Journey South

The train sped through the across the land, rice paddies and banana trees fuzzily flew past outside my window. Cities that previously took hours to reach are now merely tens of minutes apart. As a train fan, this huge transportation revolution was much anticipated, and I remember a few years ago I went to a special exhibition to gather as much information about the Shinkansen 700-T as I could. Though I was exhausted from the accumulation of lack of sleep and running around, riding the new 300km/hr Taiwan High Speed Rail (台灣高鐵) made me extremely giddy and excited.

Just hours before, Dad's urn was placed into the 'deposit box' in a temple in Jinshan. It would be his final resting place, and it seemed that the whole procedure went on smoothly. As we rode up the mountain to the temple, it was drizzling, and gray. But after dad's bones and ashes were set in place, the sun began to shine. A good omen, tradition says. The door of the deposit box was sealed, and we stood there momentarily, each silently speaking to dad.

Almost exactly one month after dad passed away, entering the urn temple was (for the time being) the last ritual that has to be observed. We had carefully chosen an urn cut from amber-coloured marble. The piece most likely came from Taroko (太魯閣), a naturally formed gorge cut throughout the millennia by a stream that runs down from the towering mountains of central Taiwan down towards the Pacific Ocean. One of the last family outings with dad two years ago was to that very area.

Rituals and rites command observance and respect, flowing from practice that has passed down from generations ago. They offer comfort to people, for the performance of certain rituals is believed to ward of bad luck and bring prosperity and good fortunes, for the living and the dead. Yet at the same time, some rituals are at times constraining, if not incompatible with modern life. What use is all the chanting and prayers, all the paper money burning and offerings? Why must the relatives of the dead stay home and mourn for exactly 49 days? Is it not enough that each person remembers the deceased in his own way? Death is such a natural and simple matter which everyone will experience sooner or later... why make it so complicated and difficult?

So it was sort of a relief after everything was over and done with. With only around two weeks left of my stay here Taiwan, we decided to travel a bit to pay relatives and friends a visit, and also to thank them for their support throughout these difficult times.

First stop was Chiayi (嘉義), where my dad was born and where most of my relatives are. A little provincial city, most famous for its “chicken rice” (actually made from turkey meat) and for the nearby Alishan mountain resort, it is a must-go place for me. The relatives greeted us warmly and made us feel right at home. We thanked them for being there for dad, and taking care of dad all these years, and over sumptuous feasts, we talked about dad and the things that made him special. The food was exquisite, and there was more than enough for everyone who sat around the big round table which is supposed to symbolise the unity of the family. But I was not hungry, and only eating as much as I could, smiling as much as I must. Some told of the last time they saw dad, of how happy and energetic-looking he still was not more than two months ago. And now the empty extra chair looks especially empty.

It was a whirlwind trip, and I saw everyone that I wanted to see, and even visited the ancestral shrine to pay respects to my grandparents. They were the ones who raised my dad, and his five other siblings, through simply repairing bicycles and washing clothes for other people. I remember the little workshop still, which was not much bigger than perhaps 10m squared. I used to play there, and flip through the cupboards and drawers to find all sorts of rusty repair tools and nails and cogs and bike chains. And there were huge rats too, gray and swift that would run from one side of the room to the other while nobody paid attention. And then there were the stray dogs that nobody wanted, but which wandered past daily, because my grandma would kindly leave leftovers for them to eat. I spent many summers in that little house, keeping my grandma company. And only now and then would any of the children come home to visit.

That little workshops is now a brand-new four storey apartment. There is nothing left of the workshop, or of the dark, narrow corridors of the house where my dad grew up in. instead outside is the main thoroughfare, and the first floor is rented out to a lottery shop, which attracts hundreds of fortune-seekers everyday. How times have changed! All that remains are two portraits of my grandma, and my grandpa, who I have no memory of because he passed away when I was just two years old. Yet, the more I look at grandpa’s black and white portrait, the more I am reminded of my dad… the same thin, high cheeks and high forehead, the powerful eyes and bushy eyebrows, and the same faint smile.

I left Chiayi, left the hustling cars and motorcycles and the neat rice paddies that stretch on for as far as the eyes can see, and headed toward central Taiwan. Our destination was Puli, a sleepy town surrounded by mountains and famed for its scenery and unspoiled environment. Back in 1999, when one of the fiercest earthquakes in recent years struck, the region was the most devastated. Over two thousand people died, most instantly from fallen buildings, others from mountains that literally imploded or solid ground that shifted for kilometers. Today, the barren mountain tops entering Puli carry a memorial to the devastating force of nature, but slowly green is returning to land that were for many years just soil.

I first came to Puli (埔里) in the cool of early Autumn around two years ago. There lived a Theravada bhikkhu (Buddhist monk) in the mountains, they said. Many go to him seeking counseling and the Dharma, and many return home happy and temporarily enlightened by his wisdom, I heard. I went there not knowing what I would find, and only had clothes for two days. In the end I stayed for three weeks, and went back again two more times to stay there more.

It may be the magnificent scenery, overlooking a valley surrounded by mountains that change their moods as the weather transforms from moment to moment that attract me. Perhaps it is the amazing sunset, or the call of insects and croaking of frogs, or perhaps the swift, free motions of little swallows and watchful eagles circling in the skies. The loving dogs that live there make great company too. But I think, most of all, it is the tranquility that makes me so grateful for being able to discover such a wonderful place, and it is the warmth and love of those there that make the place a home I could return to whenever I wish.

This time around, I was able to take my mum and my brother along with me. Throughout all the things that have happened in the past month, and that are still happening now, I wanted nothing more than show my family this wondrous place, and let them come into contact with the bhikkhu who has been there, either in prayers or in mails, to support and cousel me whenever I am in need. Indeed, upon arrival my mum and brother became relaxed, and took in deep breaths of fresh air and the surrounding scenery, as their thoughts seemed to let go of the troubles and noises in the city.

I found some of the answers I had been searching for. Ever since dad passed away, to be honest, I have not felt much sadness or shed many tears. I feared it was simple indifference, that I was losing my 'human-ness', especially in the light of an event which would normally make any one distraught. But no, my silence and calm is not indifference, I learned, but a natural reaction which comes when you know you have done the right thing while the person was alive. Because you have nothing to regret and nothing to be remorseful about, you are able to face the death of someone with a tranquil mind and heart, like I did. Instead of sadness and tears, I smiled and at the thought of dad's kindness and felt warm just thinking of the many sacrifices dad had made. Indifference is when you feel nothing, but truth be told, I did, and still do feel dad's passing.

The bhikkhu counseled me, and I felt refreshed and touched from the fact that he could see into my mind and speak my thoughts like very few could. Once again, as with so many times in the past few weeks, I felt this surge of gratitude I cannot express... the kind of gratitude that arises from such simple acts or words of kindness from a complete stranger... from the care of nurses who were with my parents while they were in hospital... from the support family members who were there to stand by me as we struggled through difficult times. And in Puli, I felt deep gratitude toward the bhikkhu, and others, who offered my family and I shelter and comfort in times of distress and confusion; who offered us the time and the compassion and understanding so that we are able to heal gradually from having the fortune to come into contact with so much beauty and kindness.

How does one 'repay' such kindness, such compassion and support? By doing the best we can, by being kind to others, by seflessly helping and being (for)giving to others in need, or even when they are not in need. It is like that movie Pay it Forward, which stresses what goodness the kindness of an individual can bring to the world and make it a better place.

I waved and hugged my friends and relatives goodbye. I would turn back occassionally to wave again and again as I slowly went further and further away. One thing that is certain is that life is uncertain, and who knows when I will return , or whether I will see these people again... but as I waved goodbye, my mind was once again awash with the pleasant thoughts of the warmth and gratitude I feel towards these people.