Notice: The following short story was written by Bo Taya (Thirty Comrades), originally published in August 1988 in Issue (87) of Pay Phoo Hlwar magazine. It was republished in July 2013 in Issue (284) of Shwe Amyu Tay magazine.
The story is written from the perspective of the author, with the narrative taking place likely during the British Colonial period (pre 1945). It opens a window into the cultural and historical reflections of its time, allowing us to see a glimpse of Lethwei culture in a bygone era.
Lethwei World is featuring this short story as a valuable piece of Lethwei culture, and has translated it to English for the purpose of sharing it to an international audience. All credits go to the author and owners.
I could no longer keep up with my notes and excerpts on Burmese history. My hands were restless, trembling in rhythm with the distant beat of the Lethwei drums, and my mind had already drifted toward the Lethwei ring.
From the Loka Marazein ‘လောကမာရဇိန်’ Pagoda festival at the southern edge of the city of Pyinmana, the thunderous sound of the Lethwei Hsaing Waing ‘ဆိုင်းဝိုင်း’ orchestra rose, carrying the defiant cadence of the Lay Kin music. I found myself stealing frequent glances at my watch. Only twenty minutes remained until the history lesson concluded.
My fingers instinctively brushed against the inner pocket of my Taikpon ‘တိုက်ပုံ’ coat, where I had tucked away over thirty kyat notes. This was the fruit of six months of extreme frugality, saved from my meager earnings as a reporter. It was my dedicated fund for the match entrance fees and expenses, ensuring I did not miss a single match.
I began my journey as a bodybuilder, which led me to master Western Boxing as a flyweight fighter. However, after befriending the renowned Lethwei champion Ponna Pyan ‘ပုဏ္ဏားပျံ’ (whose real name is Ko Tin ‘ကိုတင်’), I had firmly decided to immerse myself in the world of Myanmar traditional Lethwei.
Ponna Pyan aka Ko Tin was a native of the city of Mandalay and a celebrated champion of Brahmin-Indian descent. As I slowly spent more time around the masters of the craft, I became more than just a passing acquaintance to him; I became like a younger brother. I grew deeply close to his wife, Ma Sein Khin, their eight year old son, and their two young daughters, treating them as if they were my own kin.
There were times when the prize money won from matches against both Myanmar and Kayin opponents would be entirely squandered on rounds of alcohol. When the money vanished and nothing remained for the children, I would step in, using my own reporting fees to help his wife and children with their basic needs. Once the haze of liquor cleared, Ponna Pyan, or Sayar Tin ‘ဆရာတင်’, as he was known, would observe me thoughtfully.
“Hey, little bro,” he would say. “With a physique like yours, you should step into the ring and try a lethwei match or two. I will train you myself. You’re a man. We only die once, and we only live once.”
I would offer a small smile and reply, “I would like to try a match or two, brother, but the problem is I don’t know how to use my knees and feet the way you do.”
He would encourage me immediately, “Ha! What am I here for? I will teach you the art of the knee strike and the kick. Besides, your forearms and upper arms are nearly twice the size of mine!”
It was true. For the past four years, I had trained diligently every single day in the art of weightlifting under the guidance of Dr. Chit Tun, which had led to significant development in my arms. My upper arms measured 13.5 inches, while my forearms had grown to 11 inches. My chest and “wings” – the latissimus muscles – were notably well-defined. I owed my physique to my mentor, Ko Tun Yin, the husband of Daw Oo Shwe and son-in-law of U Aung Htoo. As a devoted student, I spent my evenings practicing, eventually mastering “muscle control” – the ability to isolate and ripple individual muscle groups for display.
“If you are willing to teach me, Brother Tin, I truly want to step into the ring for a match or two,” I told him. “I want to study the essence of Myanmar Lethwei through firsthand experience.”
“That’s the spirit, my brother! I have high hopes for you,” he replied enthusiastically. “In a little over a month, there will be a flag tournament at the Karkar Gyi Theatre here in Pyinmana. I’ll get you on the card, rest assured. I will personally train you in footwork, kicks, and knee strikes. It will take fifteen days at most, though you’ll have to endure some hard work. I know you’ve been practising weightlifting and boxing. Meet me tomorrow evening at five o’clock. Bring a pair of shorts, a cotton longyi ‘လုံချည်’, and a towel. It’s a deal! That’s a real man for you!”
Listening to the rhythmic thrum of the hsaing ‘ဆိုင်း’ drums, I felt such a surge of joy I could have jumped. Yet, amidst the excitement, I realized a crucial point: no one must know about my plan to compete in a Lethwei match. I had to be particularly careful to keep this from my parents, my older brothers, my bodybuilding mentor Ko Tun Yin, and my school friends. Informing them would serve no purpose; they would only unite to talk me out of my desire to fight.
The following evening, I arrived at Ponna Pyan’s place as we had agreed. His first lesson was not a strike or a kick, but the technical art of the Ga Daung Kyaik ‘ခါးတောင်းကျိုက်’ – teaching me how to fold and securely tie the longyi over my shorts to prepare for the rigors of the ring.
“Lethwei requires an incredibly sharp eye and quick instincts. You must be ready to strike the moment you see an opening. You have to be especially mindful of the knees and the tips of the feet more than the fists and elbows. A powerful knee strike can cut an opponent open, knock them unconscious, or even break a bone. You must watch your opponent’s eyes and every movement to anticipate exactly how they intend to strike, do you hear me? When you catch them in a vulnerable position, show no mercy. Strike hard and don’t let the opportunity slip away. If you don’t take them down, they will surely take you down. With your strength, if you land a clean hit or find the right opening, your opponent is going down for certain. Now… let’s begin the drills. Tell me… are you afraid?”
“It’s either him or me, Brother. What is there to fear?”
“That’s the spirit! Come here. Let’s work on the kicking drills. Watch my knees and feet, and learn how to dodge them.”
The two of us stepped out onto the twenty-foot square plot of land in front of Ponna Pyan’s house. Once we reached the center, Sayar Ponna Pyan began his instruction.
“Listen closely – there are three ways to use the knee. First, there is the snapping strike used while clinching. Second, there is the jumping knee aimed at the face. Third, there is the counter-thrust used when an opponent rushes toward you. If you land even one of these three correctly, your opponent is going down,” he explained, demonstrating each technique with precision.
I practiced the knee strikes and feet-kicks incessantly, following the master’s movements exactly.
“As for punching, there isn’t much I need to tell you. You already know how to use your hands,” he added. “If you land one solid punch, your opponent won’t be able to keep his composure.”
After about half an hour of training, a small crowd of curious men and women gathered to watch us.
“Let’s hold off for a moment, brother,” Ponna Pyan whispered. “It isn’t good to have such a large audience; word might get back to your opponent. Let’s take a break and have some plain tea.”
The day of the challenge match finally arrived. From early morning, the vibrant, rhythmic pulse of the Lay Kin ‘လေးခင်း’ hsaing music echoed from the Chan Aye ward near Nga Laik Creek, at the southern end of Pyinmana. I slipped away from my household chores and headed to Ponna Pyan’s home, a modest bamboo hut situated just south of the Karkar Theatre, which stood north of the Patthana Dhamma Hall in the Chan Aye pottery district.
Karkar Gyi was a man of keen business foresight; he had built a theater spacious enough to host stage plays, magic shows, and lethwei matches alike. Occasionally, he even screened Myanmar motion pictures there. Today, the site of the old Karkar Theatre has been replaced by a proper cinema known as the Aung Cinema.
“Don’t be nervous, brother,” Ponna Pyan encouraged. “Combine the Lethwei techniques I’ve taught you with your raw strength and agility, and you can easily take on a fighter like Phyu Lay – the Kayin Lethwei star and second-rank flag champion. Fight with courage. Your arms and chest are twice the size of mine. When you see your opening, press the attack and don’t let up. Here… take this protective amulet.”
He handed me a small corded amulet, which I tucked into the back pocket of my shorts while sipping my tea. As 9:30 AM approached, we decided it was time, changed our clothes, and set out for the Lethwei arena.
Upon entering the ring, the referees, U Mingalar and U Kyar Pyan, both bare-chested with their long longyi tucked tightly between their legs in the Ga Daung Kyaik style, greeted us.
“Come on then,” they said. “Let’s get you two, master and pupil, to sign the contract.”
They led us toward a group of men wearing traditional Gaung Baung “ခေါင်းပေါင်း” headwraps seated in a corner of the ring. Looking ahead, I recognized the District Officer U San Tin along with three township officials, all formally dressed in their Taikpon jackets.
U Kyar Pyan respectfully announced to the officials that the fighters had arrived to sign their contracts, a statement that took District Officer U San Tin and the township officers by surprise.
“We recognize Ponna Pyan,” one remarked, eyeing me critically. “But who is this man behind him? Well, I’ll be! This new fighter is actually Ko Khin Maung Oo, the reporter for the Thitsa Wadi and Thuriya newspapers! We had no idea it was you.”
District Officer U San Tin looked at me with genuine astonishment.
I addressed him directly, “I wanted to experience traditional Myanmar Lethwei firsthand, so I decided to enter this match. I hope you will allow it, Uncle.”
“Well, good for you! That’s the spirit. Our Myanmar youth need this kind of courage. Excellent,” he replied warmly.
One of the township officers placed a contract from a folder onto the table for me to sign. As I leaned over to pen my name, I heard movement behind me and turned to see Phyu Lay, my opponent, accompanied by his two trainers. My mentor, Ponna Pyan, signed his name in the witness section as my official trainer, followed by Phyu Lay and his team.
I took the opportunity to discreetly size up my opponent. Phyu Lay was roughly my height, with a stout, sturdy build – the classic, powerful physique of an experienced boxer. After signing, he and his trainers looked toward me, laughing and talking amongst themselves in Kayin. When we returned to the fighters’ gathering area near the ring, Ponna Pyan clicked his tongue in annoyance.
“We’ll see about that soon enough,” he said. “Phyu Lay and his teachers were heckling you in the Kayin language because you’re a newcomer. Just fight boldly, my brother. Aim for the vital spots. I have every confidence in you.”
Soon after, I learned the day’s lineup from the referee, U Mingalar. There were to be two challenge matches and three special bouts; my fight against Phyu Lay was scheduled as the sixth event.
Throughout the arena, the Lay Kin music crackled with energy. The drumming of Hsaing Sayar U Han, from the Toe Too Kyauk Taung ward, was exceptionally vibrant, setting a fierce pace for the afternoon ahead. By then, nearly two-thirds of the spectators had already taken their seats inside the Karkar Theatre.
Around eleven-thirty, the referee U Kyar Pyan leaned over to say something to U Mingalar, who nodded and replied, “Right then, let’s get started.” At that moment, the venue was packed to near capacity. Shortly after, U Kyar Pyan and U Mingalar stood side-by-side facing the audience, and U Mingalar announced the program in a booming voice.
“Distinguished guests and Lethwei fans! Today’s event is a premier tournament, one that promises to be a spectacular display. We have eight challenge matches and three special bouts ahead of us. Our competitors include renowned Kayin fighters from Mawlamyine, Thaton, and Kyat Tu Yway Taung, alongside renowned Myanmar boxers from Mandalay, Sagaing, and our own Pyinmana. We kindly ask the audience to watch and cheer with dignity and respect.”
“Now, let the fighters show their Lethwei Yay ‘လက်ဝှေ့ရေး’ one by one!” U Kyar Pyan shouted. “First up, Sein Lay and Shaung Par Bu – come out and show us your Lethwei Yay! Show them you’re as fierce as tigers!” The two referees then hurried out of the ring and signaled the hsaing orchestra with a raised hand.
Soon, Sein Lay, a Kayin fighter, leaped into the ring. He knelt and bowed three times toward the ritual offerings for the guardian nat spirits before rising to slap his biceps with a sharp, echoing crack.
“I am Sein Lay! Don’t underestimate me; I’ll give my opponent a sedative he won’t forget! Whether through cuts, tears, or a knockout, no man, even if he stands six cubits tall, will stay on his feet against me!” After his boastful challenge, he began his Lethwei Yay dance in perfect rhythm with the hsaing music.
Following him, the other fighters came out in succession to display their Lethwei Yay performances.
The theater was now stiflingly crowded. Among the spectators were many local notables, easily recognizable by their flowing gaung baung headwraps and prominent Taikpon jackets. I didn’t dare look the crowd in the eye. I was terrified of being teased by my school friends, but even more so, I was desperate to avoid the gaze of people I truly didn’t want to see: my older brothers and my father’s associates. I knew that once the match ended, word of my participation could inevitably reach my parents and my headmaster. Fearing that discovery, I kept my head down, not daring to look up.
Before long, the matches preceding ours concluded with their respective winners and losers, and my turn drew near. My mentor, Ponna Pyan, leaned in close.
“Hey, little brother, go in and show them your Lethwei Yay. Some of the Kayin fighters still look down on you. If you see an opening for a knockout – be it a knee, a kick, or a punch – hit him with everything you’ve got. That’s how I made my name. Just go in there and fight.”
Our moment finally arrived. U Kyar Pyan called out, “Phyu Lay, show your form! It’s your turn now, get out there!”
I steeled my resolve, mentally preparing to time my movements to the rhythm of the drums.
Phyu Lay stood in the center of the ring, his feet firmly planted, slapping his biceps with a resounding crack, performing the Let Pann Pauk ‘လက်ပမ်းပေါက်’ (aka Lekkha Moun ‘လက်ခမောင်း’).
“I am Phyu Lay! My name is known throughout the land, from Mawlamyine to Thaton. I am the Phyu Lay who dominates the ring! Even if a man stands a cubit taller than me, I am the one who humbles him. Come on, Hsaing Sayar, give me a beat to move to!” He began his Lethwei Yay, jumping and weaving with the poise of a predator.
When my turn came, I forced my embarrassment aside and stepped into the center of the ring to perform the Let Pann Pauk. Because I often practiced this at home before bathing, the sound of my strikes echoed loudly through the arena.
“Kyar Gyi (The Great Tiger) is here!” I declared. “The Tiger of the Pyinmana Yoma mountains, whose reputation precedes him. I’ll send my opponent down in a flash. Watch closely, everyone! Master Drummer, keep the crowd from getting bored – strike up the Lay Kin!”
The lead hsaing musician, U Han Pa, played the Lay Kin hsaing music with masterful precision.
I performed the Let Pann Pauk, leaped, lunged, and mimicked flight, displaying my Lethwei Yay with every ounce of energy. As I finished, the air was filled with the sound of whistles and thunderous applause.
Soon, U Mingalar and U Kyar Pyan took our right hands, positioning Phyu Lay and me on opposite sides of the ring to begin the bout. U Mingalar rested his hand on his hip and announced,
“In the southern corner, we have Phyu Lay, the renowned fighter from Mawlamyine and Thaton. In the northern corner, the Pyinmana Yoma Tiger. This newcomer requested a match against the second-rank flag champion Phyu Lay, and Phyu Lay, with no other challenger, accepted. This will be a three-round decision. Now, Hsaing Sayar, start the Lethwei Hsaing music!” With that, the two referees stepped back, and the fight was on.
Phyu Lay began circling me, hunting for an opening. I stood ready, my gaze locked onto him, refusing to give him even an inch of an advantage. Before long, he feinted with a flicker of his left foot, then his right, before launching himself toward me with a sudden, explosive burst – a flying knee strike aimed directly at my chest.
Having anticipated his move, I sidestepped the airborne assault. As Phyu Lay descended, I pivoted to the right and drove my own right knee into his left ribs with a punishing thud. He let out a sharp grunt, his body buckling toward me. I seized the moment, throwing a right hook that landed flush against his jaw. With the full momentum of my body behind the punch, the impact was decisive; Phyu Lay collapsed onto the sand of the ring, lying prone and motionless.
The referees, U Mingalar and U Kyar Pyan, forbade me from landing further blows, so I retreated to the northern corner of the ring. Phyu Lay didn’t stir. Inside the arena, the sound of applause and piercing whistles reached a deafening crescendo. Shouts of “The Pyinmana Tiger has bitten!” echoed through the rafters. After a brief consultation, the two referees stood together and announced my victory to the crowd. A shower of five and ten-kyat notes began to rain down into the ring.
U Kyar Pyan turned to me and said, “Victor Pyinmana Tiger, show the people your Lethwei Yay!”
I stepped forward quickly and requested, “Sir, please, I have won. I would prefer not to perform the Lethwei Yay out of respect for my opponent’s feelings.”
However, both the referees and the audience persisted, demanding, “Show us your Lethwei Yay, Pyinmana Tiger! Give us the satisfaction!” Realizing there was no way out of it, I moved to the center of the ring.
“A tiger among tigers!” I roared as I performed the Lethwei Yay. “The famed Pyinmana Tiger! In a fair fight, I’ll take them all. One strike and they fall. A tiger is a tiger! The victorious tiger is here! Don’t challenge me, or your very pride will shatter. Come on, Master Drummer, play the Lay Kin!”
The Lay Kin music swelled brilliantly. Five and ten-kyat notes continued to drift into the ring like leaves, and Ponna Pyan busied himself gathering the winnings.
As the hsaing music reached its finale, I struck a final pose – standing on my left leg, right leg raised, and right fist extended in a striking blow. The roar of the crowd’s applause and whistles was so thunderous it felt as though my ears might burst.
When I returned to the area where the other fighters gathered, Ponna Pyan approached me with a bundle of cash. I took sixty kyats and handed them to him with both hands in a gesture of respect. “This is for you and the group, Brother,” I said.
“Don’t worry, I understand, little brother,” he replied. I added, “I’ll drop off the rest for your wife and my nephew after the event.”
“Alright then, as you wish. Tell her I might not be back tonight. There aren’t many people as grateful and considerate as you.”
At that moment, top-tier fighters like Me Palone and Shaung Par Bu looked at Ponna Pyan and me, nodding their heads in approval. Their voices were filled with genuine admiration. “Excellently done, truly excellent! Come join us. If we train you, you’ll reach the first-class ranks in no time,” they invited warmly.
About an hour later, the tournament concluded, and I went over to where Phyu Lay was resting. He was still unable to stand. I took a jar of camphor ointment from my bag and gave it to him. He mentioned that the spot where my knee had struck was incredibly painful. Therefore, I sought out the Township Medical Officer from the General Hospital, who was attending the matches. The Punjabi doctor said, “Alright, I’ll take him to the hospital and check him over. Can you find a horse-drawn carriage?”
“Certainly, Doctor. We can have him at the hospital within five minutes.”
I asked one of the workers from the Karkar Gyi Theatre to call for two carriages. When they arrived, the fare was one kyat per carriage to the hospital, which I paid immediately. I informed the doctor that the transport was ready and helped support Phyu Lay as we boarded him onto the carriage. I then handed ten kyats to Phyu Lay’s two companions for whatever expenses they might have. Finally, I expressed my gratitude to the doctor and requested that he do his absolute best to treat Phyu Lay.
The Punjabi doctor nodded thoughtfully. “You’re something else, kid. You pay for your opponent’s expenses, send him to the hospital, and yet you fight, lift weights, go to school, and work as a reporter. I’ve never met anyone like you. You’ve really impressed me,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand.
Once the crowds had mostly cleared from the arena, I made my way to Ponna Pyan’s home.
As soon as his wife, Daw Khin Sein, saw me, she called out, “Hey, kids! Your uncle is here! Your father is off doing his usual thing, I suppose.”
I handed her sixty kyats for her household expenses. Then, I turned to the three children. “Come on, let’s go to the tea shop with your uncle.”
Daw Khin Sein said, “Do you even have enough left for tea? I can’t bear to spend all this – sixty kyats is so much.”
She wasn’t exaggerating; in those days, a forest ranger’s highest monthly salary was only thirty kyats.
“I have plenty, Sister. Please use it. And don’t wait up for Brother Tin; he told me to tell you he won’t be back tonight.”
“In that case, how much did you give your brother?”
“Just a little, Sister.”
“I see… then he probably won’t set foot in this house for two or three days.”
I loaded the three children into a trishaw and headed to the tea shop. After they had their fill of tea and snacks, I paid the driver the fare to take them home and even bought some tea in a tiffin carrier for Sister Sein Khin.
I didn’t notice a man sitting nearby while drinking tea.
“Hey, boy!”
I looked up at the sound of the voice and realized it was U Ba Tun, my former class teacher, and U Ko Maung, my current ninth-grade history teacher. I stood up immediately to show my respect and walked over to their table.
“Are you just now seeing us? We watched your match from start to finish, boy. Don’t even try to deny it. You’re like a wild fighting rooster – acting recklessly without a second thought!”
I kept my head bowed as they continued. “Listen, boy, there’s an inter-school boxing tournament coming up this autumn. The students from Yamethin are already training specifically to take you down. They’re determined to finish you off in the flyweight division. If you don’t win, our school’s reputation is in the dirt. As for you entering a professional Lethwei match like this – we’ll have to report that to the Headmaster. What do you have to say for yourself? Don’t you realize Myanmar Lethwei is incredibly brutal? Did you not stop to think about the risk of broken bones or permanent injury?”
I paused to reflect for a moment before answering. “If I may explain myself, sirs…”
“Go on, be quick about it.”
“I had never fought in a Lethwei match before, so I simply wanted to try it once. I won’t do it again.”
Both teachers looked at me. “Very well. See that you keep that promise. We’ll report this to the Headmaster, but we’ll frame it as leniently as possible for your sake.”
I reached into my pocket to pay for their tea and snacks, but they stopped me. “Hey, don’t you dare pay for us. We’ll handle our own bill. If we eat off the money you earned from such a violent brawl, we’ll become stupid too!”
I stayed silent as my teachers left the shop.
I quickly hailed a trishaw and headed home. Assuming everyone would be asleep, I slipped inside, only to find my father and a Chinese pawnshop owner in the living room. They were looking at me and speaking loudly in Chinese, sounding as if the country itself were collapsing.
As I prepared to retreat to my bedroom, my father called out, “Come here, son,” and pointed to a chair, signaling me to sit. Immediately, he asked, “Tell your father the truth. Is it true you went and fought in a Myanmar Lethwei match?”
“Yes. I’d never done it before, so I just wanted to experience it once.”
“Old U Kyu Hoke here was just praising your performance. You know, I did the same kind of foolish things when I was young. You truly carry my blood in your veins. That’s my boy!”
At that moment, my mother appeared at the doorway, clutching a cane, flanked by my two older brothers. My father stood up abruptly.
“Don’t you take another step! Stay right there!” he barked, halting her.
My mother, seething with indignation, shot back, “What do you understand about this? What do you know? Your son – that hoodlum – just went and fought in a Lethwei match! Tun Sein saw it with his own eyes!” she cried, pointing a finger at my brother.
“He’s a true hoodlum! When I was young, if I thought something was right, I did it too. Now go, all of you! Get out of here and stop bothering us. This boy is my true blood.”
My mother, her face still set in refusal, muttered, “You’re just encouraging your sons to be reckless…”
“Oh, hush, woman! What’s the point of raising boys if they have no spirit? It’s only raising girls that’s difficult.”
Sensing a golden opportunity, I called over the house servant and handed him five kyats. Before long, a bottle of Vimto and some glasses arrived. I personally poured drinks for my father and his friend.
The old pawnshop owner said something to my father in Chinese. My father responded by giving me a thumbs-up, looking at me with immense pride and joy.
My mother, still looking for a chance to voice her grievance, stepped back into the room. This time, my father motioned for her to sit in a chair.
“Look here. I’ve raised six sons. Not one of them has ever been able to support themselves on their own dime. But this one? He’s putting himself through school with his own money. And now, he’s even buying me Vimto. Doesn’t that set him apart from the rest? Don’t you lay a finger on my son. I won’t have it. He’s a chip off the old block. If you touch him, you’ll have to answer to me.”
By then, another glass of Vimto I had purchased was already sitting right in front of my mother.
Bo Taya (Thirty Comrades)
