I’d like to share a story with you. Maybe you have at some
time or other heard a story similar to this one. But then maybe
you’ve forgotten it or remember only part of it, because the people
in the story were the plainest, most ordinary kinds of men
and women you could imagine, the kind whose faces you can
hardly call up in your memory because they are so unremarkable.
My story is about just this kind of ordinary, unassuming
character, but then again, in this mundane world, there are no
real miracles. Have you ever seen the thousand-eyed Kuanyin
Bodhisattva? What I want to say is, even if the Buddha had a
thousand eyes, what he would see with them would be only us
ordinary, everyday folks. Also, my story is true. In this world
of hype and flashy but false words, it’s not all that easy to hear
the truth. Do you have a minute? Then let me tell you a story about my hometown of Hsinying.
Twenty-five years ago, you could finish a grand tour of
Hsinying on bicycle in half an hour. The suburban area to the
south was circled by a swift-flowing stream. From Huanhsi
Road in the south suburbs you could ride into town and up and
down the very short market street, then take a turn onto the little
road near the Chiayi-Tainan Stream, on either side of which you
would see expansive rice paddies and a fruit orchard. In the fruit
orchard was an enormous old-style residence that once belonged
to a wealthy family. Next to it was a series of mud-brick homes
that rose only as high as the wall surrounding the large residence.
No one knew what residential district or neighborhood
this compound belonged to; on the other hand, it did have a
name that did not appear in any official records, but that everybody
knew. And what would that name be? None other than
“Beggar’s Cottage.”
Before Taiwan was handed over on a platter by the Qing
dynasty government to the Japanese, a number of beggars did in
fact live in Beggar’s Cottage. The Japanese were a bit highhanded
in their occupation of Taiwan, high-handed in the way
described in the Taiwanese idiom, “they behaved like beggars
who drove the caretaker out of the temple.” Not that they paid
Beggar’s Cottage much mind. Beyond dragging its occupants in
for a caning now and then and locking them up for a few days as
hoodlums, they left Beggar’s Cottage well enough alone, meaning
that they also never did things like trying to improve the residents’
lives or living environment. So up until the time of
Taiwan’s retrocession to China, there were always a number of
beggars living in Beggar’s Cottage.
It is unknown just how many people called Beggar’s
Cottage home, but there was one family whose members I could count and who were related to us. The head of this family was
surnamed Huang; his given name was Teng. Huang Teng’s
great-grandfather and mine both passed the imperial civil service
examinations for our county at the same time, and they married
a pair of sisters. This was now a hundred years later. Huang
Teng was thirty years older than me but belonged to the same
generation as I did. I called him “Old Brother Teng.” Both of
our grandfathers had been covertly encouraged by the Japanese
to take up opium smoking. My grandfather died young; he had
not yet smoked away all of his fields, and this ended up benefiting
us, his descendants. Old Brother Teng’s grandfather lived to
such an old age that he eventually had to move into Beggar’s
Cottage, where he lived a few more years before finally passing
away. From this point on, up through two generations later,
none of the residents ever had to go out begging on the streets
any more, but hardship did continue to cast a pallor over the
dwelling.
And here is where the story actually begins. Twenty-five
years ago, I had just entered the first grade, and Old Brother
Teng’s three sons attended the same school. They were, after
all, descendants of a scholar, and they garnered top grades.
Their grades were so good they elicited both praise and displeasure
from my own father. He praised the three boys for how
well they performed in their studies, in spite of barely having
enough to eat or wear. He was upset that I did not study harder,
and was not living up to the title of honor engraved on the
plaque affixed to our lintel, namely, “Distinguished Scholar.” I
wasn’t, however, envious of them. Back then, Old Brother Teng
earned his living by buying up broken pots, discarded metal, and
used writing tablets. He also did odd jobs for people in the
township. Often after school, I would go over and help him organize his haul, or go play with his little daughter. This little
girl was blessed with both felicity and beauty, the latter of which
would have been clearly evident had it not been for her ragged
clothes. If someone had dressed her up properly and taken her
out, anybody would have assumed that she came from a very
well-to-do family.
Old Brother Teng lived by the sweat of his brow. Every
day he pushed a two-wheeled wooden cart to market, always
calling out the same peddler’s cry, “Old copper, tin, paper to
sell? Old copper, tin, paper to sell?” Now and then he also
bought up old coins. In those days people thought old coins
were worthless,...
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