They came in a big orange-yellow vehicle of a kind that Thong Muan had never seen before. Came with the sound of singing, which rose and fell in jerky snatches as if produced by the bouncing of the vehicle over the rough road: “We’ve Come to Develop, Working Together for Our Country’s Good…” They sang this phrase over and over again with loud voices, as though to make sure that the whole world understood. Thong Muan had never heard a song like this in her life. But she felt it was a kind of song that was somehow familiar; and an instinctive feeling stirred in her heart that it would probably bring with it more good cheer and friendliness than anything else in the world. When the vehicle had come to a complete halt, they gradually clambered down one after the other. They were all young people—boys and girls dressed alike in pants, and some with hats. From a distance Thong Muan couldn’t be sure which were boys and which were girls. She edged towards them to take a look, half frightened, half curious. And then she saw them, boys and girls, getting out of the bus and stretching their legs, at the same time turning and looking around them with an air of great interest. Thong Muan had no idea what they were looking at, for when she turned round to look where they were staring, she saw nothing but bone-dry ricefields, the dilapidated houses of her village, the tiny temple, and the clapboard schoolhouse, which had only a floor and a roof—all so familiar to her. She was startled when she heard one of the girls exclaim to her friends: “My! The air here’s marvellously fresh, isn’t it!” A phrase that caused her no little astonishment. She’d never ever heard people utter phrases like this in the village where she’d grown up these twelve or thirteen years.

Headman Mi came out to meet the group. One of the boys, who appeared to be their leader, went over to greet and chat with him. In the eyes of her age-mates, Mi had always been regarded as the most respected person in the village, since His Majesty’s Government had appointed him headman and everyone had to obey him. But today Headman Mi didn’t act like a leader at all. He went up to talk with these young people just the way he used to talk to the Masters. Thong Muan suddenly felt very afraid. If these people were all Masters, why were they coming here 50 or 60 strong? Even though she was only a child, she knew very well that it took only two or three Masters to turn the whole village upside down. And here they’d come in a big group.

They began carrying their bags, following Headman Mi along the path to the school. It was understood that this was where they would be sleeping. She couldn’t stop wondering why on earth these people were going to spend the night there. No Master had ever done so before, and in her village, at night, there didn’t seem to be anything but the pitch-blackness itself, and the sounds of crickets and the blowing wind. There was no one in the village who could give answers to a heart so full of eagerness to know. Father never had the spare time to answer any of her questions. Mother never paid attention to anything beyond the exhausting round of daily chores. And as for Teacher, he was far too irritable for anyone to dare to bother him. Headman Mi, who would certainly know, was now busy organizing the welcome of the guests, and getting them something to eat and drink. Never mind, thought Thong Muan, if they’re going to be staying here for a while, it won’t take long to get the answers by myself.

That evening, Headman Mi struck the tong-tong signal drum to summon a village meeting. The group who’d arrived in the big vehicle came along too, just as though they’d become members of the village community. So Thong Muan sneaked away from her mother to go and listen to the meeting too. She longed to understand everything that she was so curious and puzzled about.

Headman Mi had never been much good with words. So, when he got up to speak, he seemed uncomfortable, and his sentences didn’t fit too well together. All Thong Muan could dimly gather, as she listened, was that the newcomers were students from the Capital. As school was now out, they had the time to make the sacrifice of coming out to help improve the quality of the villagers’ lives. She still didn’t understand why these people had come to help, or what they would help to do, but she was happy at least to learn that they weren’t Masters.

After that, the leader of their group got up to speak. He was a far better speaker than Headman Mi. Whatever he spoke about, he spun it out so long that some of the villagers looked as if they’d dropped off. Thong Muan was completely fascinated by the manner and the language of the students’ leader, even though she didn’t understand everything he said, since he used some words she’d never heard before in her life, sometimes even farang language. She understood only that he was trying to explain to the villagers that his group wanted to make the sacrifice of working here without any payment and they were doing this simply for the good of the Country. When he spoke about the Country, his voice grew loud and he made vigorous gestures with his hands. The villagers could do no more than cock their heads, watching him with puzzlement and pleasure. Except for the Headman and Teacher, there was probably no one in the village who knew much about the Country. Even children in the fourth grade, like Thong Muan herself, had a hard time understanding it. Although Teacher had tried ever so many times to explain to her what the Country looked like, she still couldn’t imagine it; for the things she could actually see around her were only the village, the ricefields, water-buffaloes, and the children tending them. I wonder what the Country looks like, she thought. It must be bigger than the whole village and all our ricefields put together.

The next day they started to work just as they had promised. The girls helped by hauling earth, carrying wood, and planing it. As for the boys, some of them began digging holes and planting posts in them, some tapered the posts’ heads, while others sawed up wood. They worked away with broad and cheerful smiles on their faces, chatting and teasing one another so happily. Thong Muan had never seen people work this way before. In her village, when someone had a house to build, they’d go and find a few carpenters and that’d be it. They’d come and get down to work very seriously and hardly ever chat with one another at all. But here were 50 or 60 people coming to build just one single house … oh, no … not a house … they called it a Community Hall, or something like that. Thong Muan never understood very clearly how this Community Hall was different from the temple hall they already had in the village. She simply heard them explaining that it would be used as a place where the villagers could get together and have fun. It would help promote “recreation,” or something like that. She had absolutely no idea what this word could possibly mean. She could almost never have imagined that such a word existed in the world. But at least, she thought, it must be something worth-while. Otherwise these 60-odd people would never have come all this way to build it. And then they were students, whose schooling was so many grades higher than her own. They must surely be far cleverer than anyone in the village.

Around noon, she heard the sound of a whistle and saw them quit work and head back to their quarters in small groups. Thong Muan loved even the way they walked. They strolled along in scattered groups as they felt inclined, shouting and chatting to one another in such a cheerful way. There in the schoolhouse another group of them, both girls and boys, had a meal already prepared. They sat down in a big circle and started eating with such evident gusto. And when afternoon came they started work again.

Towards evening, Thong Muan heard the whistle blow once more. They went off to take their baths, and sat chatting to each other by the front of the schoolhouse yard. Someone took up a strange-looking kind of instrument and began to play. Then they all began singing together in a language Thong Mnan had no way to understand at all. As soon as it got dark, they lit storm lanterns as though about to hold a ceremony. By now, some of the village children had got a bit bolder, so they moved in closer than they’d dared before, to get a look. When the girls, who were so beautifully dressed, noticed this, they called the children in to sit with them. But no one dared. Thong Muan stood hidden in a dark corner. She felt ashamed of her shabby, patched clothes, ashamed of the fact that she’d stammer if she were asked a question. All these people were dressed in clothes so much finer than her own. And they spoke so cleverly. They gathered round, singing songs and playing different kinds of games, all of which were absolutely strange to her. Whatever game they played, there was always someone who made a mistake, and whoever it was had to accept the penalty of doing whatever someone else commanded. Fascinated, Thong Muan watched them doing the strangest things. One boy was ordered to kneel down and beg for the love of a girl—right in front of everybody! Then they all burst out laughing. She had never seen anyone act so shamelessly in her whole life.

When they’d run out of such strange games to play, their leader got up to make another speech. It looked as if he was someone who really liked to talk. He went over the activities they’d done so far, saying this one was good, that one fantastic, and of course didn’t forget to talk about the Country in the same proud language as always. When he’d finished, he gave the others a chance to take their turn. Another boy, with a serious manner, got up to speak. His voice wasn’t as good as the leader’s, but it was loud and emphatic. He said that “we” (meaning them) had been keeping too much to the group, and hadn’t behaved in such a way as to fit in with the villagers. Even our way of dressing, he said, is very different. He urged everyone to try and help correct these faults. As soon as he’d finished speaking, he received a loud round of approving applause. The leader got up to say that he’d been thinking the same way himself, but seeing that these were their first days he’d let it go for the time being. But from now on they’d have to try to make the way they behaved fit in better with the villagers. The leader’s words drew loud applause as well.

When she got back home, it took Thong Muan much longer than usual to get to sleep. Everything seemed so exciting to her, for she’d never in her life been out of the village. And even when she fell asleep, she dreamt on. She dreamt she’d joined their group and was happily helping them build the Hall—a building more important than any she’d ever known, for it was a building that had meaning for the development of the Country. And then she dreamt she’d gone back with them all to study in the Capital. She didn’t have to be scolded by her mother any more. And she didn’t have to keep an eye on the water-buffalo any longer either. She could just sit and chat, happily chat, the way she’d seen them do in her imagination of their life. When she woke up the next day, she felt disappointed that it was just a dream. Yet, at the same time, she also felt relieved that she didn’t really have to be separated from her mother and father, and all her relatives. Besides, what would she have to chat with them about anyway, Thong Muan thought; and if she were there, and there were no buffaloes to tend, what would she look after instead?

Today they went about their work as they had the previous day. Only one thing special happened. In the evening most of them dressed differently from the night before. The boys wore dark-colored, round-necked shirts, with little pieces of cord instead of buttons—a type of shirt she’d never seen anyone in her village wear before. Some of them also wrapped phakhama around their waists, which made them look odder than ever. The girls wore straight-hanging shirts and silk sarongs, again clothes of a kind that no one in the village could ever have afforded. They streamed in with beaming smiles, and greeted one another saying: “What do you think? Exactly like the villagers, don’t you agree?” Thong Muan wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was from a feeling of pity that lingered in her tender heart.

At least they had clearly proved that they weren’t all thumbs, as some villagers, who liked to sneer at them, had expected. They worked very hard all day long, heedless of burning sun or drizzling rain. It wasn’t long before the Community Hall began to take visible shape. In the evenings, some of them would come into the compound in an intimate, friendly way, and get people to chat about this and that; or they’d bring clothing or booklets to hand out. The parents were naturally happy with the clothes, while the schoolchildren of her own age were interested in the illustrations to these booklets—booklets with advice about how to protect people against various kinds of disease. One thing that Thong Muan didn’t understand was how a few sheets of paper could be any help at all against these terrifying diseases? But she never asked. She never dared. She felt as though asking would be like destroying the trust which both sides were trying to preserve. So she stayed silent, content with everything.

At night, they’d enjoy themselves playing games as before, without ever getting bored. The village children usually came to watch, in the hope that they’d put on something really fun, like likay or lamtat. But it seemed they’d never seen such things. All the students were up to was singing farang songs, playing games, and making loud jokes, which the children never understood. Among all the different games they played, there was only one which they were able to get everyone to understand: ramwong dancing. Thong Muan loved to go and watch when they put on ramwong, because it made her happy and feel as though they were not so far away from her after all.

Time passed and passed. Till all the villagers began to feel as though the students had come to be part of the village—of the cows and water-buffaloes as well. Thong Muan herself began to feel as though the sound of the whistle was now part of her daily life. Every morning, when she heard it, she knew they’d started work again, and she’d hurry off to help her mother with the household chores. Up to now she’d always felt that these chores were unutterably boring. But now that she’d seen these people working away together so cheerfully, she suddenly felt ashamed of herself.

Finally their last day came round. The Community Hall was now completely finished. It stood majestically in the middle of the rice-fields, like a monstrous wild animal. It was an airy building, with just a roof, no walls, and a floor paved over with cement. At one end, the floor was set higher, like a likay stage. All the students had proud expressions on their faces, and they looked at the hall again and again with admiration. They got out their cameras and took a lot of pictures. All the “big men” came to express their praise and admiration—the District Officer, all the Masters, and even the Governor himself dropped in for a moment to look. It was the most extraordinary thing that ever happened in her village because, aside from Headman Mi no one in the village had ever seen the Governor’s face before—and no one had ever seen the District Officer smiling—like he did that day.

That night they organized a huge, fantastic celebration. Some people said it was even bigger that the wedding party for Headman Mi’s son. They slaughtered several pigs, and slit the throats of a lot of chickens too. The students were kind enough to invite the villagers to join them. But except for Headman Mi and Teacher, no one dared to go. No one in the village had clothes good enough to wear. And no one wanted to face the District Officer’s critical stare. Evidently the students were not that disappointed. It seemed as if they were more than content with the food in front of them and with chatting among themselves. The District Officer talked away louder than anyone, and Headman Mi did no more than say “Yes, sir!” “Yes, sir!”, while the students happily teased each other and joked among themselves.

Next morning, Thong Muan didn’t hear the usual whistle. She felt as if something she’d had in her grasp had disappeared. Dejectedly she went in to help her mother with the chores. Her eyes looked up and over to the school, but there wasn’t a trace of anyone there any more. Everything seemed as though she had simply had a dream.

In the afternoon, when she’d finished her chores, Thong Muan went off to the Community Hall. Gently she ran her hands over the floor that was so clean. She knew very well that it was no dream, for if it had been a dream nothing would be left behind for her at all. But they’d left this Community Hall behind, this Community Hall which they’d so often said would mean progress and development for the village in the future.

Actually, no one really knew what they could use the Community Hall for. Headman Mi himself didn’t want to use it. He’d only call a village meeting once in a long while anyway, and he preferred to use the courtyard of his own home rather than wasting time and tiring himself by the walk to the Hall. He was also afraid that if he used it often, the Hall would get run down; and then, when the District Officer dropped by for an inspection, he’d criticize him for his negligence. Teacher didn’t want to use it either. He’d only say that when school opened again, he’d probably have the children put on some kind of show there. But right now the school was closed, and everyone knew that he simply didn’t want to do anything at all. And so the Community Hall, which they had labored to build with such hope and faith, just stood there, with no one to care for it. Sometimes the children ran inside to play, but it wasn’t long before they’d get bored, since the floor was made of cement and you couldn’t dig into it like you could in the earthen courtyard. It was slippery too, and didn’t feel good underfoot. Then again, the huge galvanized iron roof gave you a scary feeling, not friendly at all. Aside from the children, once in a while water-buffaloes would amble in to escape the heat of the sun. When the buffalo-boys following behind saw them go in, they’d yell in alarm and shout curses at them: how stupid the buffaloes were, with no awe or respect whatever for the Government!

And now, every time she gets time off from her chores, Thong Muan likes to go and relax in the Community Hall. It gives her a feeling of warmth when she thinks about “them.” She often wonders what they’re doing now in the Capital. Do they ever think back to what they built for love?

The rain is falling again. And the wind is blowing strongly. It splashes in on her till she has to get up and move a bit further inside. She’d like them to have built walls too—they’d have helped against the rain. And if there were walls, the place could also be used for storing rice. Then the people in her village wouldn’t have to rush to sell their rice when the price was not yet right.

She’s sorry that her thoughts have wandered off the track. How would she know better than those students? It had to be a Community Hall, after all, so the Country could develop. What possible significance could a rice-barn have for the Country? Wasn’t it just because the people in her village were only preoccupied with planting rice that, after so many years, so many incarnations, her village had only got as far as this?

The rainstorm has now subsided outside. But it has not died down in her heart. Thong Muan feels a sudden wave of loneliness. And from her eyes ooze clear, pure tears. They well up in the sockets of her eyes and trickle down over her cheeks. Then fall to the dark cement floor.