The Metro got there soon: “Longshan Temple Underground Mall” on a conspicuous sign. From the entrance where I stood, I could see the underground mall lit by radiant fluorescent tubes. Shoppers were few and far between, and a number of shops had closed down. You could see a soul or two strolling here and there, but on closer look they all appeared to be hobos.
    I took the escalator up to the exit that said “Meng Jia Park” in large letters. As a contrast to the air-conditioned, fluorescentlit underground construction, first thing you saw here was a whole expanse of concrete studded with greenery. The noon sun poured down with intense summery passion. The dank but crowded traditional market of my childhood had vanished, and in its place were the open sunny skies, the artistic sculptures of an urban park, the eaves of Longshan Temple nearby, the tiled sidewalks, and the fountain with its regular water shows. The new architectures of the square represented the antiquated quarters’ attempt at renovation. Razing the shops and stalls of the traditional market to the ground, and then constructing an artistic public square, did this guarantee an escape from the stale air of backwardness?
    This should be the most popular spot in Taipei with older folks and hobos. In the U-shaped corridors, they either sat in a row or lay down on the high and low platforms. In twos and threes, they played chess, checkers, or cards. Some strolled back and forth wearing a poker face, some mumbled to themselves with their lips twitching, but most of them just doubled up, leaned back, or lay flat in each cozy, airy corner, sleeping like any vagabond you know. I held my breath and tiptoed by their faces as softly as I could, for fear I should disrupt someone’s roaming dreams, or tread on the pure land where they slumbered and respired. The old men sitting in rows in the surrounding corridors, each with puffed bags under their eyes, looked the passers-by up and down. Uneasy with my isolation, I strode in the direction of the busy streets.
    On the sidewalks, visitors were jostling against one another. Magnolia vendors, joss paper vendors and massagers, all sorts of hawkers lined up outside the walls of Longshan Temple with their portable stalls. Everything was just as I’d remembered them from childhood. Votaries kept pouring into the Temple, making it even livelier than I’d known. The air was permeated with pious incense and prayers; wisp after wisp of smoke from the incense burners wafted up the devout wishes of votaries who’d gathered from all corners of the land.
    I lit my incense sticks among the religious who were offering silent prayers. Several women kneeled or crouched before the door sill, earnestly imploring the gods for an answer to their prayers by casting crescent-shaped divination blocks on the floor. I did not know what to say to Bodhisattva; in fact I was probably just reviewing a sacred rite by lighting the incense sticks, or just sending up a greeting to Bodhisattva to let him know I was the kid who had used to come with her mother over twenty years ago.
    Mom was extremely devout; whether in the grand hall or in the attached shrines, she made me bow to all the buddhas and deities by holding my palms together. She could never have enough of the gods and buddhas, so when my legs got sore waiting, I’d crouch down and scribble in the ashes. I was often scalded by lengths of smoking-hot ashes dropping from the devotees’ joss sticks.
    I was too little at the time, but even after I grew up, mom’s wishes and worries were still beyond me. Now how I longed to go back to that time and place, to listen in on mom’s whispers to the gods. I’d like to ask Bodhisattva, what secrets had mom poured out to him? In my childhood, mom was always sparing of words and wishes, and she kept her emotions, happy or otherwise, mostly to herself. So now it was as if I was bowing to Bodhisattva on her behalf. Or rather I was like mom who, all those years before, had kindled myriads of feelings whenever she kindled a joss stick. I wanted to say something to the gods and buddhas, about all the little things that had happened to me, which though insignificant had made waves in my daily life. I wished to have a good chat with the gods, about the mom they might still remember, and about what had become of her later. But I had intimations that the powerful gods would know everything and perceive everything, so wouldn’t it be redundant to pour out all this to them?
    As my confused thoughts coursed about randomly, I stepped out of the grand hall. In front of the portals, a few photographers in fnac uniforms were setting up their tripods to catch the various aspects of this religious center of northern Taiwan. Before I left the courts of the Temple,...