Читать книгу A Time of Ghosts - Hok-Pang Tang - Страница 8

In the years before the Communists came to power, New Year’s Day was an annual religious outing for my family. All the stores were closed. The streets were filled with children lighting firecrackers and people going to the temple. On our way there we passed many pious Buddhists prostrating themselves in the street, extending their bodies on the ground, raising their hands above their heads in the sign of veneration, getting up, walking three steps, and prostrating again. They repeated this all the way from their homes to the temple.

The temple itself was a very large complex of buildings called the “Palace of the Three Buddhas,” for the three main images it contained. My grandmother was the chief instigator of our visits. Father came along only to placate her. He had no interest in all the trappings of popular “folk” Buddhism with which the temple was filled. His view of the meaning of life was that all the world is merely coincidence.

How well I remember it! It was always crowded with people when we arrived. We went through the entrance gate and began the climb up the great stairway of 108 stone steps, each representing a star in the sky, in popular belief, and thus one of 108 gods. As we ascended we passed more of the pious, who were bowing three times on each step before continuing on to the next.

My immediate goal, being a boy, was a temple to the right of the great stairway. It contained an image of the Ox Boy, a youth sitting atop a great and placid ox, playing a cheerful tune on the bamboo flute held to his lips. My task was to go up to the image and pat the ox three times on the head so things would go smoothly for me in the coming year, and so I would be as obedient to my parents as the compliant ox to its rider.

The temple was a place of purported marvels. We always had to stop at the big stone with the print of a foot visible in it, supposedly the stone from which Buddha ascended to Heaven. There was also a heavily frequented fountain surrounded by visitors filling bottles with its reputedly healing waters, the first of two curing agents one could find there. The other was the ash of incense burnt before the images on the great altar, which visitors would gather from the huge metal pot in which countless sticks of incense were constantly smoking. It was taken home to be consumed for relieving ailments.

On the great altar were the figures for whom the Palace of the Three Buddhas was named. Though popularly called buddhas, they were actually Daoist gods. On one side was Fu-Hsing, with a small boy. He gave good fortune and the gift of children. No one could be considered fortunate who did not have children. On the other was Lü-Hsing, wearing an elaborate hat and belt indicative of worldly status. One approached him for a good position with power and respect. In the center was the image of Shou-Hsing, a kindly-looking old man with his elongated, bald head fringed by gray hair. His eyebrows were long and sagging, and he held the peach of immortality. His blessing was the gift of long life. Before the three images, bowing and muttering, were people holding bamboo cylinders filled with flat, inscribed sticks of bamboo. They would bob to and fro, intoning their petitions and shaking the bamboo cylinders, from each of which a single stick would eventually fall. That stick was inscribed with a number. It was taken to a nearby individual who, for a few coins, would present the bearer with a piece of paper on which was written a saying or poem in archaic Chinese. That was the answer to their prayer. Many could not read it, and so took it to another man not far off who would examine it carefully and tell them in plain Chinese what it meant – whether the bearer should travel north, or buy a certain house, or marry his son to a particular girl, or how a student might fare in school. In short, it was a system of fortune telling and advisory prediction, and it was very popular.

I went about from place to place with my family, enjoying the busy chatter of the pilgrims, the gardens, the flowers, the fish pond filled with carp that could live out their lives unmolested, the smiling buddhas seated on clouds and on lotus blossoms, and the huge clouds of incense rising up before the great altar. The annual outing always gave me much pleasure, and on the whole it was a most pleasant place.

There was one area of the temple, however, that I entered with trepidation. Behind the temple holding the three main images was another, a vast hall containing the statues of eighteen deities who had power over many aspects of nature and life. They were sculpted very realistically. Some held fearsome weapons. Others had huge and intimidating eyes, and one blew fire from his mouth. I would pass slowly from each to each, timidly impressed by their frightening appearance and power.

The worst, however, were in a side hall. There I gazed uneasily at one deity holding a great wok filled with burning oil in which miscreants would be plunged after death. Another held a bed of knives for further torture of evildoers. The most terrifying to me was the hideous Dark Messenger of the God with the Book. The God with the Book was Mara, God of Death. He stood in that shadowed place with a massive opened volume in his hands. In it was recorded the name of every human and the date when his life would end. Mara kept close and unfailing watch on his records, and when an allotted lifespan neared its end, he would send out his frightful Dark Messenger to snatch the unsuspecting person out of life and into the world of death and the eighteen levels of Hell. The temple was a visual lesson for children – obey your parents, behave well, or you will come to a bad and terrifying end!

It always took us some two hours to see everything and to pause on our circuit and chat with friends. My grandmother, being a major donor to the temple, received very special treatment. She was taken to a private room where she was given tea, and a sumptuous, specially prepared vegetarian lunch was set before her and any friend she might care to bring.

That was our New Year’s Day, when one changed into new clothes and shoes, and met with the gods in preparation for the coming year.

Now all that was past. The Communists had decided to crush religion. Temples were closed, monks were sent to the countryside to become farmers or pressed into factory labor. Nuns were forced to marry. Seeing the destruction on all sides, the Old Master of the Palace of the Three Buddhas temple decided to starve himself in protest. He soon found that a useless tactic against the stone-hearted Communists, whose reply was “Buddhists are the garbage of the new society. If they die, society will be cleansed, and the rice they would have eaten can go where it belongs, to the workers.” Then the Communists cut off the water supply to the temple.

Seeing the failure of his hunger strike, the Old Master called the monks to him and told them that they must fend for themselves from then on. Those who would might try to escape into far regions where religion could still be practiced in peace. Others might simply bow to the wishes of the Communists. The choice, he said, was theirs.

His own path was already chosen. He informed the monks that on a certain day he would burn himself alive in the courtyard of the temple. Word soon spread throughout the city, and preparations were made for the grim event.

A monk came to our home asking to speak with Granny. He told her gloomily and quietly that he and some others were in great need of money to carry out their escape plans. That in itself was unusual, because previously monks would not handle money. He also informed her of the Old Master’s intent to depart this life. The monk begged her to make arrangements to collect the ashes and sarira of the Old Master after his self-immolation. Communist rules forbade the collecting of such ashes as an anti-revolutionary act. Instead of being kept as venerated memorials, they were to be scattered on the fields. The same approach was used in the deaths of political prisoners, who were not permitted grave markers. A grave marker might call the death to mind at a future date and inspire thoughts of revenge against the Communists. All evidence of such deaths was therefore to be destroyed.

I recall that my grandmother gave the poor monk a few silver coins, and that he discussed the matter of the ashes further with my father. Father’s opinion was that it was a very dangerous thing to undertake. Yet even though he was not strictly a Buddhist himself, he respected the Old Master. He would see what he could do.

On a day not long after, a steady buzz of whispers spread suddenly throughout the city. The Old Master had begun collecting fuel. People hurried to the temple from all over. There in the courtyard the Old Master had prepared a large platform of dry wood, shaped like a lotus blossom. The arriving people, the monks, and all the assembled throng dotted with policemen looked on in silent horror as the venerable Old Master, still attired in his Buddhist robes, stepped quietly and with perfect tranquility up onto the wooden pyre, seated himself in the lotus position, and doused himself with a can of kerosene. Then he lit a match and burst into flames.

When the smoke had all dispersed on the wind and the pyre had burned to ashes, and all the people had returned in somber silence to their daily lives, a garbage collector appeared, seemingly from nowhere. With the boredom of one performing accustomed tasks, he gathered the ashes and the sarira, the evidence of the old master’s sanctity. He went about his business as though scooping up litter from the streets. But he was a thorough and careful garbage man, and his task was soon done. The ashes and relics he gathered went not to the fields, however, but were taken by respectful hands far away across China to a region near the Tibetan border where religion was still practiced. There they were received with great veneration. The garbage man was in reality a friend of my father, and not at all what he seemed to be.

My grandmother’s life was now only a faint shadow of what it once had been. No longer did visitors come begging favors or showing respect. Her power was gone. Times were bad for our family, which, while not in poverty, was nonetheless at a level so far below what it had been that it seemed poor to us. Granny began taking things to the pawnshop – a bit of jade jewelry – a fine scroll painting – then pieces of porcelain, and finally even clothes from her own wardrobe. With each trip her temper grew worse and worse. One by one her servants were dismissed. She could no longer afford them. Finally only one young girl remained to wait on her.

In the midst of her disgrace, my evil uncle kept pressing her for money. The old woman had none left to give, so she went in turn to my mother. Mother, being a faithful daughter, would scrape together enough funds to give the old lady even more than she requested. It passed from my mother’s hands to those of my grandmother, and then into the bottomless pockets of my uncle.

My father fumed about the wasted money. The matter gnawed at him more and more, until one day, in a fit of anger, he confronted the old woman face to face. There was a terrible scene, and Granny was left sputtering with fury. She took to her bed and said she could no longer rise. There she lay, day after day, screaming and hurling insults and maledictions. Policemen would stop by to interrogate my father about his past, or about some suspected friend, and the background to their conversation was Granny howling nightmarishly about what a terrible man my father was. Her unwelcome cacophony caused us endless problems.

At last one of my cousins could bear it no longer. He swept into her room and screamed back at her in a rage. The next day Granny developed pneumonia. Of course the cousin was blamed.

The old woman was not just pretending this time. She was seriously ill and sinking quickly. The doctor was called, and after examining her he told the family quietly that the end was near. Through it all the wrinkled, aged old daughter of the Manchus kept up an endless stream of invective and spitted curses. We all gathered about her bed as she muttered and spluttered on.

The time had come for the dispersal of her possessions.

In traditional China there was no will. The dying person would dispense the gathered wealth verbally to those assembled at the bedside. Granny knew she was dying, and amid insults she called my mother and instructed her to open the chests and begin the dispersal. Granny told her to give some possessions to friends, others to the temple. When the division among family members began, my aunt lost her temper and began shouting at my mother that she was not being fair. My mother shouted back at her, and soon the two were engaged in a screaming match over the dying old lady, who herself screamed at all and sundry. It sounded like a quarrel among three demons.

Suddenly the old lady went quiet. It was as though she had been interrupted by someone tapping on her shoulder. I knew who it was. It was the Dark Messenger of the God with the Book. He touched her gently, and when he opened his fearsome mouth and spoke to call her away, she paused to listen – and was silenced forever.

No one would touch the body. Not one member of the family volunteered. It was very awkward. But then to our surprise the scorned French wife of my dissipated uncle stepped forward and said she would undertake it. She carefully and respectfully washed the withered skin and arranged the hair. Everyone’s opinion of the French wife changed from that day. Suddenly she was granted status.

In accordance with Granny’s wishes, Buddhist monks were called to our home to chant prayers for the seven times seven days of her journey through the afterlife. Day and night they intoned the sacred words. Professional mourners were hired to keep tears flowing in our house through the hours when our own tears went dry. Family members streamed in from the distant countryside to say farewell. All were given food and the traditional candy to give them sweetness after the bitterness of parting. A huge white paper banner was hung in our home, with the name of the deceased and her age painted in large, blue characters. The age was exaggerated, for it is the Chinese custom to make the departed older than they are as a sign of good fortune. The same was written on two immense paper lanterns, each as big as a modern refrigerator, that were hung from roof beams outside our front door. Many people came to beg for food, which was permitted on such an occasion.

I missed the wicked old woman very much. Though a terror to others, she had always been good to me. Now she was gone. I wanted so to see her again, and eagerly awaited the third night after her passing, when the spirit is said to return home, and food left for it will mysteriously vanish.

I stayed awake all that third night, watching the candle for the dimming or extinguishing that signals the return of the spirit. Outside the house monks prayed ceaselessly to guide her spirit home. Food to refresh her was placed on the family altar. Though very drowsy, I watched and watched the candle expectantly, hour after hour, but it neither flickered nor dimmed. Eventually I saw a monk take away the food from the altar to eat himself. Granny never returned.

On the seventh day, large paper and bamboo figures of servants, of furniture, of a palanquin, and of a big bridge were constructed. They were assembled before our house together with paper chests filled with paper “Hell money,” and were burned to give possessions to Grandmother in her afterlife, and to permit her to buy her way out of Hell and to cross the paper bridge into Heaven. Though just paper and bamboo in our world, once burned they were believed to become the real objects they represented in the spirit world.

Seven days later the real funeral was held. Though our fortunes had fallen, we tried to make the occasion as grand as we could. Bearers raised her coffin high into the air. Granny had purchased it many years before, so we knew it well as a fixture in our home. It was of rare wood and as expensive as a small house. We and all the other mourners followed after, dressed in cheap, off-white hemp clothes as a sign of sorrow and bereavement. Some fifteen musicians accompanied the procession with the shrill wail of Chinese oboes. As we moved forward, cheap coins and candy were passed out to people watching at the roadside.

Before reaching the entry to the hillside cemetery the other mourners departed, and only the close family entered the graveyard. Soon the ceremony was over. Granny was among the ancestors, and for me the old world of Manchus and mandarins and emperors was forever dead.