User talk:Chayakit

This story takes place one summer in Bangkok, Thailand, about three weeks after had I arrived as a participant in an international exchange program. It was ultimately about respect for other cultures and some lessons you only learn the hard way.

My name is Anna, and along with 19 others from all over Southeast Asia I was enrolled in a university right beside the Chao Phrya river. But it was the week of the Buddhist New Year, or Songkran, so no classes were being held. Most of the students living in our dormitory on Borommaratchachonnani Road, Taling Chan District had gone back to their respective provinces for the holidays.

At twenty minutes past midnight, when my Indonesian roommate Widya had already fallen asleep, I heard frantic knocking on our door. I was already lying down on my bed and it was relatively late, so I was mildly annoyed. I thought it was one of the other girls on the floor, perhaps they had run out of toothpaste? There were about a dozen loud and heavy knocks that should have woken everyone on that floor because the walls were so thin. Beside our door was a frosted glass panel, and I saw a silhouette – someone was crouching there. It did not register to me as odd at the time.

I approached, placed my right hand on the locked doorknob, and asked. “Who is it?”

A woman started speaking in rapid, excited Thai, but the strange thing was that the sound was not coming from behind the door.

It was coming from behind me, above me, from my left and right, from everywhere at once.

After about three sentences she stopped, and the silhouette vanished. It was the kind of dormitory corridor where all footsteps echoed, but this time, I did not hear anyone walking away. I was rooted to the spot, afraid to turn around, but afraid of lingering near the door as well. Somehow I knew that what spoke to me was not human, or was no longer human, and I always assumed that if this ever happened, I would fall to the floor in a dead faint. But I didn’t. I turned around and went back to bed. I didn’t speak Thai, I wasn’t sure if that made the situation better or worse. I thought of waking Widya up, but I was also afraid of looking silly. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to fall asleep.

I woke up before Widya did the next morning, which was a miracle because she usually woke up first for her morning prayers. She was surprised to see me sitting up, and my facial expression must have told her that something wasn’t quite right. I told her what happened; after giving me a very nervous look she assumed her position on her mat facing the East, and started praying.

I woke up the other girls on the floor, gathered them in the corridor, and told them the same story. I remember that the other girls from the Philippines were spooked, as was Boupha, the only girl from Cambodia. The Vietnamese were a little calmer about it. The eldest girl, Dao from Laos, was visiting her sister who lived near Chulalongkorn, which was unfortunate because she seemed like the type who would have her wits about her at a time like this. She once told us that her home was haunted by spirits who shook her bed at night.

The boys in the program didn’t comment much, although one suggested placing a Buddha image in our room. Thavin from Laos taught me how to properly pay my respects to the Buddha image at the entrance of the dormitory with the full Buddhist bow, which I have since perfected. After dinner, Widya went to our room to attend to her evening prayers and thesis, while I stayed in the lobby with the others. About an hour later, she appeared in a blaze of panic.

“ANNA! ANNA! ANNA!” She ran right into me and I hugged her, asking, “what happened? What’s going on?"

She said that she had fallen asleep but she woke up because someone was whispering in her ear in rapid Thai, and she saw a long lock of white hair across her chest. She said she couldn’t move at first, but when the whispering stopped she was able to get up and run downstairs.

Predictably, we were very alarmed at this point. I was raised Catholic but I wasn’t practicing anymore. The others who were tried to rebuke the spirit. Thavin, who could understand Thai, started talking to the few Thai students who were also in the lobby. The strange thing was that none of them were surprised. They told me, in English, that if the woman had white hair and was visiting us, then she was the building’s spirit guard, or chao tee. They said that they’ve all seen her before at one point or another. They also called my attention to strips of colorful cloth tied around a beam of wood at the opposite restaurant, and said that those were for the chao tee that lived on that piece of land. I’ve been seeing those strips of cloth all over Taling Chan, but I never bothered to ask what they were for.

Things were starting to make sense. But I was still wondering why, of all the occupied rooms on that floor, she was frequenting ours.

"Did you ask permission to stay?” A Thai student asked.

“What? What permission?” I said.

“Permission from chao tee, we always ask permission before staying.”

I felt ashamed for not knowing this, and I was so sorry for being disrespectful of the spirits. It turned out that for all the other rooms, at least one of them asked for permission to stay. It just so happened that they placed one Filipino and one Indonesian, who didn’t know about the practice, in the same room. The others knew about it because they grew up in Buddhist societies where this is common. The Thai students assured us that she meant no harm. If anything, she was trying to welcome us.

Widya and I mustered all our courage, marched right back up to our room, and asked the chao tee to grant us permission to stay. We spoke in our native languages, hoping that the sentiments will somehow transcend the language barrier.

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Credits to: childfreefilipina