Memories of the temple

It is said that in the past, every hutong in Beijing had a temple, one big or small. This may be an exaggeration. But as I think back, the hutongs I have lived in and the ones I am familiar with do all have temples or temple remnants.

In the hutong where I was born, diagonally opposite the door of my house, there used to be a small temple. When I saw it, it had been converted into an oil mill, the temple door, temple courtyard has not changed significantly, but the monks have left, there are often horse-drawn carts to bring large bags of peanuts, sesame, the courtyard all day grinding rumble, choking the smell of grease does not dissipate. The donkeys that pushed the mill took turns to rest in the open space in front of the gate, rolling around and shouting in a fuss.

There is a larger temple in another hutong to the east from that hutong, where the incense still exists. I can't remember the name of the temple, but I remember my grandmother saying that there were no men inside. It was the place where my grandmother used to take me, and the temple courtyard was very large, with pines and cypresses. On summer evenings, no matter how hot it was under the weather, once I entered the temple courtyard, I immediately felt cool. My grandmother and I sat side by side on the stone steps of the temple hall, enjoying the evening breeze and moonlight, watching the stars light up one by one. The monks and nuns do not drive away the common people, not to mention the admission fee, see us but nod and smile, and then quietly do not know where to go, as the evening breeze lifted the pine and cypress incense seems to be. The temple often has a puja, the sound of bells and drums, cymbals, the sound of wooden fish, miso ......, that music makes people hesitant. The sound of chanting is like a wordless companion song, like a sorrowful sigh of the night, as if the land that has been baked all day has finally been stretched and then dazzled with mist. My grandmother listened quietly without moving, but encouraged me to take a look. I hesitantly approached the door, only glanced into the crack, and immediately ran away; that glance was extremely impressive. Now I think, about any sound, light, shape, gesture, and even temperature and breath, have an innate response in the human heart, so many things can not understand but can know, can not say clearly, but always remember. That's about the power of form, atmosphere or emotion, coming as a whole, they are bigger than words, they enter the realm of the inaccessible, so much so that a five or six-year-old child instinctively examines rather than just sees. I ran back to my grandmother, and instinctively I knew that it was a different kind of place, or that it led to another kind of place; for example, the mist flowing through the woods, full of wandering spirits. Grandma was so absorbed in listening that she didn't even feel it when she was shaken; she was looking back at life from the music and the chanting, looking at that other place. I was too old to look back, too old to look forward, and another place was a serious threat to a new life. I went into my grandmother's arms, not daring to look, not daring to listen, not daring to think, but feeling the darkness of the air, and the moonlight seemed cold and dark. This child was born timid and foolish, and I think that is the reason why he came to this earth.

The year we started elementary school, we moved because several streets had joined together to form a people's commune, and the commune authorities took a liking to the courtyard where we used to live and the two adjacent courtyards, so they moved in and we moved out. I remember that this was done in a great hurry, as soon as we were notified in the morning, we moved out in the afternoon, and the street cadres called the main laborers of each family home from their units and moved them from noon until late at night. I was very excited about this, and all the children who were moving out were excited that they wouldn't have to go to school, probably not even tomorrow or the day after, and that we would all move out together and still live together afterwards. We hopped in the truck with the furniture and headed to our new home, feeling like something moving was happening, something new was waiting for us, but unfortunately it wasn't far to go, and we couldn't talk about the experience at all before our new home arrived. But the slight disappointment passed in a flash as we rushed into the yard, scraping through all the houses like the wind, taking over them as owners. From a future point of view, the yard was far inferior to our old one, but freshness was the main thing, and freshness is a natural affinity with children, and freshness was always revered in that season. Climbing to the tree and then jumping down, being knocked down by the busy crowd and then get up, excited about each new discovery, and then see that there is nothing ...... in the end collectively in a corner asleep, sleep unconscious, screaming can not be called. At that time, my mother was away on a business trip, too late to inform her, a few days later she returned to see the home has become the commune organs, she stood in front of that door for a long time before someone came to explain to her, something to the effect that: it does not matter don't worry, moved away are good comrades, where to live and where not to live are the same revolutionary needs.

The new home is called "Guanyin Temple Hutong", as the name implies, there is a temple there. The temple is not small, but has long been in disrepair, long out of care. The temple gate is gone, the courtyard withered vines, old trees and wasteland hides people. The side hall is empty. The main hall still exists a few clay statues, colorful decorations, standing on both sides of the guardian of the gods of heaven, but has been bare-handed and empty fists, weapons have been taken off who threw on the ground. A few children of my age and I picked up the weapon, wielding it, jumping up and down in the hall to kill in and out, imitating the mundane warfare, slashing at the dilapidated clay tires, charging into the grass, cutting through the thorns and leaves, seemingly with the gods of Don Quixote, and then "fertilizing" the lonely old tree, wiping the paper on the wall ...... do all the blasphemous evil and then go home like a bird in the sunset light. For a long time it was our playground, not home after school first to go there, there are endless secrets found there, dead cats in the grass, old trees with bird's nests, the dark roof of the temple is said to have snakes and weasels, but never see one. Sometimes it is for a small book, the rental period is tight, we can not take turns, they all run to that temple to see, a person holding everyone around, we all said to watch before turning the page. Who looked slow, everyone scolded him stupid, in fact, can not read a few words, mainly to look at the paintings, look at the paintings naturally also have stupid and not stupid. Or to copy homework, there are a few stupid master homework always will not, copy others, the temple security, teachers and parents are invisible. Buddha, well, no Buddha in the heart of anything dare to do. The copyist prostrated his buttocks in the eyes of the Bodhisattva tight copy, the copyist is taking the opportunity to show off its superiority, saying a "I do not have much time you want to copy faster", and then deliberately amplify the relaxation and happiness, to catch grasshoppers, catch dragonflies, shouting bouncing balls, fan triangle, anxious copyist sweat, prostrated buttocks rhythmically upside down, mouth The rhythmical lurching of the prostrate buttocks and the chanting of words in the mouth, and the occasional twisting of the head to shout: "Wait for me a while hey! In fact, everyone knows, can not wait. There was another time specifically for the competition of boldness. "Who dares to go to that temple at night?" "What's the point, chit!" "What is there? There are ghosts, do you dare to go?" "Nonsense! I've been there long ago." "Bull x!" "Hey, if you don't believe it hey ...... go tonight you dare not?" "Go to go what ah, ch!" "OK, who does not go who grandson dare not?" "Okay, what time?" "Nine o'clock." "I'm afraid my mom won't let me out at that time." "Ouch, if you don't dare, say you don't dare!" "Okay, nine o'clock, then nine o'clock!" That night we really went to the temple, someone took a flashlight, and someone else brought a fruit knife at least considered a weapon. We walked into the temple door when the sky was still full of stars, but soon the sky was cloudy and the wind was picking up. We squatted on the steps of the side hall, huddled in a pile, not daring to move or speak loudly, the grass swaying, the old trees rustling, the moon skipping in the clouds. Some people said they wanted to go home and take a piss. Some people say you can go there to take a piss. Some people say they are not afraid of anything else, but they are afraid that it is going to rain. Some people say it is not afraid of rain, but afraid that once it rains the family should be anxious. Some people say that when it rains, snakes come out first, and then there may be something else. The one who wanted to pee began to shiver, saying that not only want to pee this time and want to defecate, but unfortunately did not bring paper. In this way, everyone gradually have the desire to poop, said holding shit and urine is to be sick, a person always hold shit and urine later became a pot. Everyone was surprised: Really? Then why don't we all go home and use the toilet? But the next day, the first to go to the toilet became the only one to go to the toilet, everyone blamed him, saying that if it were not for him we would have stayed there for a long time, maybe we could have caught the snake, and maybe even see the ghost.

One day, the temple courtyard suddenly appeared a lot of dark red powder, a pile like a small mountain, I do not know what is, but also can not figure out what the use. That powder and dry and light, a foot on the "poof" sound everywhere, and from then on shoes become dark red, never wash clean. After a few days, the temple came to some people, all day in that dark red powder tossed, so each one became dark red, not to mention that the temple walls and steps have also become dark red, the grass and old trees have also become dark red, the powder with the wind and go or flow with the water, soon, half of the alley has become dark red. Subsequently, a signboard was hung in front of the temple gate: non-ferrous metal processing plant. From then on, the game place is no longer, snakes and ghosts do not know where to move, weeds were hoeed clean, old trees were felled, leaving only a dark red full of the sky and the ground day by day to grow. Later, the temple hall was demolished, and the temple walls were torn down to build a big, booming factory. The name of the hutong was also changed, and those born later would think that there had never been a temple there.

My elementary school, the campus was also a temple, to be precise, is part of a large temple. The temple is called the Berlin Temple, which has many cypress trees that are as thick as a hug. When there is a wind, the old cypress trees thick and deep sound waves, spread across the campus, into the classroom, so that the noisy children can not help but quiet down, so that the sound of reading aloud sometimes soaring and sometimes sinking, so that the bell of the class and the end of the class fluttered and lilting.

The old man who rings the bell is said to have been a monk in this temple, and since the temple was converted into a school, he returned to his profession and became the janitor here, watching the door and ringing the bell. The old man is extremely kind, no matter how you touch his red nose and bare head he is not annoyed, see you unhappy he will even lower his head to you, said: want to touch it? The children are willing to go to the communication room to play, crowded in his bed, crowded impermeable, no big and small jokes with him. When it was time for class or dismissal, he rang the brass bell and walked unhurriedly under all the windows and porches, without looking away and without changing his posture all the way. The bell swayed in the wind, reverberated in the schoolyard, and spread out in the sunlight, leaving indelible memories in the hearts of all the children. The first thing you need to do is to get a good idea of what you want to do.

But one day the bell suddenly disappeared, and the old man who rang it also disappeared, I heard that it went back to his rural home. Why? It was said that it was because he was still quietly burning incense and chanting, and that a new era should be one of atheism. When the children entered the school again, they saw that the brass bell was still in front of the window, but things were different, and there was a stern old lady sitting in the communication room. The old lady would not let the children fool around in her office. At the beginning and end of class, the old lady just clicked on the button, and the bell went "wah-wah-wah", indiscriminately, scaring the whole campus as if it were dizzy. In that almost cruel sound, the children know how to miss: the old bell, where did it go? Only one thing is certain, it went into the future with the memory. After years of its passing, in my dreams, I often hear it again, hear its fluttering and lilting, see the calm pace of the old man ringing the bell, and wake up in his unchanged face. Is the future already buried in that bell, already know what will happen after it drifts away?

Many years later, I was 21 years old and came back from the army, unable to find a job, and after waiting for a long time or unable to find one, I entered a street production group. As I wrote in another article, a few old houses were dusty, and I worked there for seven years, painting flowers, birds, fish and insects, and landscape figures on antique furniture, so I could make ends meet every month. The production team was located outside the south wall of Berlin Temple. At that time, the Berlin Temple had been converted into a bookstore for the Beijing Library. A few of my brothers and I, who were also unemployed, used to work under the red wall. The old house was dark and boring, so we went outside and watched the street scene while working, seeing all the people coming and going, and time seemed to pass much more quickly. In the morning, people rode their bikes to work with lunch boxes on the back rack, whistling and ringing the bell all the way, and that gesture alone was enviable. After the flow of people going to work, there are scattered people walking towards the gate of the Berlin Temple, most of them carrying a purse, when entering the door to light up a document, regardless of whether the gatekeeper can see clearly and then stride towards the inside, the grandeur is more people can not help but look up. Not what people can go there to borrow books and access to information, small d said it must be a professor or bureau level to do. "You know?" "Bullshit!" Little d is heavy on feeling not heavy on evidence. Little d is a few years younger than me, because of polio one leg is 3 cm shorter than the other, once graduated from high school to this production group. Many recruiting units are also heavy feeling not evidence, small d can actually do everything. We sit under that temple wall from morning to night, with eyes on six roads and ears on eight directions, without looking at the watch or the sun to know when this moment. A street grocery cart, "oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, pepper, spices, laundry detergent" shouted all the way over, is 9:00 am. When the tricycle to buy scrap came, about 10 o'clock. The old man who sharpened the shears and knives always arrived on Wednesday, aiming at a small restaurant next to the production group, "Sharpen the shears and grab the kitchen knife!" The voice was very loud; everyone said he was really spoiled, why not go to the opera? The first thing you need to do is to get a group of kindergarten children to show up at 3pm, one holding the lapels of the other, babbling and singing, thinking how beautiful the earth will be when you walk in unnoticed, brightly colored clothes flashing like a rainbow and disappearing like a rainbow. At four or five o'clock, a prison van often drove past us, not far from the Berlin Temple, there is a famous prison, said to specialize in thieves. There is a small Dezi, 17 or 18 years old without a father or mother, once with us in the production team to do. This kid can eat, one time the production team did not know what trouble to invite people to dinner, after the diners left, folded a full basin, Xiao Dezi bought a bottle of beer, sitting in front of the stove, only half an hour to use the basin to the bottom. But one day Xiao Dezi suddenly disappeared, the production group of aunts and mothers to ask around, only to know that the boy was caught stealing outside. For many days afterwards, we paid extra attention to the prison van before dark to see if he was inside; as the van whistled by, we all shouted "Xiao Dezi! Xiao Dezi!" Xiao Dezi still had one month's salary left to collect.

At that time, I still believed without a brain that it was better to have a formal job, and that if I could join a national unit, I would have something to fall back on in my life. My mother went with me to the Labor Bureau to apply. I remember that the place was a temple, with a deep courtyard. When I entered the door, my mother was all smiles and trepidation, and then she introduced her son to whoever she could find, promising that this child in a wheelchair could still do many jobs. Naturally, those people were full of official words, and my mother ran from the front yard to the back yard, from this room to that room. I was too young to offer them so many nice words. Finally, a comrade in charge came out and gave us a reasoned answer: "Take your time and wait a little longer, we can't assign all the children here!" After that I stopped going to them. Never again. But my mother, until she died, continued to make trips there, saying nothing before she went, and returning tiredly to make amends to her angry son. I said nothing more, but I knew she would go again, and she would build up enough hope again in two weeks.

I wrote in an essay called "The Acacia Tree" that it was on her way to find a job for me that my mother dug up a mimosa under a large tree; thinking it was a mimosa, it grew bigger and bigger, but in fact it was an acacia tree.

One day, in the summer of about 1979, we were sitting under that temple wall eating lunch, and out of nowhere suddenly came two monks in black and white with their hair down, an old man and a young man who seemed to float in. "Yo?" Everyone stopped swallowing and their eyes followed them in unison. They walked and talked, their eyebrows were clear, their steps were light, and between their brows and smiles everything around them seemed to become empty and even virtual. Perhaps our nervousness was noticed by them, and they deliberately nodded and smiled as they walked past us. This one reminded me of my long lost childhood. Then, still in the same way, they quietly walked away, as they did years ago, to nowhere.