On the day of the funeral we were all dressed in white silk kimonos and obi-sashes. We traveled in rickshas to the Buddhist Temple, in solemn procession headed by the coffin with its decorations of gold and silver lotus flowers. My young uncle held me on his knees. People in the street stepped aside to let us pass. I was greatly impressed with the importance of the occasion, and considered myself favored.
The Temple, gloomy-dark after the bright sunshine, had a stale, unpleasant odor. The images of Buddha glowed in faint candlelight. We sat on the floor and listened to the long prayer of the Buddhist priest. Grandmother, sitting beside me, closed her eyes and moved her lips, softly repeating the prayer. I waited impatiently for it to be over.
Our house, after the services, was sorrowful, everyone speechless, walking with heavy steps. The relatives left, and only Grandmother remained. Then suddenly I realized I had no mother, and I was lonely. Elder Sister was sick in bed with the measles, and I missed her counsel. When no one was near, I tiptoed to her room and peeped through the slightly opened paper sliding door. She smiled at me, her face blotchy against the flowered counterpane. Younger Brother, lying beside me at night, lifted his tiny head and said, “I wish that Mother would come back very soon.” This made me sadder still, and I cried myself to sleep.
The first day Elder Sister was able to sit up, Grandmother made some red rice. Red rice was eaten only on special occasions, such as a return from a long journey, a graduation, or a recovery from illness. Before we started to eat the rice, Grandmother said, “We must give the first bowl to your mother.” She dished some rice into Mother’s bowl and reverently placed it in front of the family shrine, in which there was a tablet for Mother.
Every morning Grandmother sat in front of the shrine and burned incense, praying with eyes closed. Whenever we received gifts of candies or cakes, she made us place them in front of the shrine before we ate them. An inedible gift was placed in the shrine for Mother to see. Very often the Buddhist priest came to the house to hold special services and prayers for Mother. He was dressed in a long purple gown, and his head was shaved close. As he prayed, he bowed repeatedly and rang a small wooden gong. At the end of the prayer he said eight or nine times something that sounded to me like, “Save me Amida Buddha, save me Amida Buddha.” Then Grandmother and we three children, who had sat quietly behind him, went in turn to the shrine and burned incense.
Several months after Mother’s death, Father had a talk with Grandmother. He said that he understood her devotion to his children, but that now he released her from the care of them. “My children are growing up in a new age,” he said. “I must educate them so that they can meet its challenge with knowledge. Many of the old customs are no longer useful.”
Grandmother said in a resigned voice, “So let it be.”
When we knew that she was leaving, we implored Father to let us go with her, but he said sternly, “This is your home. This is where you stay.”
After Grandmother departed, the family shrine was put away in a closet and not even dusted for many years to come. The priest never again appeared. Father forbade us to offer food or gifts, or to burn incense for Mother. He explained that once a person dies, he turns to earth and has no use for these things. He did not believe in spirits. He never went to Mother’s grave and never talked about her. We thought he had forgotten her and we must refrain from mentioning her in his presence. It was not until many years later that we discovered how much Father really loved and missed our mother.
FATHER WAS a college professor. An intellectual and a scientist, he was full of the contradictions of all enlightened Japan. He believed firmly in the charter oath of the Emperor Meiji, “that harmful customs must be abolished and that knowledge of the entire world shall be sought.” He believed just as firmly that only the educated few were qualified to interpret a changing world and to know which were the harmful customs. He tried to reconcile science with superstition by explaining in reasonable terms the wisdom of the old rules, and by giving them a scientific basis. Where a scientific explanation was untenable, he passed off the matter as a law of nature.
Much of Father’s spirit of inquiry stopped at his own front gate. His home was to him a background where elaborate rules of Japanese etiquette, the signs of good breeding, had to be observed. In his home he was master, to be respected and revered. I obeyed and honored him; but my docile nature was better able to appreciate the established world of my grandmother than to puzzle about a world in which motion never stood still long enough for me to meditate about it.
Father’s jinrikisha, pulling into the gate, made a crunching sound on the graveled path. The jinrikiman called, “Okaeri! Your master has come back!” and all the members of the household rushed to the front genkan to greet him. The servants halted their work. We all knelt and bowed our heads as he came through the door. This ceremony was a routine which we went through twice a day, when Father left the house in the morning and when he returned in the evening.
Occasionally Father returned on foot and came in without warning through the servants’ entrance. The first one who saw him announced loudly, “Your master has come back!” and at the same moment squatted on the floor and bowed. The rest of the family rushed to the back entrance in confusion. Sometimes Father entered before we all were assembled. Then we dropped anywhere in the room, before he passed.
The large and spacious genkan, the main entrance, was reserved for Father and for guests. The rest of the family used the side genkan, which was smaller and always cluttered with geta, or clogs. We girls were told to keep our geta in orderly manner or no one would want us for brides.
Father changed from Western clothes to long kimono as soon as he returned home. Then he sat on his large special cushion and sipped his tea. When the tea was to his taste, he lingered over it. In the dining room there was always hot water boiling on the hibachi. When guests arrived, tea was served to them immediately, even before they were formally received by Father. During their stay their cups were frequently refilled. We had been disciplined to be very quiet while guests were in the house. Even our quarrels were restrained in tone. Sometimes when a guest stayed so long that we had to wait supper for Father, we turned the brooms upside down, believing this would chase guests out.
With supper, Father occasionally had sake wine. This was served warm, and he enjoyed it slowly. His face grew red, and we would receive his attention. With the wine he had sashimi, a plate of raw tuna fish decorated with white radish sliced fine and a carrot cut in flower-shape with a piece of green horseradish in the center. We all admired this attractive dainty, but never said anything about its being served only to Father.
Quite unexpectedly there appeared in our dining room an enormous table and chairs. Placed under it to protect the tatami-mat flooring was a deep-piled rug. Father said sitting on the floor with our legs under us was bad for our health and posture. Although we liked the novelty of the table, Younger Brother and I could scarcely see over the top, and we found it impossible to manipulate our chopsticks properly. Soon we knelt on our chairs in order to eat in greater comfort. The maid sat on the floor as usual and was embarrassed every time she had to jump up and travel the length of the long table to replenish our rice bowls. The table soon disorganized the entire household. The maids did much grumbling. It interfered with their cleaning, they said, and they bumped against its sides. The rug kept curling up and tripping them. A short time later, just as unexpectedly, the table disappeared. Father said Japanese girls must be trained to sit on the floor. The table found a place in his study, as supplement to his desk.
On the wall in the dining room hung a large map of the world, and often after dinner Father pointed to the pretty pink of Japan, to the soft green of China, and across the wide expanse of blue to the yellow of the United States. He discussed the different customs in these and other countries. It became a game for us to find New York,