Seeing the failure of his hunger strike, the Old Master called the monks to him and told them that they must fend for themselves from then on. Those who would might try to escape into far regions where religion could still be practiced in peace. Others might simply bow to the wishes of the Communists. The choice, he said, was theirs.
His own path was already chosen. He informed the monks that on a certain day he would burn himself alive in the courtyard of the temple. Word soon spread throughout the city, and preparations were made for the grim event.
A monk came to our home asking to speak with Granny. He told her gloomily and quietly that he and some others were in great need of money to carry out their escape plans. That in itself was unusual, because previously monks would not handle money. He also informed her of the Old Master’s intent to depart this life. The monk begged her to make arrangements to collect the ashes and sarira of the Old Master after his self-immolation. Communist rules forbade the collecting of such ashes as an anti-revolutionary act. Instead of being kept as venerated memorials, they were to be scattered on the fields. The same approach was used in the deaths of political prisoners, who were not permitted grave markers. A grave marker might call the death to mind at a future date and inspire thoughts of revenge against the Communists. All evidence of such deaths was therefore to be destroyed.
I recall that my grandmother gave the poor monk a few silver coins, and that he discussed the matter of the ashes further with my father. Father’s opinion was that it was a very dangerous thing to undertake. Yet even though he was not strictly a Buddhist himself, he respected the Old Master. He would see what he could do.
On a day not long after, a steady buzz of whispers spread suddenly throughout the city. The Old Master had begun collecting fuel. People hurried to the temple from all over. There in the courtyard the Old Master had prepared a large platform of dry wood, shaped like a lotus blossom. The arriving people, the monks, and all the assembled throng dotted with policemen looked on in silent horror as the venerable Old Master, still attired in his Buddhist robes, stepped quietly and with perfect tranquility up onto the wooden pyre, seated himself in the lotus position, and doused himself with a can of kerosene. Then he lit a match and burst into flames.
When the smoke had all dispersed on the wind and the pyre had burned to ashes, and all the people had returned in somber silence to their daily lives, a garbage collector appeared, seemingly from nowhere. With the boredom of one performing accustomed tasks, he gathered the ashes and the sarira, the evidence of the old master’s sanctity. He went about his business as though scooping up litter from the streets. But he was a thorough and careful garbage man, and his task was soon done. The ashes and relics he gathered went not to the fields, however, but were taken by respectful hands far away across China to a region near the Tibetan border where religion was still practiced. There they were received with great veneration. The garbage man was in reality a friend of my father, and not at all what he seemed to be.
My grandmother’s life was now only a faint shadow of what it once had been. No longer did visitors come begging favors or showing respect. Her power was gone. Times were bad for our family, which, while not in poverty, was nonetheless at a level so far below what it had been that it seemed poor to us. Granny began taking things to the pawnshop – a bit of jade jewelry – a fine scroll painting – then pieces of porcelain, and finally even clothes from her own wardrobe. With each trip her temper grew worse and worse. One by one her servants were dismissed. She could no longer afford them. Finally only one young girl remained to wait on her.
In the midst of her disgrace, my evil uncle kept pressing her for money. The old woman had none left to give, so she went in turn to my mother. Mother, being a faithful daughter, would scrape together enough funds to give the old lady even more than she requested. It passed from my mother’s hands to those of my grandmother, and then into the bottomless pockets of my uncle.
My father fumed about the wasted money. The matter gnawed at him more and more, until one day, in a fit of anger, he confronted the old woman face to face. There was a terrible scene, and Granny was left sputtering with fury. She took to her bed and said she could no longer rise. There she lay, day after day, screaming and hurling insults and maledictions. Policemen would stop by to interrogate my father about his past, or about some suspected friend, and the background to their conversation was Granny howling nightmarishly about what a terrible man my father was. Her unwelcome cacophony caused us endless problems.
At last one of my cousins could bear it no longer. He swept into her room and screamed back at her in a rage. The next day Granny developed pneumonia. Of course the cousin was blamed.
The old woman was not just pretending this time. She was seriously ill and sinking quickly. The doctor was called, and after examining her he told the family quietly that the end was near. Through it all the wrinkled, aged old daughter of the Manchus kept up an endless stream of invective and spitted curses. We all gathered about her bed as she muttered and spluttered on.
The time had come for the dispersal of her possessions.
In traditional China there was no will. The dying person would dispense the gathered wealth verbally to those assembled at the bedside. Granny knew she was dying, and amid insults she called my mother and instructed her to open the chests and begin the dispersal. Granny told her to give some possessions to friends, others to the temple. When the division among family members began, my aunt lost her temper and began shouting at my mother that she was not being fair. My mother shouted back at her, and soon the two were engaged in a screaming match over the dying old lady, who herself screamed at all and sundry. It sounded like a quarrel among three demons.
Suddenly the old lady went quiet. It was as though she had been interrupted by someone tapping on her shoulder. I knew who it was. It was the Dark Messenger of the God with the Book. He touched her gently, and when he opened his fearsome mouth and spoke to call her away, she paused to listen – and was silenced forever.
No one would touch the body. Not one member of the family volunteered. It was very awkward. But then to our surprise the scorned French wife of my dissipated uncle stepped forward and said she would undertake it. She carefully and respectfully washed the withered skin and arranged the hair. Everyone’s opinion of the French wife changed from that day. Suddenly she was granted status.
In accordance with Granny’s wishes, Buddhist monks were called to our home to chant prayers for the seven times seven days of her journey through the afterlife. Day and night they intoned the sacred words. Professional mourners were hired to keep tears flowing in our house through the hours when our own tears went dry. Family members streamed in from the distant countryside to say farewell. All were given food and the traditional candy to give them sweetness after the bitterness of parting. A huge white paper banner was hung in our home, with the name of the deceased and her age painted in large, blue characters. The age was exaggerated, for it is the Chinese custom to make the departed older than they are as a sign of good fortune. The same was written on two immense paper lanterns, each as big as a modern refrigerator, that were hung from roof beams outside our front door. Many people came to beg for food, which was permitted on such an occasion.
I missed the wicked old woman very much. Though a terror to others, she had always been good to me. Now she was gone. I wanted so to see her again, and eagerly awaited the third night after her passing, when the spirit is said to return home, and food left for it will mysteriously vanish.
I stayed awake all that third night, watching the candle for the dimming or extinguishing that signals the return of the spirit. Outside the house monks prayed ceaselessly to guide her spirit home. Food to refresh her was placed on the family altar. Though very drowsy, I watched and watched the candle expectantly, hour after hour, but it neither flickered nor dimmed.