Mingmei Yip - Petals from the Sky

“It’s Master’s habit to recite his mantra of Amita Buddha to the plants and rocks here. He believes they also have Buddha nature.”

I turned back to the young monk. “So, Shifu, is this also the same reason you’re…here?”

His face beamed. “Oh, yes. I am extremely fortunate, for Master was very strict in choosing his disciple.”

Just then the old monk came in, studied each of us, and split a big, panting smile. “Tomorrow is another day; I’ll take a nap today.”

Eternal Brightness hurried to help him go back to his room.

After I’d translated everything to Michael, he said, “No matter how hard monks and nuns try to cut off from worldly desire, love still sneaks its way back in.”

“What do you mean?”

Michael answered my question with another one. “The monk’s love story is inscribed here in the temple, right?”

Not wishing to further disturb the two monks, we took our leave. The young monk walked us all the way to the level land and the steps.

Michael and I bowed deeply with our hands together. I said, “Thank you, Shifu. We really appreciate your and Master Detached Dust’s hospitality.”

Under the warm sun, his tanned, healthy face seemed to shine with wisdom and detachment. “You’re welcome. Please come back and visit us again.”

“We certainly will.”

Michael asked me to tell him that he really enjoyed his bun and that he wished the Master good health and longevity.

I told the young monk and he said, “Thank you, but the master’s health and longevity depend on karma, not men’s wishes.” A pause. Then he added, “By the way, it’s master who cooked those buns, not me.”

We silently picked our way down the long flight of steps. I felt depressed to leave this separate world of the small temple and plunge back into the dusty world.

Michael took my hand. “Meng Ning, let’s hurry to the taxi. It’s going to rain.”

At the bottom of the steps, our taxi driver was fast asleep, curled up in the backseat. As we began to quicken our steps, the rain was already pelting mercilessly. We pounded on the door of the taxi, awakening the surprised driver, who quickly got out and let us, now dripping, into the back. Through the smudged window I watched the raindrops plunge, hiss, and bounce on the ground. I felt a rush of nostalgia. Their natural energy made me think of the two mountain monks. Their temple, though only up the nearby flight of steps, already seemed so distant. Would we have the chance to return to that simple beauty in this lifetime?

After the pleasant diversion of the Peach Blossom Garden, we were now finally heading toward the famous colossal Buddha carved into the Le Mountain. As we drove, the rain abated.

The taxi driver caught my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Miss, you and your friend had a good time up there?”

“Oh, yes.” I made my answer short, for I didn’t want to share my intimate temple experience with this stranger.

But the driver couldn’t keep quiet for long. As the car bounced up and down over potholes, he began to tell us stories about the big Buddha carved out of the Le Mountain. His eyes, flickering behind his thick glasses, kept peeking at us in the rearview mirror.

In a dramatic tone, he began. “Believe it or not, this Leshan statue is really a Buddha.” Then he paused, for suspense, I believed.

I asked, “What do you mean?”

“Ah, you’ve never heard anything about it?”

“No,” I answered abruptly. Still savoring my other-worldly experience, I wanted to be left alone.

Michael asked, “Meng Ning, what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? He surely is talking a lot.”

The driver asked, “What did your laowai friend say?”

“He wants to know what you said.”

He chuckled and paused to think. “Ah, so your laowai friend hasn’t heard anything about it neither, eh?”

“I don’t know, but one thing I’m sure about-” I could hear irritation in my own voice. “My old barbarian friend knows more about Buddhism than you do.”

Instead of being offended, he smiled, his large, neurotic eyes locking my gaze in the mirror. “Ah, but I don’t think so. I’m sure he doesn’t know the fact that this Leshan statue is a real Buddha.”

Feeling really annoyed now, my voice raised an octave. “Driver, just tell me what this ‘Leshan statue is a real Buddha’ is all about.”

Michael took my hand. “Meng Ning, what’s the matter? What did he say to annoy you?”

“Nothing.”

Just then the driver spoke again. “When I say the statue is a real Buddha, I mean that it’s alive with a spirit.”

Now he had my attention. He paused to wet his thick lips, the color of coagulated blood. “During the Cultural Revolution, many times people tried to destroy the Leshan Buddha, but all failed.”

“What did they do?”

“They climbed up the statue-that is, the mountain top-and tried to chop off his head.”

“But that head’s the size of a small house!” I’d seen many pictures of the famous Buddha.

“No, not that, miss.” He chuckled. “It’s because each time they tried, something happened-a comrade fell off the mountain and got killed; another seized by a panic so that he had to be carried down the mountain; yet another one had a massive heart attack and died on the spot. Finally the vandals agreed that chopping was impractical. A new idea was born; they climbed up the statue and tied sticks of dynamite around the Buddha’s head-”

“Oh, no! Then what happened?”

Michael turned to me. “Please translate what he said!”

“Shhh! Let me hear the whole story first.”

I prodded the driver: “Then what happened?”

“Be patient, miss. That’s what I’m about to tell you.” He took time to wet his lips, swallow hard, and after that, plunged on. “Then, when they tried to detonate the dynamite, it thundered. It had been a fine day, but suddenly there was a bolt of lightning!” He struck the steering wheel sharply. “And-”

Michael jolted. “Meng Ning, what happened?”

“Quiet, please, Michael, would you please let him finish?”

“I want to know what he’s saying.”

I ignored Michael’s remark while searching the driver’s eyes in the mirror. “And what?”

“And it struck everybody dead. Dead!” He spat out the window, then he lifted his hands from the steering wheel and stretched them wide apart, his excited voice echoing in the small confines of the car. “Their corpses looked like huge, roasted sausages!”

“Oh, my God!”

Michael’s voice, now very upset, rose next to me. “Meng Ning, when you talk to him he takes his hands from the steering wheel-better stop asking him things. The road is still wet and slippery.”

Just when I was about to warn the driver, deafening honks exploded. To my horror, I saw a car speeding toward us from the opposite lane. Our taxi swerved sharply and we all skidded to the side of the road.

Our driver stuck his head out and hollered, “You son of a bitch! Couldn’t you wait to register with the King of Hell?!”

The other driver shot him a murderous look. “You dead man!”

He shot back, “Fuck your mother and stop driving like a lunatic!”

After that, he resumed driving, while casting a triumphant smile toward us in the rearview mirror.

“Jesus!” exclaimed Michael; then he patted hard on the driver’s shoulder. “Would you please concentrate on the road and drive more carefully?”

The driver turned to ask me, “What did your laowai friend say?”

Before I could answer, Michael was fuming again. “Meng Ning, won’t you tell him not to turn his head back, but instead look at the road ahead?!”