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Asian Strange Chronicles: Human Pupa
墨書 Inktalez
In the hospital, the police questioned me repeatedly for several days, but there were no signs of my memory recovering. As the only survivor, I suddenly became a news figure, with reporters armed with cameras often blocking the door of my ward, eager to interview me.
I must say that one advantage of Thai people is their politeness. Perhaps due to years of practicing Buddhism, whenever reporters requested an interview, the nurses would first seek my opinion. Having just experienced a car accident and lost a portion of my memory, I naturally had no desire to participate in any interviews.
After the nurses politely declined the reporters, I saw them through the window looking disappointed, yet they still clasped their hands together in farewell. No one attempted to sneak photos of me for headlines.
During my hospitalization, I contacted Chiang Mai University’s Office of Academic Affairs. Within ten minutes, they sent someone to inquire about what assistance I needed and assured me that the school allowed me to focus on my recovery and report back once I was well. A teacher from the Office expressed regret that if I were Thai, my medical expenses would be completely free. However, it was no concern; the school had already approved reimbursement for all my hospital costs.
This warmth and humanity were a stark contrast to what I was used to back home, leaving me deeply touched. I decided to focus on my recovery, though I worried about Mooncake; I called him almost every day, but his phone remained off. I had no idea what might have happened.
I also reached out to my school back home, and they said they would respond soon. Yet after three days of waiting without a reply, I made numerous calls without anyone answering. Reflecting on the efficiency of civil servants back home, I could only shake my head and smile wryly.
Another mystery that puzzled me was the sudden disappearance of my red eyes. For many years, I had been mocked for my unusual crimson irises since childhood. Now, inexplicably, they had returned to normal black. I often looked at myself in the mirror and felt increasingly unfamiliar with my own reflection. I could only comfort myself by thinking that perhaps this accident had altered some physiological state in my body.
The reason for this feeling was that my body was healing surprisingly fast. In less than ten days, much to the doctors' astonishment, I was fully recovered.
When Chiang Mai University received my call, they sent a Thai person named Mangrai to take me to school. Thai names are similar to Chinese names in that they consist of a surname and a given name; however, the order is reversed—first name followed by surname (which is similar to Western naming conventions). Mangrai is his first name, while his surname is Khaenbong; his full name should be "Mangrai Khaenbong." He introduced himself with a proud expression. At that moment, I didn’t understand why he was so proud until later when I learned that Chiang Mai was founded in 1296 by King Mangrai because he encountered a white deer symbolizing good fortune along with five white mice.
It seemed that Mangrai was a name passed down through generations of nobility; no wonder he couldn't hide his pride when introducing himself.
In Thailand, when addressing someone, it’s customary to add a title before their name. Regardless of marital status, men are addressed as "Nai," meaning Mr., while women are referred to as "Nang." Therefore, he should be called "Nai Mangrai." However, these titles and full names are used only in written language for third-person references and cannot be used directly in conversation. In casual speech for second or third-person references—regardless of gender or marital status—the title "Khun," meaning Mr. or Ms., is used along with just the first name. For example, Mangrai would simply be referred to as Khun Mangrai.
Mangrai was not tall and appeared to be in his fifties with distinct Thai features: dark skin, thick eyebrows, and deep-set eyes. He wore gold-rimmed glasses on his nose and his cheeks twitched slightly when he smiled.
During these days in the hospital recovering, I diligently studied Thai. To my surprise, I discovered that I had quite a talent for languages; within a short time, I managed to grasp basic Thai and could engage in simple conversations—this delighted me immensely.
Mangrai helped me pack my belongings and completed the discharge procedures before taking me on a Samlor (a three-wheeled vehicle). He apologized for the limited availability of school buses and hoped for my understanding.
I didn’t mind at all; in fact, it seemed perfectly reasonable to me. It appeared that private use of public transport hadn’t yet become common in Thailand.
As I gazed around at the scenery, everything felt fresh and new to me, while Mangrai sighed repeatedly, lamenting that Chiang Mai was not what it used to be. This city, known as the "Rose of the North," had seen its traditional wooden houses replaced by concrete structures. With the rapid development of commercial tourism, the once serene and tranquil atmosphere had vanished, leaving behind a society corrupted by money and desire.
I didn't quite agree with him. The replacement of old buildings is an inevitable process as human material civilization evolves. Moreover, the city of Chiang Mai has expanded half a kilometer west of the Ping River, filled with lush greenery and cool air, under a sky that resembled a vast blue ocean. The occasional sighting of elephants, monks, and various stupas made me feel as if I were in paradise.
Seeing my lack of reaction to his words, Mangrai appeared somewhat disappointed. He pointed to our Samlor tricycle and told me that such vehicles were becoming rare, having been largely replaced by tuk-tuks.
I couldn't help but chuckle at this; was it really something worth reminiscing about? Perhaps I couldn't truly understand an elder's nostalgic longing for the city of his memories.
The Samlor carried us through the city, and suddenly the scenery shifted—low wooden houses and old roads replaced the towering skyscrapers that had once symbolized prosperity.
Mangrai's eyes lit up as he excitedly informed me that we had arrived at Chiang Mai Old City, which he claimed was the true essence of Chiang Mai. He pointed to a nearby temple with a golden spire, saying it was the oldest temple in Chiang Mai—Chiang Mai Temple—and asked if I was interested in visiting.
While physical ailments from accidents can heal quickly, psychological wounds require time to mend. Sightseeing is often one of the best remedies for mental distress, so I happily agreed.
Mangrai grew even more enthusiastic, saying that if we were lucky, we might gain permission from the temple's abbot to see the Buddha Statue of Pusheteng Tamani—a ten-centimeter tall Crystal Buddha brought from Sukhothai during King Mangrai's reign over 600 years ago. It had only briefly resided in Ayutthaya before being preserved in Chiang Mai and participated in parades during Songkran Festival, Thailand's New Year celebration.
After getting off the tricycle, I followed Mangrai toward Chiang Mai Temple. His expression turned solemn and reverent as he gazed at the temple with hands clasped together in prayer. Many Thai people around us mirrored this attitude, while some Chinese tourists wearing yellow hats from a domestic travel group laughed and chatted loudly, completely out of sync with the atmosphere.
Knowing I would be in Thailand for a while longer, I felt it necessary to adapt to local customs. So I imitated Mangrai's respectful demeanor and prayed earnestly as we approached. Mangrai praised me, saying, "You are different from those Chinese."
Feeling a bit ashamed at his serious expression, I soon found myself at Changlong Tower—the largest stupa at Chiang Mai Temple. It stood about three stories high; the golden spire I had seen earlier crowned this tower. The structure was square-shaped, supported by rows of elephants made from plaster at its base. Despite showing signs of age and decay, a solemn atmosphere still enveloped it.
The elephant sculptures were lifelike and impressive. Just as I was admiring the creativity of Thai craftsmanship, I noticed a crowd gathered in front of a gray-tiled white building next to Changlong Tower. They all appeared to be tourists; passing Thai people looked on with disdain and hurried away. The tourists were alternately gasping and exclaiming in excitement, creating quite a ruckus.
There must have been some kind of performance at the center of their gathering.
Curiosity piqued within me as I wanted to take a look; however, Mangrai stopped me from going any closer.
I have a bit of a fate that draws me into trouble, and my curiosity is too strong. The more others disapprove, the more I want to get involved. So, although I reluctantly agreed to Mangrai, my neck turned involuntarily toward that group of people.
Mangrai shook his head and adjusted his glasses. "If you want to see, just go ahead. Just don't regret it afterward."
Upon hearing this, I felt compelled and took a few steps forward, squeezing into the crowd. Sure enough, just as I suspected, in the center of the circle formed by the tourists sat a man with a bushy beard, playing a flute. In front of him were seven round jars of varying sizes, resembling large pickling jars from back home.
I thought to myself that this was quite similar to the Indian performance of the Snake Charmer; when the flute is played, snakes would emerge from their baskets and sway to the melody. However, these jars were far too large for snakes; they must contain something else.
The bearded man swallowed hard and blew into the flute. The sound was incredibly shrill, lacking any melody; upon closer inspection, it resembled a desperate scream of someone on the brink of death.
The tourists were all excited, perhaps having already seen something inside the jars. There was a pile of scattered foreign currency on the ground, and some people were holding digital cameras and handheld DVDs, eagerly waiting.
The sound from the flute was so horrific that during its high notes it sounded like someone enduring torture and screaming in agony. I felt uncomfortable and lost interest in watching further. Just as I was about to push my way out, I saw something slowly emerging from the jars—lumps of pale white round objects.
When those things finally came into view, I could see clearly!
They were human heads!
These jars contained people!
"This is a Human Pupa," Mangrai whispered.
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