[ Hei dips his head to hear her over the clamoring music and the indistinguishable hubbub of the crowd. Lips near her ear, he says, ]
It's a prayer dance. It's called wai khru ram muay. A way to pay tribute to the fighter's teachers, and to consecrate blessings on them. Each camp has their own styles. [ He indicates to the boxer in the blue shorts, a dreadlocked kid barely seventeen years old. Bare-chested, his arms are ropey, leathery. Tattoos crisscross the ribbed musculature of his stomach; dark curlicues encircle his extruded bellybutton, giving it the look of a monster's eye. ] That one's taking on the style of a demon bird called Garuda. [ Then, pointing to his opponent, in red shorts -- a whippet thin twenty-something, hair plastered to his skull in black ropes. ] That one's emulating the Naga -- a cobra-like beast that supposedly spits fireballs.
[ There's an understandable dryness in his tone, because this sort of ritualistic superstition has no place in Hei's life. He watches the fighters meet in the center of the ring, where the cigarillo-smoking promoter runs down the stakes. The sharp, sinuous music cuts through the noise like barbed wire. It’s faster and more frantic now, designed to pump up the boxers, to spur on their aggression. ]
no subject
It's a prayer dance. It's called wai khru ram muay. A way to pay tribute to the fighter's teachers, and to consecrate blessings on them. Each camp has their own styles. [ He indicates to the boxer in the blue shorts, a dreadlocked kid barely seventeen years old. Bare-chested, his arms are ropey, leathery. Tattoos crisscross the ribbed musculature of his stomach; dark curlicues encircle his extruded bellybutton, giving it the look of a monster's eye. ] That one's taking on the style of a demon bird called Garuda. [ Then, pointing to his opponent, in red shorts -- a whippet thin twenty-something, hair plastered to his skull in black ropes. ] That one's emulating the Naga -- a cobra-like beast that supposedly spits fireballs.
[ There's an understandable dryness in his tone, because this sort of ritualistic superstition has no place in Hei's life. He watches the fighters meet in the center of the ring, where the cigarillo-smoking promoter runs down the stakes. The sharp, sinuous music cuts through the noise like barbed wire. It’s faster and more frantic now, designed to pump up the boxers, to spur on their aggression. ]
[ The fight's about to begin. ]