“As death approaches, memory erodes. Recent memories are the first to succumb. Death works its way backward until it reaches memory’s earliest beginnings. Then memory flares up for an instant, just like a flame about to go out. That is the “prayer in the mother tongue.”
The solemn cadence of these words echoes the fleeting nature of life as I contemplate a funeral procession glimpsed on a bustling street. A silent prayer, a “prayer in the mother tongue,” escapes my lips, hands pressed together in a gesture of respect and gratitude for the departed soul: “Bless the departed soul and forgive all mortal sins.” Forgiveness, a balm for the wounded heart, hangs in the melancholic air. A prayer, a fragile hope for betterment, flickers in the mind’s vast emptiness. Death, it is said, unearths the long-lost past. Nostalgia creeps in, draped in the guise of first love, fragments of childhood, and the worn pages of life’s journey, all embraced by the comforting threads of the mother tongue, even as it binds the stillness of death.
The Funeral Spectacle and Personal Grief
Childhood memories cast a long shadow, and for me, funerals were once a source of profound fear. This changed on the day my grandfather passed away. Deemed too young to witness death firsthand, I was ushered into a neighbor’s apartment, shielded from the silent farewell. I never saw his face in repose, his last earthly image. Surprisingly, no tears fell upon returning to the empty room. Even now, funerals fail to evoke grief in me. I observe, detached, sitting beside the deceased, gazing at the still face, searching for a phantom goodbye from my grandfather, a closure my youthful anguish was denied.
Does death merely fill the void that life inherently carries? Can it truly erase the missteps and transgressions of mortal existence? At what point does one squander the virginity of life, only to later lament the recklessness? Did my grandfather, in his final moments, recall his first words spoken in his mother tongue, a primal call to his mother? Will my own first utterances resurface on my deathbed? The rhythmic beat of a drum, carried from a nearby teahouse, momentarily intrudes upon these somber reflections.
Rituals, Mourners, and a Teenager’s Diary
Awaiting the arrival of the youth known as the ‘Master of funerals’ on the aged steps, the heart-wrenching cries of a child pierce the air. He pours oil from a lamp, lit before the deceased, his young soul recoiling from the scent of rapeseed oil. The oil, with its cruel sweetness, conjures ghosts within his mind, a lingering odor that resurrects the departed. Unaware of the cyclical nature of grief, it won’t be long before he encounters this scent again. Will he then offer countless lights at the altar, honoring the memory of his parents? For this boy, death permeates the very essence of the viscous oil.
A middle-schooler, present to pay respects, sits beside me. Unlike many others, he doesn’t feign solemnity. Like myself, grief eludes him. The rituals commence with the entrance of the ‘master of funerals.’ Not a priest, nor a shaman, but a young man in his twenties, whose kimono carries the scent of the grave, a testament to the funerals he has witnessed, far exceeding the celebratory sacraments of life. Amidst the chants, the teen unexpectedly thrusts a book into my hands. “Please, read it carefully,” he implores. Words fail me. How could he commit such a seemingly disrespectful act during a funeral? Does he not honor the dead? Tears welling in his eyes convey his desperation, and I understand then that I must read his penned diary of the sixteenth year. An unenthusiastic refusal is impossible; his belief rests upon my acceptance. His grandfather is nearing death. Perhaps fate offers a second chance to voice my own unspoken goodbyes. Perhaps his words can lighten the burden of my heavy memories. But will the teen himself find solace? Will his loneliness dissipate like the tears from his grandfather’s fading eyes? Will his heart, like his grandfather’s, endure for seventy-five years, bearing the wounds of life’s failures? These are questions for his 27th birthday, perhaps.
Symbols of Life and Fleeting Beauty
The pristine white fabrics, billowing gently, evoke the virginal essence of life, a stark contrast to the departed soul. The soft murmur of the sea echoes the melancholy of fading memories. An urn, destined to hold gathering the ashes, rests peacefully on a wooden mantle, once the proud stand for an authentic Japanese watch, a symbol of love’s enduring courage. Love, indeed, is paradoxical. Born from the vanity of beauty, it often crumbles under the weight of its own opulent absurdities. Frightening love. Love teetering on the brink of madness, consuming its own purity, leading to the precipice of insanity. Is love a bastard child of lunacy, or a forlorn orphan seeking refuge in nurturing hearts? Ask this of the man who patiently awaits the cold steel against his warm neck.
The Funeral Procession and Village Life
The boy, carrying a neatly wrapped parcel of his mother’s kimonos and belongings, smiles faintly as his birthplace bids a sorrowful farewell to one of its own. The funeral procession moves onto the grand street, adorned with mountains of silver and copper coins. Coins rain down, like pearls from a broken necklace. By honoring the departed, the honey road transforms into an illusory path to a melancholic heaven. Is paradise then a distant road, or is it found in the beggar’s boots, who tonight will feast on sea bream and sake, the red comb a wedding night gift? The piercing cries of cicadas shatter the funeral’s solemnity as villagers exchange glances. The cicadas’ song from the hilltop park morphs into the subdued whimpers of a woman, confined to chastity under the roof. Again, villagers glance knowingly. Rumors of a woman who has lost her virginity three times precede the procession. The woman in the white kimono behind me smiles, privy to a truth unknown to others. She lost her virginity at the mere sight of a wrinkle near her eye, the sting of her sagging breast her first bleed. Not a memory, just a fleeting shadow. Is old age the inevitable enemy of beauty that life so cherishes? Do our accumulated memories become a burden as we approach life’s twilight? Ask the woman who has lost her virginity for the fourth time. Vile gossip is an illusion born from nascent self-loathing. Like a fantastical ballet freed from human error, fantasy seeks solace in the arms of realism. Is it not true that we often choose to dwell within our rose-tinted prejudices? Ask the man standing in the shadows of a pilgrim in the third-class waiting room at the station. The drumbeats grow louder, closer.
Disruption and Reflection
The procession turns onto a narrow road leading to ‘Mountain Peach Bath,’ a man-made paradise fading into memory. Suddenly, a furious outburst halts the solemn march. “You worms! It’s a small road, barely wide enough for cars. If you were so shocked to realize the road’s intentions, open your eyes and consider the intentions behind that highway!” roars an enraged young man. The public bath has given way to private baths, and ‘Mountain Peach Bath’ now exists only in history archives, in fading memories. Crickets chirp zealously in a jar nearby. The insistent scent of burning pine boughs brings a strange comfort to a somber heart. Do the ashes of pine cleanse the heart of burdensome memories? Does the heart become a blank canvas of purity once more? Ask the heart yearning to erase its ingrained orphan complex.
Beneath persimmon trees, oblivious to the funeral, children play with a newly found half-sword. The blunt piece, a mere echo of its former sharpness, lies near the ancestral shrine. The samurai sword, condemned for tasting the blood of a grief-stricken woman. Did the sword have the right to take a life? Who ordained it a messenger of justice? Ask the broken piece that has drawn blood.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” sisters cry out from the inn’s gate. Do these cheers mirror the sentiments of the soul released from its earthly vessel? Or are they a welcome to the woman who, in her father’s memory, embarks on a journey through Japan’s inns? Does the inn represent her unfulfilled dream or bear the weight of her unkind memories? It mirrors my own struggle to find my grandfather’s face in the visage of the deceased. The deafening drums become excruciating in my emptiness. Peeking into the teahouse, I lose sight of the funeral. An adolescent dancing girl, barely a woman, is joyfully playing the drums, entertaining the teahouse patrons. A virginal beauty, dazzling to behold, The Dancing Girl Of Izu is a nomad of beauty and innocence, a girl on the cusp of womanhood, yet to be defined.
The Dancing Girl of Izu: A Contrast of Life
Nearly an hour later, the funeral procession reaches its end. Like a soul silently departing the body in its final glory, the setting sun dips into its watery grave, leaving memories painted across the violet sky. The soft waves of the sea hum a gentle lullaby to the princess of the dragon palace, asleep in the cerulean depths, while a fairytale is inscribed on a lover’s tomb. On the return journey from the cremation, weary laborers descend from the mountains into the village. A girl, eyes wide with terror, gazes at the sea, wondering if someone will be kind enough to rescue her from this place. Nightfall shimmers in the moonlight. The moon, solitary and luminous, carries its virginal burden, heavier with each star that punctuates the night’s ecstasy. As the moon contemplates its lonely fate, the horse beauty flies like an arrow towards it. The drums of the dancing girl welcome new life into the world with its first cry of innocence. That day, I witnessed both the echo of life and the stillness of death, everything in between scripted in the unread pages of the diary fluttering in my lap.
“Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I’ll sketch it in words…”
Embarking on the Kawabata journey, I resolved to immerse myself in each of his literary works, undeterred. I sought to grasp Kawabata’s primary strokes of his literary artistry. A writer’s debut work is akin to the monochromatic underpainting on a blank canvas, its final image yet unseen. To understand the root, after admiring the grandeur, the essence of the root must be critically examined. But I encountered the finished painting first, not the bare canvas. Presented with a completed artwork, I attempted to decipher and categorize each color that coalesced in the pursuit of a divine nothingness. I listened to the silence between the scripted words, comprehended the lingering emotions, and the lavish beauty that flowed with each stroke on the canvas. In moments consumed by silence, I could discern the anguish of a soul, shimmering like a crystal jewel amidst the sketched words. To grasp the meaning of nothingness, the cry of a solitary heart, to judge a character without prejudice, the quest for a virginal soul, to hear the earthly grave now bestowing divine nourishment upon generations – this requires the “ears of a Buddha,” a privilege Kawabata occasionally grants.
