The Buddha and the Rickshaw
I spent this past Labor Day weekend with my mother in her
condominium in Jackson Heights, NY. In
her living room she has collected a number of knick-knacks and she questioned
why she had spent money on such trivial items.
As she spoke, I realized that she had endowed each inanimate object with
priceless memories. Here is one of them:
Do you see that Buddha
statue over there? Over on that left
bookshelf? I have other Buddhas on the
shelf, but that one is the most special to me.
Your sister made a trip
to Taiwan when she was living in Hong Kong.
She was trying to decide whether she wanted to take a holiday to Canton
or Taiwan, and I told her that the Mandarin dialect would be easier for to
understand than Cantonese, as it is much closer to our Shanghai dialect. Also, one of your father’s best friends lived
in Taipei and would look forward to having your sister visit.
They went sightseeing
and your sister had a wonderful time. As
she was shopping she spotted a pearl white statue of a Buddha that caught her
eye. She thought it was quite exquisite:
about 18 inches tall, finely carved and depicted a slim feminine Buddha
variant. Your father’s friend saw that
she was quite taken by the statue. “It’s
quite beautiful, isn’t it?” he commented.
”It really is. And I think it is
the Buddha whose name ends every mantra that my mother recites during her daily
prayers.” “Let me buy it for you,” my
father‘s friend offered. “No, I really
want to get it for my mother. If you
purchased it, the gift would be more from you.
I really appreciate your offer, but I truly think this is special and I
want it to come from me.”
My father’s friend
looked at your sister with a new appreciation.
“I thought she was so young,” he later recounted to me. “But she was very wise in her views. Very unlike the children here in Taiwan, who
seem to be only out for themselves!”
When your father’s
friend told me this story, I was so proud of your sister! But this reminds me of when you and I visited
China (in 2002). We were in that small
town outside of Suchow. We spotted a
rickshaw and you asked me whether I wanted to ride as we were tired and it was
unusually warm for September. I remember
that as we were riding we came to a small bridge with a steep incline. You got out of the rickshaw and helped the
driver pull it over the bridge. “Ah!”
the elderly driver exclaimed to me.
“Your son is so very considerate!
No other child here would even think to help! You must not be from here.” My mother admitted that I born and raised in America. “Ah, that explains it!”
These memories seemed to make my mother extremely happy and
proud. “Children here are different,
much more thoughtful and kind” she commented.
As for myself, I don’t believe this is due to geography, but due to
upbringing. After all, the apple really
doesn’t fall far from the tree.
