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คุณหญิงจำนงศรี หาญเจนลักษณ์ คุยกันเมื่อวันก่อนถึง Hero ของ จางอี้โหมว, บุรณี รัชไชยบุญ หรือ หนูเล็ก แห่งสยามสติวโอโอดครวญเสียงใสตาเป็นประกายว่า “ดูแล้วรู้สึกว่าตัวเองไร้ค่า !” ส่วนข้าพเจ้ากลับว่า จางอี้โหมว ทำให้ข้าพเจ้ารู้สึกว่าตัวเองมีค่ามาก คงจะเป็นเพราะบุรณีดูหนังเรื่องนี้จากสายตาคนสร้างงานทั้งด้านละครเวที ภาพยนตร์และโฆษณา แต่ข้าพเจ้าดูในฐานเป็นคนธรรมดาคนหนึ่งที่ชอบดูหนัง พูดง่ายๆ ว่าข้าพเจ้าเป็น ‘ตลาด’ ไม่ใช่นักดาบใน ยุทธจักรอย่างบุรณี เข้าใจได้ว่าในขณะที่บุรณียอมรับว่าฝีไม้ลายมือตัวเองรู้สึกด้อยไปถนัดใจ เมื่อเทียบชั้นกับจางอี้โหมว คนดูหนังที่ไร้เชิงกระบี่อย่างข้าพเจ้าก็รู้สึกภาคภูมิว่าจางอี้โหมวเคารพในสติปัญญาของ “ตลาด” เขาสร้าง Hero อย่างเชื่อมั่นในศักยภาพคนดูที่จะรับสาระที่ละเอียดลึกโดยไม่ต้องตอกเน้นชี้ชัด แจกแจง และเพราะเขาให้พื้นที่กับจินตนาการของคนดูอย่างเต็มที่ หนังก็เลยงามล้ำทั้งในเชิงสุนทรียะ และเชิงปรัชญา ดูได้หลายรอบ เพราะมีสาระมากมายแฝงเร้นไว้ให้ค้นหา Hero จึงเป็นหนังที่สร้างกระแสให้เกิดบทวิเคราะห์ บทวิจารณ์ออกมากันหลายแง่หลายมุม ถึงแม้ความงามของฉาก สี ลีลาและรายละเอียดต่างๆ จะจับใจ แต่พอหลายอาทิตย์ผ่านไป ความรู้สึกข้าพเจ้าสำหรับส่วนนั้นก็เริ่มเลือน แต่กลับมาชัดตรงฉากที่ กษัตริย์ฉิน หันไปมองอักษรลักษณ์ 'ใต้หล้า' หรือ 'เทียนเซี่ย' ที่แขวนอยู่หลังบัลลังก์ แล้ววิเคราะห์ว่าอักษรนั้นประกอบด้วยอักษรจีนสามคำ ตามลำดับว่า “กระบี่ในมือ...กระบี่ในใจ... ไม่มีกระบี่ทั้งในมือและในใจ”... กระบี่ในมือ คือการพิชิตด้วยอำนาจเด็ดขาดและความรุนแรง เรียกว่าสู้กันระดับกายภาพ กระบี่ในใจ หมายถึงการพิชิตด้วยสติปัญญา ซึ่งใน Hero นั้น ไร้นาม เล่าถึง 'สู้กันในความคิด' คู่ต่อสู้ต่างถือกระบี่ยืนนิ่งหลับตา ในขณะที่ลดเลี้ยวแล่นโลดประดาบกันในความคิด กระบวนการต่อสู้แบบดาบในใจ นี้แหละ ที่สหรัฐอเมริกากับโซเวียตรัสเซียก็นำมาใช้ประหัตประหารกันในสงครามเย็น ระหว่างค่ายทุนนิยมกับค่ายคอมมิวนิสต์ช่วงกลางคริสต์ศตวรรษที่ 20 ที่เพิ่งผ่านพ้นไปไม่นานนัก ระดับขั้นที่สามคือ ไม่มีกระบี่ในมือและในใจ ซึ่งเป็นการปล่อยวางความรุนแรงทั้งปวงด้วยการบรรลุถึงสภาพที่ไร้ความขัดแย้ง เพราะไม่ยึดมั่นในความสำคัญของตัวตน 'ใต้หล้า' เป็นอุดมการณ์ที่จะรวมสังคมจีนที่แตกแยกแก่งแย่งความเป็นใหญ่ให้เป็นเอกภาพ เพื่อความสันติสุข เป็นจุดมุ่งหมายของทั้งฝ่ายกษัตริย์ฉินซึ่งเป็นกษัตริย์ของรัฐที่แข็งแรงที่สุด และฝ่ายนักดาบชาวจ้าวที่มีแผนฆ่ากษัตริย์ฉิน อุดมการณ์นี้จะไปให้ถึงได้ด้วยกระบวนกระบี่ใดหนึ่งในทั้งสามนี้ แล้วแต่ใครจะเลือกใช้กระบวนไหน ข้าพเจ้าคิดว่าคำตอบว่าใครคือ วีรชน น่าจะค้นคิดตรงนี้ คงเป็นคำตอบที่ไม่ตายตัว เพราะขึ้นกับมุมมองและปรัชญาของคนมอง ปัญหาจึงไม่ได้อยู่ที่ใครคือวีรชน แต่อยู่ที่ “...วีรชน เยี่ยงใดลวง เยี่ยงใดจริง เท่านั้น ?” ดังที่ อาจารย์ วรศักดิ์ มหันทธโนบล ได้เคยทิ้งท้ายไว้ในมติชนสุดสัปดาห์ ข้าพเจ้าเองก็ขอทิ้งคำถามเพิ่มเติมไว้ว่า “เพลงกระบี่กระบวนไหนเล่า ที่จะนำไปสู่เอกภาพอันเป็นสันติสุขที่แท้จริง ?” กลับมามอง Hero เห็นกระบวนกระบี่ของจางอี้โหมวเปรียบเป็นกระบี่ในใจ เมื่อเทียบกับหนังกระแสหลัก (mainstream) ของทุกวันนี้ ซึ่งส่วนใหญ่ใช้กระบี่ในมือสร้างงานรูปธรรมอันชัดแจ้ง มากกว่าสัจธรรมที่ต้องค้นหา ปัจจุบันคนดูหนัง ดูโทรทัศน์ โดยเฉพาะหนังฝรั่งผ่านดาวเทียมจึงชินกับการเสพรสจัดๆ ไม่ว่าเป็น eroticism ที่จะแจ้ง หรือ action ที่รุนแรง ทำนองไส้ทะลัก หัวแหว่ง เลือดกระฉูด คนทำหนังดูจะพากันทุ่มเทฝีมือในการปรุงรสให้กระแทกอารมณ์คนดู ที่นับวันจะกระแทกให้ถึงใจได้ยากขึ้นๆ จนเกือบจะกลายเป็นมาตราวัดความเก่งในการกำกับกับถ่ายทำ นัยว่าเป็นศิลปะที่จำเป็นในการสื่ออารมณ์ ฝีมือจางอี้โหมว ใน Hero ทำให้รู้สึกว่านี่ซิ เป็นศิลปะที่เหนือชั้น ดูฉากที่ลูกเกาทัณฑ์นับแสนพุ่งเข้าหานักดาบที่ยืนนิ่งรอรับ ข้างหลังเขาเป็นบานประตูใหญ่ยักษ์ตระหง่านบ่งบอกถึงอำนาจที่ล้มล้างได้ยากแวบหนึ่งข้าพเจ้าเสียววาบว่าจะต้องเห็นศพที่เหมือนหมอนปักเข็มโชกเลือด ที่ไหนได้ ภาพที่เห็นคือ เกาทัณฑ์ปักเต็มประตูหนาแน่นราวขนเม่น ว่างเว้นเฉพาะตรงที่เขายืนหยัดเมื่อครู่ ช่องเว้นว่างเป็นรอยร่างคนนั้น บอกถึงความตายที่โดดเดี่ยวและเด็ดเดี่ยวของคนกล้าได้ชะงัดว่าภาพสยองใดๆ ทั้งสิ้น ฉากสังวาสก็วิเศษ บอกเล่าถึงการสังวาสที่รุนแรงปราศจากรักได้อย่างงามเหลือ ภาพใต้ผ้าไหมสีแดงชาดผืนใหญ่ที่เหวี่ยงวนจนจอฉาดฉานไปด้วยกามกิเลส นี่แหละที่ว่าคนทำหนังให้เกียรติคนดูด้วยการให้พื้นที่กับจินตนาการ สำหรับความรักที่ลึกราวห้วงสมุทรนั้น จางอี้โหมวกลั่นมาไว้ในน้ำหยดเดียว คำว่าโรแมนติกตื้นเกินไปสำหรับ ใบหน้า แววตาและนิ้วมือของกระบี่หัก เมื่อเขาทิ้งดาบหันหลังให้คมดาบคู่ต่อสู้ เพื่อแล่นรี่มาค่อยๆ ลูบเช็ดน้ำหยดเดียวที่ปลิวมาตกลงบนแก้มศพหญิงคนรัก แววตาที่มองหน้าศพนั้นมีตำนานรักเรียงร้อยถ้อยอยู่นับล้านคำ ความตายของกระบี่หัก ที่ปล่อยดาบให้หล่นจากมือ จนหิมะเหินแทงทะลุอก ก็บอกมากมายหลายอย่าง ไม่ว่าจะเป็นความรักหรือปรัชญาการปล่อยวางแม้กระทั่งชีวิตเพื่อสันติภาพ และเพื่อให้คนที่ตนรักเข้าถึงสัจธรรมของมือและใจที่ไร้ดาบ ฉากแกนกลางในการดำเนินเรื่องซึ่งเป็นการเผชิญหน้าระหว่าง ไร้นาม กับ กษัตริย์ฉิน ในท้องพระโรงนั้น เป็นศึกทางสติปัญญาความคิดทั้งสิ้น ไม่ว่าจะเป็นเรื่องเล่าของ ไร้นาม เรื่องวิเคราะห์ของ กษัตริย์ฉิน หรือแม้กระทั่งเรื่องเล่าตามความเป็นจริงของไร้นาม ล้วนแต่เป็นกระบี่ในใจ ของตัวละครทั้งคู่ ทั้งสองฝ่ายต่างนั่งกับที่ แต่ต่อสู้กันด้วยความคิดและไหวพริบ จนถึงสุดท้าย ที่ทั้งคู่ต้องทิ้งกระบี่ทั้งในใจ จับทางเลือกอีกสองกระบวน ไร้นามเลือกกระบวนที่ ไม่มีกระบี่ทั้งในมือและในใจ ส่วน กษัตริย์ฉิน เลือกกระบวนกระบี่ในมือ ใครอยู่ใครตายคงพอเดาได้ 'ใต้หล้า' หรือการรวมจีนให้เป็นหนึ่งเดียว ดูจะเป็นอุดมการณ์ของจีนแผ่นดินใหญ่มาโดยตลอด จางอี้โหมวศิลปินชาวจีนแผ่นดินใหญ่ทำให้ข้าพเจ้าคิดเล่นๆ กว้างไกลออกไปว่า หรือศิลปะจะเป็น กระบวนกระบี่ในใจ ที่จะถางทางสู่เอกภาพทางปรัชญาที่ว่าด้วยการปล่อยวางตัว หรืออีกนัยหนึ่งคือสู่วิถีที่โลกทั้งโลกจะอยู่ร่วมกันโดยไม่มีกระบี่ทั้งในมือและในใจ ? ความคิดเล่นๆ นี้คงเป็นไปได้ยาก พอๆ กับการกลั่นมหาสมุทรให้เป็นหยดน้ำหยดเดียว จาก: คอลัมน์ บทความพิเศษ ใน มติชนสุดสัปดาห์ ฉบับวันที่ 7-13 มีนาคม 2546 ฉบับที่ 1177 ปีที่ 23

Thailand’s Bestseller in 1999 Boats in Mid-Ocean is a sensitive exploration into generations of the author’s maternal family in China and its mid-19th Century migration to Thailand. The vivid and often poignant narrative, draws readers into the Wanglee family’s struggles, successes and tragedies in its gradual assimilation into the Thai social fabric. At the dawn of the 20th Century, the family played multi-faceted pioneer roles in Thailand’s nascent but vitally important businesses - rice trade, shipping, banking, and insurance – and emerged as one of the prominent and elite business dynasties of the country. Among the more dramatic and tragic episodes are those of its entanglements with wartime politics during World War II when imperial Japan used Thailand as the springboard in the invasion plans of Burma via the infamous Death Railway. It was a time of conflicting loyalties when double-faced games of intrigues were played for variegated reasons - survival, patriotism, financial gains, political necessities, and even humanitarianism. As president of the Thai-Chinese Chamber of Commerce, the then scion of the family played a Schindler-like role when the Chamber was forced to ship rice to Japanese garrisons in Malaya and to recruit Sino-Thai to build the Death Railway. The mystery of his assassination at the end of the war remained unsolved. The portraits of the women, Thai and Chinese, are complex and filled with both humor and pathos. At least in the first three generations, the husbands traveled back and forth between Thailand and China, each had a set of wife and children ensconced in each of the two countries they called home. “…Apart from the author’s personal reflections interwoven into the narrative, the book has a substantial bibliography and appendix. As a result, what started out as a family history has turned into a combination of quasi-social documentation and personal narration by a writer with a gift for storytelling and an elegant prose style…” (Bangkok Post, February 4, 1999) The narrative is interspersed with colorful anecdotes and fascinating collection of maps and old photographs Publication Data Author’s Name : Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash Editor: Phimpraphai Phisanbut First Published in 1994 Cremation volume for Suwit Wanglee. 10th Published in August 2019 by Sino Port Company Limited. Excerpt From Chapter 1 Qianxi - The Sleeping Village The small rural village once known as Qianxi[1] breathed the air of a tranquil past encapsulated by the softly undulating horizon of hazy mountains that rose in all directions beyond the surrounding paddy fields. As I looked around at the bright fields and listened to the tongue of my forefathers without understanding a word, I felt the faint stirring of an unexpected sensation – an incipient and almost grudging sense of pride in that once-resented Chinese ancestral blood flowing in my Thai veins. Like other traditional Chinese villages, Qianxi had a square-shaped pond at its center. With all the houses built in the traditional Chinese style, it seemed as though this sleepy little village had been nodding dreamily for half a century. Only the outer edges had awakened to the calls of modern times – a shiny new school building at the fringe of the village, the joint outcome of Chinese government support and the financial donations of several Thai-Chinese families who had sprung from the seeds of Qianxi’s inhabitants of a bygone era. I had followed my Wanglee nephew to Qianxi for the official inauguration of the new school building in the month of September 1994. It was the very first time in my life to walk on Chinese soil. My mission was to gather whatever information I could in order to write what I had thought would be a brief and probably boring history of my maternal family for the cremation book of my cousin, Suvit Wanglee. A month earlier, Suvit had crashed his private plane into a northern Thai mountain range while traveling to a regional meeting in his role as chairman of the Thai Chamber of Commerce. Strangely, he was the third leader in three consecutive generations of the Wanglee clan to have died while chairman of the Chamber of Commerce and Thailand’s second oldest commercial bank – each in the month of August with decades in between. Qianxi is situated in Chenghai[2] District on the eastern part of Guangdong Province, which is on the coast of the South China Sea. In the old days, the Northern part of Guangdong was populated by the people of Chaozhou[3]. Due to frequent flooding, the inhabitants of this region faced great difficulties making a living, a condition greatly exacerbated by the bursting of the Hanjiang River’s dams which swept across farmland and took away countless lives. Frequent storms and earthquakes also wreaked havoc in this area. With a large deep-water bay, well protected from the wind, Chenghai was an important trading post linking Guangdong and Hokkian Provinces, as well as linking Southern China and the countries in Southeast Asia. Important ports in this district were Zhanglin and Shantou. From the middle of the 18th to the end of the 19th century, Zhanglin was the most important port. After 1900, the maritime center shifted to Shantou which was thirty kilometers away. The lives of the people of Chenghai were inseparable from the sea. They were skillful sea captains, always taking risks, going on dramatic seafaring adventures. The District of Chenghai boasts of a unique historical association with Siam[4]. One of its natives, named Zheng Yong, found a place for himself in the history of Thailand as the father of the warrior who freed Siam from her shackles within less than 10 months after her ignominious defeat and subjugation by the Burmese in 1767. In the first half of the 18th Century, this Zheng Yong, an adventurous ne’er-to-do-well son of a Chaozhou farmer in a Chenghai village, made his way across the seas from his poverty-ridden village to the golden-spired capital of the Kingdom of Siam, Ayuthaya (1350-1767). He married a local woman and rose from poverty through business – gambling, according to some. Whatever he did, Zheng Yong must have done it with considerable success and honesty, for he grew to be a well-respected citizen and earned the trust of the Siamese authorities who appointed him the holder of the government gambling monopoly. In 1764, the Burmese army besieged Ayuthaya and after three years broke the Siamese defenses and occupied the city, looting the magnificent capital of four centuries and reducing its fabled resplendence to ashes – it was said that death ravished Ayuthaya which went on burning for a full month. Zheng Yong’s son Taksin (Zheng Xin), gathered groups of freedom fighters and set out to weaken the Burmese occupation forces with guerilla tactics before finally routing and pushing them back. Victorious, he ascended the throne in 1768, establishing a new capital in Thonburi on the left bank of the Chao Phraya River, ruled the shattered country, reviving its morale and unity and kept the Burmese at bay for 14 strenuous years before his tragic demise in 1782. Not surprisingly, many of King Taksin the Great’s soldiers who braved battles to win back Siam’s independence were Chinese Chaozhou immigrants from Chenghai. Any visitor to Chenghai today can visit a gravesite containing the royal attire of King Taksin, built in honor of the Siamese king in 1784, as well as a splendid statue of King Taksin himself. My ancestral village of Qianxi is situated across the river. The forefathers of my mother’s family have moved there from a village called Xi Wei[5] since the 17th Century. From the names of the two villages, we can safely deduce that the Chens moved from the lowlands or the often-flooded area of Xi Wei to the highlands of Qianxi. Almost all the Qianxi villagers considered themselves blood relatives. Understand- ably so, because it turned out that no less than eighty percent of the villagers still used the family name ‘Chen’ as had my great-grandfather who, with his Manchu-style pigtail and shaven forehead, had sailed his Chinese junk up the Chao Phraya River to Bangkok in 1781 to establish a Siamese base for the expanding shipping and rice trade which his father had begun in Chaozhou. Today, at the fringe of the village of Qianmei, there is the “Hamlet of the Chens of Qianxi”. Our interpreter has translated the name of the hamlet as “the Wanglee Hamlet”. Deservedly, for it is the product of the administration of Chen Cihong, Founding Father of the Wanglee Family. It was he who encouraged the purchase of land around the existing village so friends as well as retainers could build their houses. And it was his personal funds that went into the building of roads, bridges, schools, and pharmacies for public use. This was how Cihong was known to live his life and conduct his business – strictly based on the principles of Confucianism.[6] From the Hamlet of the Chens of Qianxi, I was taken to the former port known as Zhanglin which had been around from the time of the Ming Dynasty in the 15th Century – the port that had witnessed the laborious rise of the Wanglee forefathers from indigence to success. Prior to the opening of Shantou Port in 1860, Zhanglin was an important port from which the Chaozhou merchants set off their journeys. Trade activities increased during King Taksin’s reign accelerated during the first three reigns of the Rattana- kosin (Bangkok) Era which began after his death in 1782. During King Taksin’s days, Chaozhou traders and immigrants came to be known as “the Royal Chinese”. A researcher of Thai Khadi Institute, Thammasat University, has the following to say about this matter: “It was perhaps not King Taksin’s intention to favor the Chinese Chaozhous over the other Chinese as his partiality would cause a rift among the Chinese communities, especially when he depended on their support. The Chaozhous, inevitably, enjoyed a higher status than the rest as the king himself was half Thai and Chaozhou. Another point is the contribution of Chaozhou troops in King Taksin’s military initiatives against Burma in the towns along the East Coast. Furthermore, the King had maintained a strong relationship with the Chinese emperors in order to consolidate his authority in Siam. These political situations had turned the spotlight on the Chinese Chaozhous, thus attracting more and more immigrants to Siam.” The Chaozhous continued to set sail from Zhanglin until the popularity of the Chinese junks gradually faded. The opening of Shantou Port in 1860 marked the end of Zhanglin. Very close to the deserted old port lies “Xinxingjie”, a small village peppered with ghosts of inns, once filled with seafarers wanting a night’s rest before their voyages. The number of Thais of Chaozhou descent whose ancestors once stayed in these inns probably runs into tens of thousands including, of course, the Wanglee clan. When China was defeated in the second Opium War, the Treaty of Tiensin[7] was signed in 1858 whereby Western Imperialist powers designated Shantou as a free deep-sea port. Western steam-powered ships, whose greater efficiency of steam engine contributed to the rise of Shantou and the decline of Zhanglin, gradually replaced the Chinese junks. This process must have been gradual for I was told that Chen Cihong continued to operate his commercial ventures with Siam by Chinese junks from Zhanglin up to the 1870s. Changes had been wrought not only by human factors, but nature had also played a cruel role in the desolation of Zhanglin. The Hanjiang tributary that two hundred years ago used to flow into the ocean here had silted up over the years. Only a hundred years ago, the locals assured me, the depth of the river mouth was three times the height of a full-grown man. Now it is no more than a shallow blackened stream. As a testimony to the fact, they pointed to the observation tower from which the people could monitor harbor traffic in those proud departed days. Another testimony was a monument erected to mark the place where “hongtou chuan” or red-headed ships of the Chaozhou people departed for Siam. There the coastal area had over time become an inland one, the sea having receded as much as eight kilometers due to the tremendous amount of sand persistently brought in on the wind. The passage of time, the progress of man combined with the hand of nature, had transformed Zhanglin from a brisk, lively nucleus of import-export and merchandise distribution with hundreds of ships plying its harbor into a sad and time-worn village. The only signs indicating the arrival of the passing of the 20th century in Zhanglin were tangles of power lines along the alleys and the occasional television aerial on top of house roofs built over a hundred years ago. [1]When China adopted communism as its political ideology, the name Qianxi which means “higher part of the river” was changed to a more poetic name of Qianmei or “beautiful part of the river”. In this particular chronicle, I shall use the name Qianxi when speaking of the village in former times when it was known as such. [2] “clear water of the ocean” [3]The word Chaozhou or Tae Chew refers to a city in Southern China as well as an ethnic group of Chinese people in that region with their own distinct language and culture. [4] I shall use “Siam” and “Siamese” when speaking of my country in the pre-1939 days prior to its official name change to the present day Thailand. The name “Thailand” will be used when pertinent to the context of time. [5] “Lower end of the river”. Today, Xiwei is called Jumei which means “beautiful dwelling”. [6] Wealth accumulation, wealth management on the public’s behalf, wealth consumption and distribution. [7] Disputes over trade privileges continued between the Chinese authorities and Western powers although the treaty had already been signed. The treaty was therefore suspended and further conflicts and negotiations ensued. It was not until 1860 that the treaty actually became effective.

The Art of Lightness Rolling the Mortar Downhill Rolling the Mortar with Lightness The book series about art of life base on buddhism philosopher : The Art of Lightness, Rolling the Mortar Downhill and Rolling the Mortar with Lightness “Khunying Chamnongsri‘s journey “inwards” has been a long and arduous one. She has documented it in her book Vicha Tua Bao (The Art of Lightness), which embraces a range of practical dharma tips for everyday use, and gives sensible and realistic advice for living happily, peacefully and harmoniously in society as we know it. “It’s a fun book of my own views of life and the experiences of others with whom I came in contact with. I find life such a rich material for writing and for discovery.” she said. I did not intend to write about dharma. Rather, it’s about my discoveries and ways of looking at things. It is just natural that humour and fun are a part of the fabric and, I suppose, of the dharma too.” The value of dharma books aside, Khunying Chamnongsri said they cannot compare with the actual practice. “Like a scientist, a true practitioner needs to do the ‘experiment’ him – or herself, to explore the nature of the mind first-hand.” “Normally, we are too busy to see our real selves and to observe our own minds. But think of swimming: You have to keep practicing to improve your stokes and stamina so that if and when you find yourself in stormy waters, you will not drown.” From: In Spirit - A beautiful Mind. by Krittiya Wongtavavimarn In Outlook, Bangkok Post, March 26, 2006. Publication Data Vicha Tua Bao (The Art of Lightness) Author : Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash Editor: Yutthana Varunpitigul First Published : October 2003 by Amarin Printing and Publishing 13th Published : February 2009 by Amarin Printing and Publishing Khen Khrk long khao (Rolling the Mortar Downhill) Author : Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash Editor: Jairut Sombatpiboon First Published : October 2007 by Amarin Printing and Publishing 7th Published : February 2008 by Amarin Printing and Publishing Khen Khrk Tua Bao (Rolling the Mortar with Lightness) Author : Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash Editor: Pisit Pusri First Published (Hard Copy): 2015 by Tongplu Publishing 2nd Published : 2015 by and Tongplu Publishing

Introduction by Khun Runjuan Indrakamhaeng Ajarn Khun Runjuan and Khunying Chamnongsri Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder is an introspective memoir of poetry inviting deep contemplation. Boredom and loneliness are familiar feelings, yet few people explore them deeply, foregoing the opportunity to witness how they devour our purpose for living, constantly sucking the heart’s energy as they slip by unattended. By undertaking a journey within one discovers how with little effort such processes reveal themselves naturally. But these contemplative adventures can be unpleasant, especially when one fears encountering something they are unwilling to admit exists—easier to allow the mind to stay a slave to boredom and loneliness. Khunying Chamnongsri Rutnin’s poetry explains the wonders of grappling with the interplay of thoughts and feelings as they unfolded during a meditation retreat she undertook at Suan Mokkhabalarama. It is a captivating struggle of a Dhamma practitioner, who is also a public intellectual, writer and social organiser — personas all vying for attention in a seemingly unstoppable mind. Highly skilled in observation, analysis and criticism, it is a mind that allows no thoughts to pass unscrutinised, nor the resulting imbalances brought on by strong emotions that may trail in their wakes. Such an outward-inclined mind, however, presents an obstacle to Dhamma practice, distracting it from venturing within where the fruits of practice await. Khunying Chamnongsri finds navigating this U-turn formidable, as it necessitates fighting an inertia her mind sought comfort from throughout her life. The challenge is daunting. Knowing to peer inside is just the beginning, because once there, it can be an uneasy place to dwell. In contrast, remaining outside one finds an infinite array of characters and constructs to frame stories about, “…remarkable intelligence and sharp analysis. Yes, I’m truly brilliant, what an ego boost.” Returning inward, there are no companions to join in the journey. There is neither praise nor admiration, only silence and noise alternating for attention. To observe and contemplate them is difficult. Where does the noise stop and the silence begin? Across 40 brief passages, Khunying Chamnongsri chronicles the mishaps and marvels when witnessing all that emerges, lingers then exits the mind. It is a perpetual carousel ride that ceases only when practice leads to abandoning any quest to acquire, and the mind becomes calm, cool, clear and content. Until that day arrives, the mind remains Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder. But so long as one does not abandon the training, continues on the journey within and forgoes anticipation and expectation along the way, that day will come. The melodic writing style is engaging, allowing readers to gather insight as they float along in the flow of thoughts and feelings. In sharing these personal experiences from her own Dhamma practice, Khunying Chamnongsri hopes they might aid others, an intention I trust she fulfils. Runjuan Indrakamhaeng Suan Mokkhabalarama, Chaiya District 25 February 1992 (Translated by Nantiya Tangwisutijit) Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa and Khunying Chamnongsri Epilogue “Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder” is a collection of writings selected from a daily journal I endeavoured not to keep while abandoning the city for seven months in the countryside. The Buddha teaches that the root of suffering resides in the mind. So too must the end of suffering be sought from the mind. City life, however, with social opportunities and material wealth lure one to rely on friends, money and things for life’s “solutions”. Unfortunately, grasping such solutions routinely lengthens the problems’ tail. In 1989 I became entrapped by a conflagration of seemingly unsolvable problems burning inside me. Attempts to dampen the flames succeeded only in stranding my mind on an endless loop of entangled thoughts. The sole way off, I eventually concluded, was to step away from my family, my friends and the comforts of urbanity. I would seek refuge in a far-away forest monastery — a decision I remain thankful for to this day. I was not running from my problems. I was heading toward an opportunity to cultivate strength and understanding within my mind so that it could become calm and cool. Upon my return to the city, I would try to embrace my dilemmas with loving kindness to both myself and others. The journey began when I committed to stay at Suan Mokkhabalarama (Wat Suan Mokkh) in Chaiya District, Surat Thani Province. When I arrived in October that year, Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa had been unwell for some time. Initially, I took part in Anapanasati meditation training offered at Wat Suan Mokkh International Dharma Hermitage. Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa designated this hermitage to be a Dhamma meditation destination for people of all nationalities and faiths. The 150-rai hermitage was about two kilometres from the main monastery. It was surrounded by verdant hills. A natural hot spring fed a creek that meandered through the grounds, much of which was covered by a peaceful coconut grove. This provided habitat for a wide range of wildlife. Butterflies, ants, and frogs seemed ever-present, but all manner of birds, insects, amphibians and reptiles, particularly snakes, made themselves known. The beauty and freshness of these surrounding combined with practice to understand the nature of body and mind nurtured a greater friendship with these creatures. They were here before us. For aeons they have gone through birth, reproduction and death. After all, we and they were not too different — swimming in circles full of suffering we want to avoid, pleasantries we try to cling to, and all the while generally oblivious to the ever-changing realities both inside and out. The hermitage structured the trainings as 10-day residential retreat courses. They were offered twice per month, once in Thai and once in English. Many mornings we were on the move by 4:30 a.m. We had to walk the two kilometres to the main monastery to hear sermons from Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa. He was punctual, starting his talks precisely at 5:00 a.m. He delivered them from what was called the Stone Bench Courtyard in front of his kuti. This name came from the polished concrete benches available for his audiences. I, however, quietly renamed this area Kanikar Clearing. I chose this because of a night blooming jasmine tree that produced beautiful, tiny white flowers with bright orange pistils. The blooms were wonderfully fragrant at dawn. Tan Ajarn explained how night blooming jasmine originated from India, and was the flower of the Buddha. I have always remembered this, and my mind returns to that clearing whenever someone mentions Kanikar. Tan Ajarn’s sermons focussed on Paticca-samuppada (Dependent Origination). They went on for two hours. It generally took him three to five sermons to convey all he wanted to share on the topic, depending on his health and the language of the retreat attendees. For Thai participants, he usually covered the material over three days, but if translation into English by a western monk was required, five visits to the courtyard might be necessary. In the beginning, as I was completely unaccustomed to rising before dawn, I could not follow his talks. I was repeatedly dozing off, catching only bits and pieces of what he was saying. My alertness gradually improve though. And finally, with help from the dogs and chickens that were always on hand and messing about, I could remain awake and absorb every word. After concluding six retreats, I felt I needed more specific guidance and practice. I asked my teacher, Ajarn Khun Runjuan Indrakamhaeng , if I could stay on for another month. Ajarn agreed, but advised me not to specify a timeframe, only to take things day by day. Indeed, her advice led me to remain for three months instead of one. It would have been longer, but an obligation awaiting in Bangkok could not be ignored. Those months turned out to be the most valuable educational experience of my life — learning from inside myself, not from what I was told. Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa allowed me to stay in the upasaka section of Suan Mokkhabalarama, under Ajarn Khun Runjuan’s supervision. Ajarn recognised my intention to practice intensively so assigned me to an isolated cottage. She also instructed me to neither speak nor write. I was only to observe what happened to my own body and mind. Keeping silence in speech was crucial to understanding the nature inside. It created an atmosphere for continuous observation of the effects of thoughts and feelings. The silence helped to reveal how extremely hard it could be to stop thinking. Even without anyone to speak with, the mind would churn out dialogue continuously. Day after day thoughts persisted to engage me in conversation. With no one to speak with I turned to writing. I would communicate on paper, and “Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder” became an unplanned result. My first month alone I stirred like a newly-captured wild animal, constantly pushing up against the walls of its cage. Gradually, a soothing energy I felt raining down on me from the tall trees above, tamed me. Suan Mokkhabalarama’s ambience was even more enriching than what I experienced during meditation trainings at the hermitage. The canopies created by all the large trees engulfed the grounds in tranquil shade. Sounds of the wild were constant companions day and night. I saw the largest scorpion I had ever seen, as large as a man’s hand. I shared my cottage with a gigantic spider and a gecko almost a foot long. And I could never count the number of large rats that ran in and out at will. I became acquainted with many of the abandoned dogs and cats that found homes on the monastery grounds. Their presence caused me to contemplate more intensively themes that I saw us sharing in our respective cycles of suffering and survival. As a result, things like birth, love, jealousy, striving, attachment, sickness and death all found a deeper place to rest near my heart thanks to these cast offs. My life as a whole felt comparatively unimportant relative to my views about life when living in the city. I noticed the less important life felt, the lighter the load of suffering that accumulated atop my shoulders. This further helped to calm the mind, making mindfulness practice easier. The first month in the cottage I had no desire to hold a pen. Perhaps the mind was too unsettled. But as the second month began, an urge to write arose, and it intensified the more I tried to suppress it. I began to feel destined to fail miserably in heeding Ajarn Khun Runjuan’s repeated warnings about maintaining silence. She stressed that no writing was allowed either, since both speaking and writing sent the mind outside. But I gave in. I began to chronicle my thoughts every day. Then after a month, this need to write suddenly vanished. When Trasvin Jittidecharak from Silkworm Books became aware of this journal, she found it fitting for a book. She had the text rearranged into chapters, and published it in 1992. During the book’s preparation, I was repeatedly asked about its title by readers. At Suan Mokkh, Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa had a large pond dug. A small island was left in the middle for a solitary coconut tree. He called it the Nalikae Pond to draw attention to an old southern lullaby containing a profound Dhamma teaching. “Dear Little One, There is the Nalikae coconut tree, Growing there in the sea of wax. Neither touched by rain, Nor reached by thunder. There, in the middle of the sea of wax, Reached only by the one who’s free.” Nalikae is a coconut species cultivated in Southern Thailand. Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa explained that the Nalikae in the lullaby represents Nirvana. Nirvana is not a place but a state of mind. It stands in the middle of a sea of wax — the nature of the mind that is ever-changing — liquid and impassable when hot, solid like a bridge when cool. But the lonely Nalikae tree standing tall amidst the sea of wax, remains unchanged — undisturbed by its environment. “Neither touched by rain, Nor reached by thunder” represents a state beyond merit — no attachment to anything even the “boon” or good merit many Buddhists aspire to accumulate. It symbolises one who lets go completely. As a Dhamma practitioner still adrift in my own sea of wax, “Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder” seemed a fitting tribute to my time there. Bhudthong Hill, which I mentioned in the Visaka Bucha chapter, was the ubosot of Suan Mokkhabalarama. Atop it sat a small, pure-white plaster Buddha image serving as the ubosot’s main feature. Boundary stones helped to demarcate a natural amphitheater facing the statue. There were no other man-made structures. Tall trees surrounded everything, furthering an atmosphere harkening back to the time of the Buddha. Prior to leaving Suan Mokkhabalarama for Bangkok, I planned to come back to the temple and further my training once my task in the city was completed. Ajarn Khun Runjuan, however, observed that I had begun to cling to the place: its routine, its atmosphere and its teachers. She felt that I created an illusion that this was my place to practice, and I thought it was the best. Instead, she recommended that I continue my practice at a forest monastery in the Northeast so that I could gain perspective and further open up my mind. When I went to pay respects and say good-bye to Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa, I informed him of my plan to take my practice to the Northeast. He proceeded to spend several hours lecturing me about Dhamma practice, and answering all of my questions in great detail. This experience differed immensely from our brief interactions when my training began months earlier. He repeatedly stressed that Dhamma learning must emphasise practice. Only after practicing could one develop sufficient grounding to put forth truly beneficial questions. I returned to Suan Mokkhabalarama just a handful of times to pay respect to Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa before his passing. When I presented him “Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder” he complimented me on my writing, adding that it was useful. I felt tremendous relief. My last opportunity to pay respect to Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa was when I said good-bye to him as his body lay atop his cremation pyre on Bhudthong Hill. The intense yellow flames flashing in front of me fought hard to push through the rain coming down from the sky. From a loudspeaker nearby, my ears heard a recording of Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa’s own voice speaking of death, while my eyes witnessed his charred body turning to ash. I will forever remember how Tan Ajarn taught us about awareness of death until his own last second. Khunying Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash (Translated by Nantiya Tangwisutijit) Publishcation Data Author : Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash 1st Published : 1992 , Silkworm Book 2nd Published : March 1996, Foundation for Children Publishing 3rd Published :December 2005 ,Tongplu Publishing 4th Published : January 2006 ,Tongplu Publishing 5th Published : October 2015 ,Paega Publishing

"Sometime I wish there were no words so that we could talk with our hearts translate thoughts to smiles and lite ballads with our eyes" (WORDS) CURTAIN Is there really a curtain, a curtain not really there? A veil far finer than smoke, and far lighter than air? Are you beyond that curtain that screens your world from mine? Can we sense or touch or exchange a thought or a sign? I believe there is a moment a rare moment bright and frail hidden in the folds of time a magic chink in the veil. Ssh...the hours are dreaming; the minutes are wandering away; time is drifting and forgetting and turning to look another way... Now, we steal the fairy moment and let it shine soft and fair, we smile into each other's minds and whisper in voices of wind and air. Introduction to ON THE WHITE EMPTY PAGE and MORE by critic and scholar Chetana Nagavajara AESTHETICS OF RETICENCE: ON CHAMNONGSRI RUTNIN'S POETRY To Introduce Chamnongsri Rutnin's poetry is not an easy task. The first question that comes to mind is whether a Thai poet writing in English could ever hope to achieve something original. Chamnongsri's creative mode is not that of translating from Thai into English. She may be writing about things in Thai, but she certainly thinks in English. The adoption of the medium of expression in this case does not necessarily mean total acceptance of the worldview of the originating culture. It may be futile to ask whether she is writing in a first, second or foreign language, and an analogy with, say, a Singaporean poet writing in English may not help either. One single reading of poems like PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN and OLD HOUSE BY THE KLONG can convince any Thai reader where Chamnongsri really belongs, for there is no trace of exoticism here. Those years in the West have not turned her into an outsider. Chamnongsri remains very much a Thai. imbibing the cultural riches of her native land and feeling herself very much at home. To say this is also to pay tribute to her English masters: they have given her a very good command of a new tongue without locking her up in a cultural prison-house. But it would be a total fallacy to claim that one can cleanse a language of its historical context or to neutralize it to the point where it becomes just a medium. Chamnongsri will be the last person to deny her debt to Western culture. A comparative study could be written on echoes of English Romanticism in her work (more of Keats than Byron) or on the lure of "the empty page" known to Mallarme' a hundred years earlier. Certain lapses into stereotyped Western poetic modes crop up now and then, such as the lifeless abstraction of MY TIME and the exaggerated modernist conciseness of ON A CHIANGMAI DOI. To me Chamnongsri is at her best when she knows how to marry the best of both worlds, particularly when she immerses herself in the Thai way of life, only to emerge with felicitous expressions reflecting literary sophistication of the kind that she must have learned from the West. The suggestiveness and the freshness that inform a poem like BRIDAL GARLANDS owe much to this happy marriage, and a Thai born and bred in Thailand would probably not have achieved the noble simplicity of MY COUNTRY WOMEN- in my opinion the best poem of the collection - in which the expression of human warmth and compassion is borne out by a series of almost arbitrary images that lead on to the notions of "femininity" and "motherhood" no longer appearing as abstract concepts amidst the sensuousness of these images. One can no longer speak of East or West, Thai or English. This is just poetry. To talk of Chamnongsri's "Thainess" is to plunge ourselves in an insoluble dilemma, for this characteristic trait of her poetic work accounts for both her strengths and weaknesses. Most of the poems in this volume are somehow or other marked by what I would call 'an aesthetics of reticence." I shall clarify myself. A certain type of reservation, best expressed by the French word "pudeur", pervades most of her poetry. A Thai lady of good breeding is traditionally schooled in this difficult art of "pudeur" whereby she shall not externalise her inner most sentiments in explicit form. This particular schooling in manners and emotions have gone to produce exquisite love-poetry, and even the classical Thai dance has created wonders with this! What Chamnongsri has done is to elevate a matter of manners and emotions to a philosophic stance. Even in a seemingly conventional poem like CURTAIN, "the minutes are wandering away" and "time is ... turning to look another way" . Unattainability and unfulfillment have as their allies uncertainty and indeterminacy. When the poet speaks of LONELINESS, no single answer is given as to what it is: we are offered as many as three alternatives to choose from. You must not give away what you really think. The constant use of the interrogative form is another discernible tactic. The entire poem TERRITORY OF ICE is carried through in a series of questions. Poetry is there to reflect the fleeting moment, the unfinished creation, the endless movement and the infinite longing for some distant ideal. Yet this is exactly where the charm of Chamnongsri's poetry lies. The "grey area", so to speak, where the bliss of incompleteness and indeterminacy can take place has its irresistible attraction. In the case of TWILIGHT HOUR, the "soundless skysong...swells the void / then recedes...". Why must it be "soundless" and why must it "recede" so soon, one is tempted to ask! But how could it be otherwise, since the poet has opted for an aesthetics of unattainability? One has to admit that such aesthetic and poetic strategy may have excluded our poet from probing other types of human experience and thereby restricted her vision. But we must realize at the same time that this happens by design, and not by default. The poem A WOMAN TO HER DAUGHTER is quite explicit on this point. Being a mere woman, I can only ask you, a woman-to-be to softly sense and tenderly touch life's multi-textured realities and, with a woman's heart, try to feel and understand. Forever try to understand. This is indeed a significant passage, for it is a vivid statement of Chamnongsri's poetic mode. You need a certain self-discipline to be able to "softly sense and tenderly touch /life's multi-textured realities". The question remains whether the poet is prepared to go beyond trying "to feel and understand" She certainly knows of the tragedy of life, but she would rather leave it lurking behind somewhere instead of coming face to face with it. In DEATH OF A FRIENDSHIP she confesses: "I have seen its death / I have seen it fade / I have seen it die", and goes on to qualify this confession with "Not burning with passion/not aching with love". Her treatment of "tragic" themes somehow lacks poignancy. In the poem entitled TRAGEDY, the use of imagery serving the purpose of a moral tale rather precludes real tragic feeling, and the re-telling of the traditional legend of Phra Lor in KALONG is too much in a conciliatory vein. The avoidance of tragedy is certainly in consonance with the poetics of reticence, which can also assume the form of a non-communication, such as in the case of the poem NON-EXISTENT DESTINATION. The fate of the "GARLAND BOY" must have moved the poet, but we are not allowed to probe deeper into her innermost feeling. Communication is disrupted: "the 3 M sunscreened glass / ... keeps out the speaking eyes". At one point the tragedy of the small man almost succeeds in creating a disturbing social awareness in her, for the poet becomes aware of what "separate(s) our worlds"! But she stops short at that. The aesthetics of unfulfillment thus becomes an aesthetics of social non-commitment. We have to go to the poem ON PEOPLE -AN ANSWER TO A QUESTION for a more explicit counsel. Here the poet admits: "Their arrogance / are sheets of pain/masking unquiet lakes / of fears and loneliness". She is aware of the hidden force that could erupt at any moment. But poetry has a healing power that can counteract any potential violence, for, as we have seen earlier, the poet has mastered the art of "feeling and understanding". The poem concludes in the following manner: Hear the dark waters whisper a voiceless song; listening makes it swell intoxicating the air with sweetness. "Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner" (To understand everything is to excuse everything), so goes the old French saying. This could apply to Chamnongsri's poetry as well. The avoidance of tragedy, of violence, of conflict, lies at the cultural roots of the "land of smiles". In this sense, Chamnongsri is very much a Thai poet. I have dwelt at some length on Chamnongsri's aesthetics of reticence, for it is precisely this point that distinguishes her from many of her Thai contemporaries. In a sense, she is more "traditional" than they are, in spite of her exposure to Western culture. The difference is not to be explained sociologically. She definitely has not turned a blind eye on social problems, but her aspiration is a philosophic one. She tries to transcend social awareness through philosophical awakening, this may not be a strategy that many of her contemporaries would choose to adopt. But she knows what she is doing. Even when she contemplates nature, she does so with a definite philosophical frame of mind. The poem HUA HIN is a case in point. Not that she is unaware of both "storms and changeabilities", but "the lyrical sea and I" are tied in a friendship that has lasted from childhood till "these calmer days". There is something Wordsworthian in Chamnongsri's philosophy of nature. Her best poems can, in one way or the other, be classified as nature-poetry. The poems, modernized jataka-inspired didactic tales pioneered by the doyen of contemporary Thai poets, Angkarn Kalayanapong, are professions of faith in the ways of nature. On the one hand, nature offers its protective arms to all things, as in THE WINDCRAB, but on the other hand, nature too is subject to the law of transiency, as most succinctly suggested in RAINDROP AND LOTUS LEAF. But this acceptance of the impermanence of things does not give rise to any tragic sense, for nature is self-renewing and self-perpetuating. Endless messages of hope could be deciphered from nature, and "much more" can be culled from it than what the author of THE ANGRY EARTH AND THE TAMARIND SEED is prepared to offer. To follow nature's way is to follow the way of freedom, and the dichotomy between nature and artifice is vividly brought to the fore in THE BECKONING. It is to be expected that the poet's faith in nature must necessarily engender an aversion to things mechanized, stereo-typed of even regimental. IN A NEW YORK HOTEL is not merely an expression of a "culture shock". It is more of an indictment against de-humanized, mechanical way of life. Her derision of "highblown talk about style and technology / Pre and Post Hi-tech and all that jargon in ROBOT BUILDING ON SATHORN is carried through in a similar humanist vein, full of humour and without malignancy. We must not forget that in the lead poem ON THE WHITE EMPTY PAGE the poet sets out as her goal to "fill the blankness / with something / of man". That is why she condemns the doctrinaire regimentation of "I talk, you listen" in TO A FRESHMAN CLASS. This refusal of the artificial, the rigid, the mechanical and the unnatural is not to be confused with the kind of sobriety, refinement and self-discipline that are the guiding principles of Chamnongsri's aesthetics of reticence. The particular kind of discipline acceptable to our poet is of a more rarefied nature. It is the code of conduct of highly cultivated people known in Thai as "pudee" turned into an artistic principle. And only a "pudee"could write a poem like PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN which we might as well call a poem to silence Karl Marx. Strictly speaking, the old class-consciousness and class-distinction are still there. But the human warmth that exudes from "the ruling class" and the sincerity that pervades the entire poem are so disarming that no-one would have a heart to talk about class-conflict and class-struggle any more. Chamnongsri's poetry is thus representative of the fate of modern Thailand. Acquiescence to the order of things may signify indifference or lethargy in some societies, but here it becomes a profession of faith in human kindness, peaceful co-existence and mutual respect. The aesthetics of reticence is not to be taken as a poetic strategy. It is a way of life. One may argue about the merits and demerits of Chamnongsri's poetry, but one can hardly argue about her integrity. She is true to herself and to her people. That our bard can sing so well with a borrowed tongue must remain a marvel. Chetana Nagavajara New Year 1988 Publication Data Author : Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash First Published in 1988 by Pleasant Media Ltd.Part. 2nd Published in 2001 by >> หนังสือรวมบทกวี และบทร้อยแก้ว รวมถึงนิทาน ที่คุณหญิงจำนงศรีได้เขียนไว้ ในช่วงเวลาหลายสิบปี ข้อมูลหนังสือ ผู้เขียน: คุณหญิงจำนงศรี (รัตนิน) หาญเจนลักษณ์ พิมพ์ครั้งที่ 1 Pleasant Media Ltd.Part. 2531 พิมพ์ครั้งที่ 2 2544

Ussiri Thamachote The S.E.A. Write Award 1981 Collection : Khunthong, You Will Return at Dawn Translated: Chamnongsri Rutnin จาก เรื่อง เธอยังมีชีวิตอยู่ อย่างน้อยก็ในใจฉัน ในรวมเรื่องสั้นชุด ขุนทองเจ้าจะกลับเมื่อฟ้าสาง ผลงานรางวัลวรรณกรรมสร้างสรรค์ยอดเยี่ยมแห่งอาเซียน ปี 2524 ของ อัศศิริ ธรรมโชติ The political situation had been growing more and more critical since the end of September. People were saying that October was the month of bad omens, that it would bring endless turmoil and an inevitable eruption of violence. Everyone was predicting and discussing the situation the way they predict a downpour when dark clouds thicken the sky. In that period of budding democracy, various activist and pressure groups were vibrant with movements and expectancy. My own feelings were different. I saw dejection in the faces of passersby, and sensed depression in the air around me. The beginning of October signaled the end of the rainy season, but the air was stifling, as if an invisible fire was raging all around. Rain fell like drops of tears sliding down a young girl’s cheek, adding to the atmosphere of desolation and sadness. I rolled a couple of sheets of paper, stuck them in my pocket, walked out of my rented house, which was not much bigger than the charcoal burner that my cat used as its den, and strode purposely forward, like a man with a job to tackle. I had been assigned to cover the movement of people who had gathered at a university campus – a sizeable number. I had to be there in the morning and monitor the crowd’s movements, note its size – whether it had grown bigger or smaller, take note of what the protestors said, what their next move would be, what statements they would announce to the opponents of the protest. I had to report all this information hourly to my office. “Let’s hope it won’t be like the last time. Whatever will happen, let it be better than the last time,” the friend who shared the rented house with me had said before I left that morning. “That’s what everyone hopes… except for a few,” I told him. The usually deserted soi[1] that led from my house to the main road was as long and narrow as a railroad. It had no buses like other sois, so I – like all the others who lived in it - had to walk down it to get to the main road. Despite its length, there were few houses. Most of these few stood in the middle of orchards and vegetable gardens. Four or five, as small as a cat’s den like mine, were rented out. Thoughts of the ominous situation ran through my mind as I walked towards the main road. But, suddenly jolted into the present by sounds of running feet, I looked up and stopped in my track. A girl, young and slender, ran towards me. She was clearly frightened. She stopped in front of me, breathing hard. There was nobody behind her, but her fear transmitted itself to me. “What’s wrong?” I asked. She looked first at me, then behind her and said. “Some people were chasing me.” “But there’s nobody behind you. Perhaps they’ve lost you,” I said, wondering what was going on. I took a good look at her. Her right hand, beautifully shaped, was sticky with glue. A thick wad of printed sheets was tightly held between her left arm and her body. The face, bare of make-up, shone above the black shirt that she wore over a pair of stained jeans. A cloth bag slung over one of her shoulders, and she wore a pair of dirty white sneakers. I gave her a friendly smile and asked to see the posters under her arm. With an embarrassed smile, she handed a few of them to me. The face of a former politician, bordered in black, was printed on them. Under the picture, angry words were splashed – sentences full of jargons of that period of ‘democracy’. They were posters calling on the people to expel this once-powerful former politician from the country. “Now I know who has been chasing you! They don’t want those posters on the walls,” I said as her trouble became clear to me. “They have been hired to stop us putting up the posters. They were beating us with cudgels, so we scattered and ran,” she said, on the verge of tears. “It’s all right now. Come with me, but…”. I looked at the posters. “Leave those in that pile of garbage, so you won’t get into trouble again.” She nodded and threw away the whole sheaf. The morning seemed normal and quiet as we walked towards the main road from which she had run to escape her pursuer. I asked her about the state of things at the university campus which was the centre of the protest against the repatriation of the former politician. She explained the situation to me, expressing her views of the current condition of the country in a clear, concise and logical manner. Here confidence in her convictions was as clear as her sincerity in expressing it. “Are you a student there?” I meant of the university where the protesters gathered. She gave a bright smile showing white teeth. “And you? Where do you work?” “I am an ordinary citizen. Not at all important,” I made it sound like a joke. She smiled again….. “No. You are ‘the people’.” I saw her off at the bus stop. She put her palms together in a gesture of respect and thanked me; and before her slim form disappeared into the crowded bus, she gave me her name as if it were a souvenir of her appreciation for my small favor. I walked into my customary coffee shop, sat down and wrote her name on one of my sheets of paper. I memorized her words -- such ordinary words: “We must help create righteousness and justice in our country!” A few days later, I was assigned to office duty at the news desk. Reports that foreshadowed the end of democracy came in one by one. Conflicts within the government sounded the first notes of the finale. Certain elements of the mass media joined in. The cacophony crescendoed with voices of the numerous pressure groups. The protest against the repatriation of the former strongman was drowned out by the echoes of matters that concerned the national institution, echoes that sparked indignation in the majority of the people. The finale was swelling towards a climax. It was unfortunate that our government at that time was plagued with indecision. It deepened the shadow thrown over our democracy. As the situation deteriorated, the original cause was swallowed up by the confusion which ballooned out of all proportion. I no longer wanted to interest myself in the election government of that time, nor in the various pressure groups, not even in the mass media of which I was a part. I wanted to wipe them clean from my thoughts….. I kept thinking of the slender hands sticky with glue, the fresh young face above the black shirt and faded old jeans, of the movements that showed genuine look of fear. I thought back to our chance meeting on the empty soi that morning. I wondered if she knew what the future held in store for her….. It was like the breaking of a storm – furious, merciless - after the portent of black brooding clouds. It was like raging flames that burnt to cinders everything in the path of its wrath. The reports I received that morning reeked of death and tears in every line! It was several days after the return to normalcy that I received the list of those who died in those two days of anarchy. Her name was on it -- the girl with the sheaf of posters who had stopped in front of me one morning not so long ago in the quiet soi that was as long and narrow as a railroad. The girl who uttered those simple words, “We must help create righteousness and justice in our country.” She was about the same age as my youngest sister. Her crime lay in the strength of her idealism. It had proved fatal. I am not in a position to make judgment on her actions, but I shall always believe the sincerity of her thoughts. With certainty, I know that they were as pure and guileless as her gestures and smiles that morning. I felt a morbid urge to go to the hospital morgue where her body lay to see for myself where she was wounded….to see whether her body was still clad in the black shirt and those faded jeans, or if she had changed into something else….to see whether her graceful hands were still stained with glue, and whether the left arm that had held the sheaf of posters was unmarked, or was it broken and marred beyond recognition….. And to see whether the bright smiling face, void of make-up, was it marked with pain and fear? These were the things I wanted to know! But I could only sit there, staring at the name I had written down that morning in the coffee shop. The piece of paper was crumbled but still white and clean. I inked a red line across her name, but wrote after it the words, “She is still alive, at least in my heart.” A reporter like me was too much of a coward, too ashamed, to do anything more than that. [1] lane

หยดฝนกับใบบัว Poet: Chamnongsri Rutnin Music by Dnu Huntrakul & Maithai Orchestar Reader:Chamnongsri Rutnin &Thepsiri Sooksopa RAINDROP AND LOTUS LEAF Rain fell early in the night leaving a large drop on a lotus leaf. All through the night, the raindrop trembled in the dim light of the stars. When the nightbreeze stirred the leaf, the raindrop rolled like a dark captive tear. The lotus leaf felt the raindrop's fear. It also felt the cool liquidity which was like a touch of enchantment. The leaf was larger than an almsbowl though it had unfurled only two mornings ago. Tonight's was its first rain - breathless, beautiful - pouring down from the black shouting sky. And now, cradled on its pearly surface was a fragile remainder of that grand phenomenon of nature. ''Listen how the cicadas are chirping," said the lotus leaf, doing his best to distract the raindrop from her distress. "The leaves love to gossip with the wind in the night. And bullfrogs make those fat noises to scare silence away from the dark. Did you hear them when you were high up there in the sky?" Nightbreeze swept pass. The lotus leaf stiffened his stem to keep the raindrop from rolling off his green edge and falling into the pond. The raindrop listened to the sounds of Night. They were new to her. In the clouds, she heard only the whistling of the wind, cracks of lightening and roars of thunder. She listened to Earth's nocturnal sounds - listening to each sound one by one as if picking flowers of different sizes, shapes and colours, scrutinizing them one at a time. Then she let all the sounds flood over her. This time it was like bathing in a wealth of twelve-coloured garlands. The lotus leaf felt his own happiness mingle with the raindrop's growing joy. The raindrop forgot her loneliness. She shimmered as the black sky grew pale, and blushed when she saw dawn kiss the horizon. Lotus flowers woke, their petals gradually unfolded in movements of pink and white. But the young lotus leaf began to worry. He knew that Dawn was joyful and gentle, Dusk was sad but kind; but the long Day that linked the two was harsh and cruel. To Day belonged the midday sun that seared leaves and flowers, devouring their precious moisture. Inexperienced as he was, he was sure that it would do something terrible to the raindrop. As the sun rose, the raindrop grew bright and clear, sparkling as if she were a spirit of the nine gems. The lotus leaf watched her growing more and more beautiful as the sun rose higher and higher. She drank his radiance, and refracted it in brilliant colours as she danced on the windnudged lotus leaf. The lotus leaf was sad for the raindrop was conscious of nothing but the rising sun. The sun rose higher: his rays grew hot and strong. The raindrop sparkled brighter and brighter as if a fire was lit inside. The more intense her beauty grew, the smaller she became. With anguish the young lotus leaf watched her gradually diminishing into a tiny dot, still sparkling like a minute diamond... diminishing further into nothingness. Time passed. The lotus leaf grew familiar with wind, rain and sun. He had held many raindrops: some evaporated in the hot sun, others rolled and fell into the pond. They were all bright and beautiful, but for him none had the enchantment of the first. Dawn and Dusk knew that he dreamed of her return...an improbable dream. "A chance in a billion," said the gentle Dawn who felt for every leaf, flower and living creature: Dusk nodded in gloomy agreement. But the raindrop had always remembered the lotus leaf who understood all her feelings. When she fell once more in a night rain, she chose to be cupped by him. But the lotus leaf had grown old. His greenness had lost its luster, his edge had turned brown; he was tattered by wind and insects. In some places, his veins looked like lace. The lotus leaf tried to cradle her as he once did, but the wind did not understand. It breezed across the pond and shook the leaf. The raindrop fell through one of the many brown-edged holes, and became one with the water beneath. The lotus leaf aged, and died. Its dead stem could no longer hold the withered leaf above the water. Stem and leaf decayed. They, too, became one with the murky water of the pond.

Author: Khunying Chamnongsri Rutnin Hanchanlash Illustrator: Samat Kumsuwan (Thai silk ikat artist) Once upon a time, there was a very, vary small spider. Though he was very tiny as a dew drop, you could spot him easily because his body was bright orange like the sun on winter mornings, He did not like to spin for insects but he loved to make beautiful webs. His name was ‘Orange-8-legs’ Khunying Chamnongsri wrote : "In a forest monastery in the South of Thailand, I once saw a tiny orange spider underneath a teak house at the rim of forest. The exquisite intricacy of its web made me marvel at the creative force with which Nature endowed living things regardless of size or hierarchy. I believe that the value of human life lies in channeling this force towards giving without expectations for reward. This was the source of Orange-8-Legs.” The book is illustrated by Thai silk ikat artist, Samat Koomsuwan. “I was deeply impressed by the creativity of Khunying and the Children Foundation in initiating the use of silk weaving into a literary work… Once the work began, I found it to be very time-consuming and requiring so much collaboration of ideas. I had my mother as advisor… the weavers themselves become very involved – they were excited that their work was going to tell a story for children. Deep in my heart, I want children to have the chance to come in contact with the art of weaving – not necessarily to the point of actually weaving, but to be exposed to the feeling of it, the art in it, like my daughter. After she heard this story, she started working on the weaving of one piece with the help of her grandma and nanny, and actually finished it. It was a very good feeling, this working together of grandmother, parents and daughter. I would very much like it to come through to the readers.” Awards :Winner of 2 prizes from the Thailand’s National Book Award for the year 2000 for children aged 6 – 11. Publication Data Author : Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash Illustrator : Samat Koomsuwan First Published in October 1999 by Foundation for Children Publishing House. 2nd Published in 2006 by Amazon Printing and Publishing. Illustrator : Luck Maisalee N.B. “Orange-8-Legs” is written in simple poetical prose to instill a love for the beauty language in young children. The stories have also proved to be widely popular with adults who enjoy the underlying concepts from Buddhist philosophy.

Author: Khunying Chamnongsri Rutnin Hanchanlash Illustrator: Nattawan Tangsajjapoj Gub the gecko longtime enjoyed being the center of attention. His skin’s vibrant colors arranged in beautiful patterns was the admiration of all. When several new-born geckoes arrived, however, these adorable little babies quickly became the focus. Sad and frustrated, Gub walked out of the house alone. Wandering amidst the vast garden Gub enjoyed sharing his colorful scales to his many friends. With time the patterns began to fade, but Gub soon discovered something new arising in himself. Everybody notices sparkles in his eyes, a wellspring of delight rising up from deep within his soul. He rarely becomes sad nor frustrated. Gub now understands that happiness comes from the heart, from sharing, not pretty pattern nor praises from others. Gecko Gub and his beautiful pattern The Beloved Stories from The Great Authors Series, PLAN FOR KIDS Co.,Ltd

John Keats บทกวีของ จอห์น คีตส์ กวีชาวอังกฤษ (1795 -1821) Translated: Chamnongsri Rutnin and Naowarat Pongpaiboon Image by HANSUAN FABREGAS “ โอ้ว่าอัศวินชินชาญศึก ‘O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, ใยร่อนเร่ร้าวลึกล้าแรงร่อย Alone and palely loitering? ไม้น้ำเขียวเซียวซบทบทยอย The sedge has withered from the lake, ไร้สำเนียงนกน้อยลอยสราญ And no birds sing. โอ้ว่าอัศวินชินชาญสนาม ‘O what can ail thee, knight-at–arms, โทรมชานเทวศทุกข์ไปทุกด้าน So haggard and so woe-begone? เจ้ากระรอกเสร็จชุ่มเสบียงงาน The squirrel’s granary is full, ฤดูกาลเก็บเกี่ยวก็สิ้นแล้ว And the harvest’s done. ใยดอกไม้ซีดขาวบนเงาหน้า ‘I see a lily on thy brow, ร้าวรานราหมาดช้ำน้ำค้างแผ้ว With anguish moist and fever dew; และแก้มริ้วกุหลาบเคยฉาบแวว And on thy cheek, a fading rose มาพรากแพรวพร่าพรายไปเร็วพลัน” Fast withereth too.” “ฉันพบเธอเทพธิดาที่ท้องทุ่ง ‘I met a lady in the mead, เจิดจรุงเต็มงามดังความฝัน Full beautiful—a faery’s child, จากปลายผมจรดเท้าลำเพาพรรณ Her hair was long, her foot was light, และตาเธอนั้นคมขลับแวววับไว And her eyes were wild. ฉันเสียบแซมเกศามาลัยน้อย ‘I made a garland for her head, คล้องข้อมือคล้องสร้อยสะเอวใส่ And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; ตาสบตารักกรุ่นละมุนละไม She looked at me as she did love, สะท้านไหวหวานแว่วแผ่วรันจวน And made sweet moan. ฉันประคองเธอคล้อยลอยอาชา ‘I set her on my pacing steed ลอยเวลาลอยวันมิหันหวน And nothing else saw all day long, เอนแอบแนบเคียงสำเนียงนวล For sideways would she lean, and sing ชวนฟังวังเวงเพลงนางฟ้า A faery’s song. เธอรินทิพยธาตุหยาดระยาง ‘She found me roots of relish sweet, ทิพย์น้ำค้างหวานฉ่ำน้ำผึ้งป่า And honey wild and manna dew, แน่วสำเนียงกระซิบทิพย์วาจา And sure in language strange she said, เมื่อเธอว่า “ฉันรักแท้ รักแต่เธอ” “I love thee true” เธอพาฉันดั้นด้นสู่หนแห่ง She took me to her elfin grot, สะทกสั่นกรรแสงสะอื้นเอ่อ And there she wept and sighed full sore; ฉันปิดกั้นทำนบแก้วแววละเมอ And there I shut her wild, wild eyes ด้วยจุมพิตสนิทเสนออยู่ซ้ำ ๆ With kisses four. และแล้วเธอก็กล่อมให้ฉันหลับ And there she lulled me asleep, แต่ฉันกลับฝันร้ายแสนร้ายร่ำ And there I dreamed – Ah! woe betide! ดั่งความฝันสุดท้ายสุดใจจำ The latest dream I ever dreamed บนภูเทือกยะเยือกย้ำเยียบวิญญาณ์ On the cold hill’s side. ฉันแลเห็นส่ำกษัตริย์สิ้นเกียรติศักดิ์ ‘I saw pale kings and princes too, นักรบนักต่อนักสิ้นศักดิ์ค่า Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; ล้วนกู่พร่ำ “นางงามนี้ไร้กรุณา” Who cried — “La Belle Dame sans Merci” บ่วงมนตราตรึงนับกัปกัลป์” Hath thee in thrall!” ฉันเห็นปากผากแห้งในแสงสลัว I saw their starved lips in the gloam และคำเตือนน่ากลัวจากปากนั่น With horrid warning gaped wide, ฉันตื่นขึ้นทันใดได้พบพลัน And I awoke and found me here บนภูเทือกยะเยือกสั่นครั่นคล้อย On the cold hill-side. นี่คือเหตุที่ฉันสัญจรเปลี่ยว And this is why I sojourn here ดายเดียวพับพ่ายไร้แรงร่อย Alone and palely loitering ไม้น้ำเหงาเซาซบทบทยอย Though the sedge is withered from the lake, ไร้เสียงนกน้อยลอยสราญ And no birds sing.”

Saksiri Meesomsueb Translated: Chamnongsri L. Rutnin Illustration: LittleLark นกกระดาษตระหนกพร่านบินร่านร่อน ว่ายว่อนเวิ้งฟ้าน้ำตาเจิ่ง Paper birds panicked into flight Reeling in vast tear-filled skies โครมครืน...ตื่นเตลิดกระเจิดกระเจิง เปิดเปิง...ปืนอีโบ๊ะรัวโละเละ Boom, Boom..... scattered in fright Bang, Bang... ee-poh guns broke the air สาดกระสุนลูกชำมะเลียงรัวกระหน่ำ เจ้าตาคมล้มคว่ำลงโผละเผละ Shot out chamaliang bullets Bright-eyed ones dropped drooped เลิอดตกอกแตกแหลกเละ หยดหมาดหยาดเหมะดังเม็ดมณี Eye-balls burst - broke and bled Blood dripped dropped like prized gems เนื้อนวลปริแตกแยกออก ลิ่มหลาวยาวกว่าศอกตอกเต็มที่ Smooth flesh breached By powered thrust of iron blades โหยกรีดหวีดร้องก้องปฐพี ค่าแค่เสียงแมลงหวี่ วู่วี่ดัง Screams reverberated through the land But valued no more than fruit-flies’ buzz โยกเอยโยกเยก น้ำตามท่วมเมฆมิหยุดหลั่ง Back and forth, back and forth Tears flooded the clouds กระต่ายน้อยลอยคอท้อประดัง เหนี่ยวยอดฟ้าคว้าหวังก็พังครืน Little rabbit, up to its neck in despair, Grabbed heaven-spire and dragged hope crashing ปีศาจรุ้งพุ่งพาดฟาดสาย พุ่งปลายทะลวงอกอันตกตื่น Rainbow ghost lunged his lightening rod Ripping through startled chest รุ้งดื่มเลือดจนเหือดร่าง...ฟ้าครางครืน ระคนเสียงประเปรี้ยงปืนกำราบปราม Rainbow ghost sucked dry the blood The sky-moans mixed with fierce gun-fires ต้นมะขามต้นนี้หรือต้นไหน เปีย จุก แกละ ร่ำไห้สะอื้นถาม Was it this tamarind tree or some other? Sobbing Pigtail, Topknot and Glae queried กิ่งนี้หรือกิ่งไหนเล่าไม้งาม ที่นงราม เจ้าเนื้อแน่นถูกแขวนคอ Was it on this branch or another, pretty tree, That they hung the darling maid? ลมวูบกิ่งไหวร่างไกวแกว่ง ถูกตีต่อยห้อยต่องแต่ง...ถืบเตะต่อ Breezes blew, branch bent, body swung Beaten, battered, kicked as it hung ไม่ครวญคร่ำไม่ร่ำไห้ไม่ตัดพ้อ เชือดรัดคอแน่นซิหนอจึงเงียบไป No words, no cries, no recrimination Was the rope so tight that you’re silent? เจ้าตาปลิ้นลิ้นห้อยย้อยถึงคาง มือสองข้างกำแน่นแค้นไฉน Your eyes bulged, tongue hung out Is it rage that so knotted your fist? แค้นเคืองขอให้ขาดพร้อมขาดใจ.... ....เขาฌาปนกิจให้ด้วยเผายาง Let anger dissolve as breath dissolves For your corpse they cremated with burning tires เขาเอามือป้องปากเป็นลำโพง กุข่าวป่าวโปงอยู่โป้งป้าง Their cupped hands make megaphones To trumpet the news they concocted ว่าเราเป็นกลากเกลื้อนแถมเรื้อนกวาง ว่าหัวแดง พุงด่าง ก้นเป็นดวง That we were a fungal and leprous lot With spotted hinds and scarlet heads ว่าแล้วเขาปาระเบิดลูกมะกอก ปืนอีโบ๊ะหมื่นกระบอกก็รับช่วง Then they threw olive grenades Ten thousand ee-poh guns responded ห่ากระสุนลูกชำมะเลียงก็ลิ่วทะลวง ปลดชีวิตปลิดร่วงลงนอนราย Spattering Chamaliang bullets Smashing lives, scattering bodies ไม่ตายหรอกกรอกลูกหว้ายาวิเศษ ที่นอนรายตายก็พลิกหงาย None died but revived by magic wah The dead were quickened with life ฆ่าไม่ตาย ค่าไม่ตาย ข้าไม่ตาย เจ็บก็หาย ตายก็ฟื้น ตื่นใจจริง Not killed, not dead, we’re alive the wounded cured, the dead revived ยังไม่ตาย เรายังอยู่ สู้ยืนหยัด ฝันและหวังยังแจ่มชัดจรัสยิ่ง Not killed, still here, standing fast Hope and dreams beacon-bright เลือกจำแนกแยกแยะและคัดทิ้ง เก็บบางสิ่ง ทิ้งบางอย่างหาทางชนะ We select, analyze and set aside Keep this, discard that, to find the win-way เธอฝ่ายหนึ่ง ฉันฝ่ายหนึ่งพึงแจ่มชัด แตกต่างอย่างยืนหยัดถือสัจจะ You on your side, we on ours Differing yet steadfast. With Truth ข้ามขุนเขาอวิชชาสู่อารยะ เอาชนะด้วยปัญญาสมค่ามนุษย์ Let’s cross the peaks of ignorance To reach victory through wisdom of Man เคียดแค้นเคืองใจดังไฟเผา บาปหนหลังระหว่างเราให้สิ้นสุด Like fire burns the vengeful heart So let die the hatred of days past "ศัตรูยังคงอยู่ให้สัประยุทธ์ คือโมหะแห่งมนุษย์ฉุดสำนึก" “Foes to be fought is the abasing Delusion That inhabits the human mind” เถิดเหน็บปืนก้านกล้วยไว้ข้างฝา สร้างเสริมปัญญาไว้สู้ศึก Come...lay banana guns ‘gainst the wall And hone our wits for the vital war ให้เจนจัดรัดกุมลุ่มลึก ตรึกตรอกครรลองศึกสันติวิธี Make it sharp of edge and great of depth Set tactics, draw strategics of peace หก ตุลา สอง ห้า หนึ่ง เก้า รำลึกทวนรอยเท้าแห่งวิถี Sixth October 1976 Retracing footprints on the path หักนิ้วนับที่ละนิ้วนิ้วละปี หมดมือตีนพอดีนะเพื่อนรัก (Count off a finger or a toe for each year Through both hand and both feet, dear friends หักนิ้วนับจากวันนั้นถึงวันนี้ ยี่สิบปีพอดีแล้วเพื่อนรัก Counting fingers from that day to this It’s been exactly twenty years, dear friends) หักนิ้วนับจากวันนั้นจนวันนี้ ยี่สิบปีพอดีแล้วเพื่อนรัก Counting fingers from that day to this It’s been exactly twenty years, dear friends 6th Oct. 1996

Author: Khunying Chamnongsri Rutnin Hanchanlash Illustrator: Thaiwijit Puangkasemsomboon The wind crab is sad because he is colourless Can the golden sun and the silver moon, the crystal sky and the emerald sea make him colorful and happy? A story for children from age 4 up to adults with illustrations by Thailand’s leading contemporary artist, Thaiwijit Puangkasemsomboon. The little crab was thoroughly unhappy with his gray shell and colorless name. His frantic search for color and brightness from the sun, the sea, the moon and the sky gave him the priceless understanding of the transient nature of outward things. Most importantly, he realized the value and happiness of being himself. The story is set against the background of a tropical beach with its powdery white sands and dancing ocean. N.B. “The Wind Crab” is written in simple poetical prose to instill a love for the beauty language in young children. The stories have also proved to be widely popular with adults who enjoy the underlying concepts from Buddhist philosophy. Publication Data Author’s Name : Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash Illustrator: Thaiwijit Puangkasemsomboon First Published in December 1994 by Foundation for Children Publishing House. 2nd Published in June 2009 by Foundation for Children Publishing House.