Tou-chi

Dad is supposed to come home today. According to tradition, on the first seventh day after death (頭七), the deceased would return home to visit loved ones. During the first seven days, the spirit of the deceased does not realise it is dead yet, and wanders the world living and believing as it it were still alive. Then comes the realisation that the spirit has already moved into another plane of existence hits, and the spirit goes home to take one final look, before finally moving on.

Hence the elaborate ceremony this morning, with a three person-recital of Buddhist sutras, clash of symbols and rhythmic knocking of a woodblock. The purpose is to send prayers of goodwish and wellbeing to dad, so that he will have a speedy and troublefree passage into the next life. Offerings of fresh fruits and food, together with the burning of wads of 'paper money', paper lotuses and scent of incense is done to ensure that dad does not go empty-handed and empty-stomached. And of course, the diety standing at the first gateway of the Underworld needs offerings of fruits and paper money, so that dad can easily go through.

It took almost two hours. Throughout, my brother, two cousin and I stood in front of dad's temporary shrine, hands together before our chests in a prayer position, and now and then knelt and bowed in reverence to dad. In a cold drizzle, we burnt the offerings, and watched the smoke rise and rise into the heavens.

Last night, I slept on the floor in a little room right behind dad's shrine. In the first moments before falling asleep, I meditated and suddenly felt something never felt before. It was as if I felt my body dissolve into nothing, felt my arms and feet and torso and head evaporate into dust and disappear into everything else around me... I have heard of people describing that moment close to nirvana in similar ways, how body and matter simply disappears. How emotions and feelings become so insignificant, as one realises the inter-connectedness and natural way of all things. But then, I remember feeling afraid and foreign at the whole experince. I am not sure how long it lasted, but I knew I was frightened before finally falling asleep, and sleeping into the earlier hours of the morning. The scent of incense burning filled my lungs, and the chanting of nuns echoed in my ears.

With almost two weeks of holidays due to the Lunar New Year festivities, many things are closed here in Taiwan. And today we received news that the cremation can only take place at the beginning of March, almost one whole month after dad's death. Tradition dictates that the day of cremation be carefully chosen, and has to coincide with the date and time of birth, in short the horoscope, together with the date and time of death of the person. The Lunar Calendar (農曆月曆) acts as a guidebook of when to do what, when and how. This is important to ensure that the deceased can rest peacefully, and in doing so, the lives of those still living will not be adversely affected. Also the 'feng-shui' (風水) of the ultimate resting place of the urn is extremely important... each person has to be facing a specific direction (north, south, east, west), and the timing and place of storage must be carefully planned and coordinated too. They say a peaceful resting place has repercussions on the success and properity of the decendants, and so whether dad's urn is put to rest at the right time or place is supposed to have much influence on the future success and happiness of me and my brother.

To be honest, I simply go along with the rituals, and admire it for its ability to continue for thousands of years till this day. That a tradition could survive so long must have its merits and meanings. But then again I think to myself why one should exert oneself to such extremes? If your heart is not pure, if your mind is not still and contains ill thoughts, what is the purpose of pompous processions and ceremonies? What better way is there to pay respects to the deceased than remember him in your heart, and to be grateful to him for all that you have? I watched the paper money and paper lotuses burn in the fire cauldron, as choking smoke rose to pollute the atmosphere.

I accompanied mum to the Household Registration Office in the afternoon. I rode the motorcycle in the pouring rain. Taiwan has never felt so damp and cold in my memory, as I rode the winding streets that coiled along the misty mountains. I love to look up at the mountains, watch the lowlying clouds float by and shroud the mountain tops in a thin, thin veil. Part of this love comes from being able to imagine the pretty, timid face that is half hidden.

Dad used to ride the same motorbike up the mountains and down to the seaside nearby in those two short years from his retirement to his recent passing. He loved the feel of speeding on the motorbike, and the freedom of going and coming as he pleased, even though it were the same roads he had travelled over and over again. Perhaps he loved it as much as I loved riding my bicycle back in the Netherlands. Today, I rode that motorbike, and felt how easy it was, despite the raindrops on my glasses and the piercingly cold wind, to feel liberated.

Within five minutes, dad’s name was taken off of the official records. His ID was taken away, and my mum was issued a new one. Where previously the space after the word ‘Spouse’ was written with my dad’s name, now stands an open and gaping space. Mum's eyes watered and she fell silent. Taipei City government gave us a bag with a condolence card, a free picture frame gift, and a booklet containing all the laws and regulations and essential information about inheritance. How very attentive and thoughtful.

My mum looked at that, and her eyes watered again.