Across the road from the hotel, beside the rubble of abandoned
demolition, sits a tiny cave-like shop selling more things than would
seem possible in such a small space. It is immersed in the fumes of
traffic and sewage, and thick dust blows up from the potholes when
motorcycles bolt past. The shopkeeper greets me with the noble eyes of a good king, and the
serene smile of a saint. His riches are not the broom handles or tea
cartons that surround him, but poise, courtesy, carefulness, and
kindness. I relish my daily visit, observing him with fascination. He
is a portrait of rare dignity. Returning my look with a cavernous
depth, he smiles as if from his whole being.
I revisit that smile in my mind’s eye time and time again. It
reminds me that although a slave may possibly be stripped of dignity, a
servant’s dignity can easily exceed that of the one whom he serves.
That dignity seems evident to some extent in everyone I see in China. I
realise I am purposely searching for someone displaying any hint of
anxiety or self-consciousness. There is no sign of either affliction!
Neither is there much sign of overt spirituality, but it’s as if people
carry an invisible temple within them. They seem somehow aware of
themselves in a way I have not seen anywhere else in the world. Ancient
wisdom sits beneath youthful, forward-looking openness.
The most fitting word I can find to describe the cultural
atmosphere is “auspicious.” Every action follows a kind of stately
confidence and measured deliberation. There is symbolism in every
colour and form. The corners of buildings are even rounded so as not to
block subtle energy. From the character on a hanging lantern, to the
positioning of a charm, to the assumption of a Tai Chi pose, or the
pouring of tea, everything carries a significance hidden beyond the
veneer of outer appearance.
Along the waters of a small port, row upon row of fishing boats
butt against one another. The archetypal pirate ship must have been
born somewhere in these ranks. Dark flags point out above turned wooden
railings, perched along blunt, formidable bows. Families wearing
contented smiles move slowly and talk loudly, peering out at me from
behind piles of netting. A child of four or five pushes out from her floating home, poised
on a square raft, paddling with a long plastic spoon. She drifts
further and further away, not looking behind her, but singing
cheerfully to herself; absorbed in her journey. On reaching the
boundaries of comfortable distance, she drops into the water, swimming
smoothly back home with a bright grin and the raft in tow.
Sumangali Morhall
December 2004
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