas, villages, even individual homes had their own guardian spirits. And then there was the list of thirty-seven especially notable Great Nats who were renowned throughout the country, celebrated and revered at countless festivals. Most of them, my driver told me, had previously been humans who met violent deaths. They had sacrificed themselves for others, or they had been slain by devils, rivals, thieves, or other evildoers. After death they had ascended into the divine company of the nats. It would constitute gross negligence not to make regular offerings to them.

  Many years later in a village, I was taken to see an old woman, of whom it was said that she could communicate with the nats and that she could call on them for help in all kinds of situations. There was a line of clients sitting and waiting on the steps to her house. They included a woman and her daughter wondering whether the spirits could aid them in their search for a husband for the young woman. There was also a man looking for advice in a dispute with his neighbor. Half an hour later it was our turn. The astonished woman greeted us and invited us in. No foreigner had ever sought her advice. The room felt like a curious mix of junk shop, temple, and grocery. In one corner were boxes of crackers, little bags of rice, nuts, packaged noodles intermingled with toothpaste, soap, laundry detergent, a few bottles of soda, and cooking oil. It looked as if she operated mostly on a barter system.

  On numerous altars stood gilded wooden carvings of nats. All about them lay offerings. A coconut, bananas, cigarettes, candles, bottled beers, flasks of Burmese whiskey. Many of the figures were draped in pink, red, or yellow fabrics. Others wore wooden necklaces or garlands of fresh jasmine. A brightly colored, flickering string of lights framed a poster of the Shwedagon Pagoda.

  We sat on the linoleum floor. A handful of curious onlookers came in from the kitchen and courtyard. They sat down with us, watching us closely.

  The woman closed her eyes for a few seconds. She was small, almost dainty, and she must have been about eighty, but as soon as the talk turned to nats she radiated energy.

  The price for the consultation was thirty thousand kyat, half a month’s salary for a teacher. I set the money on the floor between us. She wrapped a pink cloth around her head, put on a scarf, and settled into her work. She dug a few shells out of a can and threw them to the floor, reading them as if they were dice. She repeated this a second and third time. Then for some minutes she struck herself on her head and upper body, mumbling something, stretching out her arms, swinging them through the air, speaking loudly, then whispering again. After a while she announced ceremoniously that the spirit of the nat was now in our midst. She lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, and then passed it around like a joint. Next she shook a can of beer long and energetically, opened it, and let the warm contents spray like a fountain through the room. She took a slug and then passed the can around without a word. When I hesitated to put it to my lips she gave me a stern look that let me know I had no choice but to partake.

  As soon as the can was empty she threw grains of rice around the room as a further offering to the nat. She rolled up the bills I had put on the floor and stuck them in her headband. She shook a handful of rice into a bowl and tossed it to me unexpectedly. I caught it without spilling a grain. She smiled, pleased.

  The nat, a patron of teachers, artists, and authors, was favorably inclined toward me. I need not worry about my next books.

  Though delighted to hear it, I remained unconvinced by her performance—not so the Burmese in attendance. They nodded devoutly and looked at me overjoyed. Good fortune was obviously smiling on me. It would not have occurred to any of them to dismiss the visitation as silly hocus-pocus or a scam.

  In very different ways several tales and legends in this book thematize astrology, spirits, superstition in Burma, and the power of the stars.

  Again and again it is spirits, good or evil, who either rescue people in need or put them in harm’s way. In one story a prince falls in love with a nat who puts him to a severe test. In another, two monks get into a vehement argument about whether the stars influence human lives or not.

  Interestingly, the tale provides no answer to that question.

  In a village on the edge of the jungle there once lived a young boy named Po. He was an inquisitive child who loved nothing more than roaming through the wilderness, climbing trees, and befriending the animals. One of Po’s dearest companions was a tiger, and the two played together for hours on end. The boy loved the tiger, and the tiger was genuinely fond of the boy, but his affection also had an ulterior motive. The tiger secretly hoped that Po might one night sneak him into the village, where he could help himself to one of the fat, juicy cows.

  One day, as they were resting on the bank of a small river, the tiger decided the time had come to reveal his secret desire. “My dear friend, now that we have spent so much time together, might I ask you for a favor?”

  “Of course!” replied the boy.

  “Can you take me with you into your village tonight after dark?”

  “I can’t do that!” replied the boy, startled. “You know how the villagers fear you. They loathe tigers and would try to catch or even kill you!”

  The tiger was disappointed. “I am not afraid of the villagers. If you won’t help me, then I will just go by myself.”

  That evening, Po watched anxiously at the village entrance for his friend. As soon as he saw the tiger approaching, he implored him to return to the jungle. “Please! Go back to the forest and hide! They will kill you!”

  “Then help me.”

  “I can’t,” Po replied. Then, hearing his mother and father calling, he pleaded: “I have to go home now. Please, my friend, stay away from our village!”

  The next morning, the whole village was abuzz with news of the happenings of the previous night. A tiger from the jungle had stolen into the village and eaten one of the calves. The villagers all feared that he would return the next night to devour yet another of their precious cows or pigs, so they decided to set a trap for him.

  When Po heard this, he ran into the jungle to search for his friend. He found the tiger, his belly full, happily dozing under a tree.

  “My dear Tiger,” he cried frantically, “You mustn’t ever return to our village! The farmers are building a trap for you!”

  The tiger smiled and waved a dismissive paw. “Don’t worry, little friend. The villagers are too stupid. They will never catch me.”

  That night the tiger sneaked back into the village and walked right into the trap. The next morning, the farmers found the furious tiger roaring loudly as he paced back and forth in the bamboo cage. The entire village gathered in awe before the cage to marvel at the magnificent beast. Since no one had the courage to kill him, they decided simply to leave the tiger in the cage until
he perished on his own of hunger and thirst. That evening, the little boy crept sorrowfully to the cage to visit his friend.

  “Why didn’t you listen to me?” he asked, distraught.

  “Oh, my dear Po, I was foolish. I admit it. But now I need you to free me. If you don’t, I will starve to death.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

  “Please! You are my only hope.”

  “There is no way, Tiger. My parents, no, the whole village would beat me to a pulp!”

  Evening after evening Po visited the tiger. With each passing day the boy felt worse as he watched his cherished friend slowly waste away. On the seventh day, he could bear it no longer. That night, after his mother and father were asleep, Po slipped silently out of his hut and ran to the cage.

  “In the name of our friendship,” he declared, throwing open the door with a flourish. The tiger sprang out of the cage and reared up before the boy, flashing his teeth hungrily.

  “I am famished and much too drained to hunt. I am just going to have to eat you.”

  Po recoiled in horror. “You can’t be serious!? You ought to be grateful to me for freeing you!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” growled the tiger. “I owe you nothing. I am hungry!”

  The two argued fiercely until the boy finally persuaded the animal to let an impartial judge settle their dispute.

  They went into the jungle, where they eventually found the skull of an ox. They each told their side of the story and asked the skull to adjudicate. The skull listened quietly and then replied without hesitation: “No one owes anyone anything. For years I toiled in my master’s fields. I pulled his carts up and down hills through the slickest mud, in the hottest sun and heaviest rains. I went with him to the market, pulling or carrying everything he required. Yet when I became old and weak, he slaughtered and ate me. The tiger owes the boy nothing. He may eat him.”