No parrott sketch included
Trip Start
Apr 29, 2007
1
8
Trip End
Feb 29, 2008
Nagaoka, Niigata, Japan
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Upstairs I heard footsteps, soft clasping of thick socks and wooden floor, was definitely my mum's.
"What happened?" I asked.
She walked downstairs and announced that her father, my grandfather, Ushizo, had passed away earlier the same day, aged 82. She did not look distraught by the death. But she looked stressed. "I am oh so unbelievably busy. Got to sort out clothing, gifts, money gifts, leave to be taken from work, and so on, so on, so on!" She spoke in a rare staccato rhythm.
"Where is your tie and suits for funeral?" She nagged me into action. I could not quite sink in what had happened. I wanted to ask her the details about the death and the funeral.
"I am expecting a phone call from my sister and brother. They will let me know when the wake and the funeral are going to be held. I won't know anything until I hear from them". I was tired from my outing, and was not in any mood to do anything other than hitting the sack straightaway. So the news and the packing were the last things I wanted.
"Just look for that tie!" she nagged, again, sounding frustrated.
An hour later the phone rang. The wake would be held on Friday night, and funeral on Saturday. Dad decided we leave for Niigata early on Friday. On Thursday I went to work as usual, notified my colleagues of my grand dad's passing, and requested a few days' off. &a mp;a mp;a mp;a mp;n bsp;
At 5 am we left Yokohama for my mum's family house in Niigata where grandfather had lived with the family of mum's brother, Uncle Shigeharu. I was relieved that we survived five hours of dad's reckless driving. It could have been a funeral for extra four people.
The funeral was rare in one aspect because it was to be a home funeral, not held in a hired venue. Outside the house, wreaths had been unloaded from a lorry. Candles were set up. Undertakers were putting stickers with names of relatives on the wreaths and candles - basically these stickers acknowledged contributions from guests. Inside the house, at the back of the living room were tables, piles of zabuton (square sitting mats) and an altar covered in white cloths. On the altar were flowers, ornaments and a photograph of grandfather. To the right of the altar was grandfather. He was in futon. A duvet covered most of his body. Aunt Yumiko, my mum's sister, was sitting besides him and greeted us. After some chitchat about the journey and the weather, she asked me if this was the first time I saw a dead body. Nodding to her question, she suggested I touch him. Dad sat besides me, saying the body would really be cold. And it was. Now I really learnt what the expression `stone cold dead` really meant.
Time was ticking along. Things had to be done before shedding tears or feeling lyrical about death. In the living room I saw a timetable of the whole proceeding. It indicated that the funeral would last one night and one full day. Aunt Yumiko and Uncle Shigeharu asked us to get the house ready for the funeral. One does not need much nous to know Grandfather's passing was sudden. We were asked to clear cabinets out the living room to make space for the wake and the funeral. Inside the cabinet were cups, dishes and cutlery in varying degrees of wear and tear, and some had accumulated dust and some looked frequently used. Inside were packets of unopened tea leave packets. All those items spoke volumes that he had really used them.
By the time we moved the furniture, it was lunchtime. Aunts and my mum were busy preparing lunch. It was nice to see my mum getting quite animated. One sign was her speech slipping back into the central Niigata dialect. We ate and got back to our duties. All the while, granddad was left lying in his futon.
Intermission (now time to get your popcorn and drinks)
If you wish to get detailed descriptions and explanations of funerals in Japan, look up in Wikipedia or hire a fantastic DVD, "Ososhiki" (The Funeral) directed by Juzo ITAMI (surname in capitals). So I will not bore you with full-blown details or pretend to know deep religious significance of funeral proceedings. Rather I can only write wie es eigentlich gewesen (how it really was). Well for me, anyway.
The following sections contain descriptions of a funeral and a dead body. Some readers might find the descriptions disturbing. Discretion is advised.
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Among all the rules of funerals, I learnt two crucial rules immediately. One, the dead had to be accompanied at all times, day and night, by a member of the surviving family. Two, candles next to the dead had to remain alight throughout the funeral. Aunt Yumiko told me that the first scripture reading would begin at five. It was already 2 pm. Dad in the car, sleeping off. Yuusuke, my brother, disappeared somewhere, probably - cooped himself in a room, checking text messages and reading comics. Mum applying make-up incessantly. Aunt Yumiko asked me to look after grandfather. This sounded a fine duty. A steady flow of guests and more relatives arrived. Guests handed out an envelope to a man sitting at a table. He was busy taking register of guests and how much donation and gift he was receiving when there was no one he was busy making seating plans for lunch next day. I sat next to my cold bereft grandfather - thinking back of moments that I shared with him.
Aunt Yumiko gave me the rundown of the events. "At five, the wake starts. Monks come along and read scriptures. We are lucky. Because monks of this family's Buddhist sect don't spend much time on reading scriptures. Also it is a pretty frugal sect, really. Whereas ours, the one that I married into, is quite ornate. At one funeral we had four monks come with cymbals and small drums and all. What was more, we had to pay those monks per head. Ah, so much money! But we only have two coming. So we pay less." Aunt Yumiko explained, looking both pleased about this funeral, but her face expressed worry about her own and her husband's.
I spent close to three hours sitting next to grandfather whilst everyone else was doing their own things elsewhere in the house. Two of us were left alone in the room. Time stopped. Almost. Candles and incense sticks were the only reminders of the passing time.
Close to five o'clock, guests, relatives and my cousins were arriving in a steady flow. Before the first scripture reading session, we were to move granddad from the futon into a casket. Upon the instructions by the funeral director, uncle Shigeharu, his wife aunt Tomoko, dad, aunt Yumiko, mum, a few cousins gathered around grandfather. The funeral director issued each of us with cotton pads. He then circulated a jar of medical alcohol. He indicated to us that we dabbed the cotton pads in the alcohol and wiped off his face, neck, hands and feet. Each of us dipped the pads and wiped him clean. We began the cleaning in awkward silence. Soon we got the hang of it. Aunty Yumiko was smiling at grandfather saying "Hey, we are cleaning you now. Lucky you. You're going to the other world now". Her words broke the silence and broke the ice. The atmosphere became less austere. We put socks on and covers over his hands. This made him ready for his journey to the other world. We lifted him up and placed him into the casket. The undertaker encouraged us to put items that were precious for him. The idea was to keep him happy for his journey and stay in the other world. Inside we placed a few copies of haiku magazines, pens and paper went inside. He was fond of making haiku poetry. We also put certificates of his haiku awards. Five boxes of cigarettes went in. Before putting the lid on the undertaker put some dry ice to keep him cold throughout the evening.
Guests and family sat on zabuton mats and waited for monks to come. Two monks came. Upon seeing them, Dad looked more attentive and focused. He whispered to me and revealed his sneaking suspicion "The young one looks exactly like the old man. The old man might have been a teacher. He might have been my social studies teacher at junior high school". Before the reading began, the older monk gave a short speech, reporting on what he had learnt of grandfather. When someone dies, she or he gets a new name. The monk named gave him Kenmyo, clever and enlightened. Indeed, grandfather worked on his land diligently, never complaining. He was gentle in his manner. He was never greedy. He never badmouthed anyone. In the last ten years or so, he acquired the taste for haiku. He became rather good at it in his local community. Some of haiku poetry featured in a nation-wide magazine. I believe that the choice of the name was appropriate.
The reading began. The language and the meaning of the reading were unintelligible. It was a steady flow of chanting - the old monk had a deeper voice than the young one. The unison sounded well rehearsed. Whilst the reading was in progress, a tray circulated among us. On the tray was container. It was filled with ashes. On the top was a black cube of incense that looked like a piece of chocolate. We picked up a pinch of ashes and sprinkled the ashes over the incense. We then put our palms together and made the praying gesture. Before any of this happened, we placed obligatory Y100 coins each. I do not know its significance or why it was Y100, though. One could actually tell where the incense tray without really seeing it. Because there was bound to be someone opening their wallet looking for the Y100 coin or making the praying gestures. Just when the chanting became hypnotic and began to induce me to sleep, the reading came to an end. Then the MC, grandfather's cousin, moved the evening to dinner. Zabuton were collected and stashed away. Swiftly tables were set up inside the room to form a large rectangular. Food was brought out. Inside the square people went around pouring sake and beer, chatting with guests and relatives.
During the evening I was eager to speak with my relatives and to learn about my grandfather's life stories, because there was so little I knew of his life and so much I wanted to know. The story of the Katagiris has it that my grandfather married out of his own family into my grandmum's. The Katagiri family fell from grace. The family was a petty land-owner and leased out rice paddies to tenant farmers and peasants. They had gained a modest amount of fortune. Like many "good" nationalistic Japanese they were encouraged to invest in national bond to support the war efforts. This came to nothing in August 1945. Following the Allied Occupation and its land reform, they lost nearly all of their land. Emasculated and impoverished, the Katagiris could not yet get used to the new reality. My grandmother, according to my mother, was a bit of a princess and knew no housework or had no feminine grace. In other words, she was not to be a sought-after woman. Grandfather was a quiet man and doing his own work on rice fields. He knew his place in the family and did not meddle in the family affair that grandmum reigned supreme.
However, I soon found myself gasping for fresh air for the entire evening. My curiosity had to take a backseat. Six out of the eight cousins who attended the funeral smoke. My mind was focused on survival. For the rest of us, the atmosphere was informal, carefree and almost too jovial.
The MC stood up and stopped the throng. He told us that grandfather was fond of his grandchildren and he wanted each of us to make a short speech. Totally unprepared for this, we did our best and made short speeches. Each of us went up to the altar and made a spontaneous speech. Afterwards we hit the gong with a wooden stick and made the praying gesture. Caught unawares, none of us made an elaborate eulogy. Perhaps his death was too sudden for us to sink into our psyche. I only stated that I thanked him for being a fantastic grandfather and I wanted to cherish the moments that we had shared. I have no idea, but after my speech the atmosphere sank like a lump of led hurled into water. To rescue my "dinner stopper" speech, Uncle Yukiharu uttered "Terrific!" The MC thanked me for my speech, but then suggested that there was little to gain from mourning hours on end. He would never come back alive. As the speeches were over, the wake resumed and continued into wee hours.
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The second day was a full-day affair. Dad, my brother and I had slept the night at my dad's family house, about 2 km away from my mum's family house. During breakfast we heard an ambulance go past by. "Another one dying", Dad jested. Indeed, the town of Oguni is one of many Japanese villages with declining and ageing population. My grandma and I went along to a local supermarket across the road. She wanted to buy a special envelop to wrap up donation for funerals. There is special envelop for happy occasions such as wedding. I saw a shopper buying a packet of funeral envelops. My brief inspection of the shelf confirmed this shop stocked more funeral envelops than the wedding ones.
We went back my mum's family house. At 10 am the same two monks began another scripture reading. Yes, the incense on a tray went around. The reading was punctuated by the occasional clicking of the Y100 coins and the tray. After the reading the MC stood up and came to the front. He read out telegraphs that had been sent to the family. The telegraphs were mere formalities. Several telegraphs later one could not help noticing that there were set phrases spewing out of some computer programme. The messages basically wished grandfather well in his afterlife. What was worth noting about the telegraphs, though, was not really the message or the medium (Here goes my Marshall McLuhen moment!). I had an opportunity to look at the telegraphs. These did not come on pieces of paper. The messages were printed on a card, the type that you can unfold to open and to read the messages. Some cards were ornate - featuring embroidery. There was a telegraph from the CEO of a transport company for which Uncle Shigeharu worked. There was also another telegraph from a well-known female MP whose father was once the Prime Minister of Japan in the 1970s. (His name and the dynasty are still revered like gods in this rural Niigata constituency, perhaps because the man helped to develop his own constituency. This could have been readily described as porkbarrelling in the US). Her name was listed as 'the counsellor' of the CEO of uncle Shigeharu's bus company. Both telegraph messages were printed on cheap-looking thin grey cards. Was this the best they could send to Uncle Shigeharu after nearly 40 years of loyal service to the company?
The funeral director told us to bring out the casket. He told us that there needed to be six men. We put the casket into a vehicle bound for the local crematorium. Neighbours had come out to see off the casket. Uncle Shige made a short speech before leaving for the crematorium. "Thanks for taking time and trouble to see off our father. He would have been pleased to see you all. We owe your help and support for his happy life. From now on, he is about to depart to another world."
Uncle Shigeharu continued,
"We are still young and verdant, we are not as worldly as you are. So we would appreciate your future support". This was little more than saying hi and thank you to the neighbours. But looking at the crowd of about fifty people, no one looked under the age of 75. Uncle Shigeharu is nearly 60. That he had described him and his wife as "young and verdant" was a poignant reminder of Oguni's population decline.
We went into buses to the crematorium. Aunt Yumiko and mum seemed pleased with the timing of cremation. In cities or on busy days one would not have the liberty to select the timing of cremation. The timing can alter the schedule of events significantly. They were pleased that it would take place around mid-day. Arriving at the crematorium we unloaded the casket. Inside the crematorium two men in khaki attire and white hats came out. They explained that it would take a few hours for the entire cremation. The monks came too to bid him farewell. The casket was put on a wheeled cart. Then the door of the incinerator opened. The men in khaki outfit checked a few things and pressed a green button.
"It is all taken care of". One khaki jacket man said. His tone flat, face deadpan. We then turned round and got back into buses. We arrived at a local inn for lunch.
The lunch was the same affair as the wake. It was a lavish meal. Lots of food so much of it that we were issued with plastic containers to take leftovers. And yes, alcohol was flowing like the Niagara Falls. To crown it all, we received big manjyu as take-home gifts (buns with sweet azuki bean paste). Dad was impressed with nozawana pickles. When guests began to leave, he told me to pass on leftover pickles to him, saying "What a waste to discard such brilliant nozawana!" Whilst he was cramming a plastic container, a voice over his head said, "Ah, you love it so much, ha ha ha!", the MC beamed at him. Dad looked like an eleven-year old boy caught for peeping girls' change room or something. Both just laughed off, even more loudly.
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After the lunch we were back to the crematorium. Dad told me that only the closest members of the family would attend this part of the funeral, so that the in-laws were barred from it. Dad was waiting inside the bus. But besides me were aunty Yumiko and her husband. I was wondering whether he wanted to lie down after drinking so much or to nurse his scarred pride.
The two men in lab coats greeted us. They had wheeled out the bones for us to view. They explained that we were to move the pieces of bones into an urn. This is a special occasion in which one can flaunt the rules of chopstick use. When passing food from one person to another, one has to put the food into a dish or a bowl, and then the other person picks it up. One cannot hold the food with the chopsticks and then let the other take it with the chopsticks. This is the taboo, because this manner is only permitted for handling bones after cremation. I was quietly growing excited about this occasion.
One of the crematorium men volunteered some information about grandfather.
"Well, he might have been man of slight build. But his bones were pretty tough", he said poking the bones with chopsticks. These men must have seen so many corpses and bones in their lifetime. I discreetly asked one of the men'
"Can you tell if the body burnt well?"
"Oh, yes, this one burnt well indeed. Sometimes bodies don't well. This one was very good". I was not sure how to read his expression. It was matter-of-fact and deadpan. It was a very special occasion for us, but for him it was another job done. I picked up a piece of a bone to take out with me. Although I did so as discreetly as I could, it did not escape my mum's sharp eyes.
"What have you just done?"
"Dad wants it", I said.
"Whatever for?" mums was looking confused.
"Ask him!" was all I could say.
A cousin of mine carried the wooden urn out of the crematorium. His role, I think, was the most appropriate, remembering how much grandfather had adored him. I passed my loot to my dad. We returned to the house. We rested for a short while. Then the monks arrived. A little later another scripture reading began. This was supposed to occur seven days after the cremation. But these days, as the monks explained, many prefer to get this done following the cremation.
After this final reading, my dad's old social studies teacher, the older monk, began to talk.
"As you heard before in those telegraphs sent to you, there is the phrase 'we wish the deceased well in the outer world'. But in our sect, this is not really appropriate. When you decease you merely go into the world of Buddha. It is an honour to join Buddha. So that we are in no position to wish the deceased well. Instead, it is the deceased who should be wishing us well to live well in the world in which we live in. Mr Katagiri did his bit in this world. Now it is yours to live." This was quite a radical statement, to my mind, because it interpreted the conventional notion of 'wishing the dead well' from a different angle. Looking around, however, I seemed to be the only one actively listening to his speech. Everyone else seemed too tired, too drunk or both!
But this was not the end. There was going to be another dinner. The MC walked into the living room. He was instantly excited at a gift placed next to the altar, a bottle of sake.
"This is crème de la crème. My uncle loved his sake. We most definitely have to drink it in HIS honour tonight!" He snatched the bottle and walked away as fast as he could, without concealing mischievous delight on his face. I recall that granddad liked sake, but I am not so sure if he was an aficionado. But who is to attest his statement? It was a party, anything went.
According to the plan, grandchildren would stay at home to keep an eye on the candles and keep granddad's spirit in company. Then the others, his children, guests and cousins, would go back to the same inn where they had eaten lunch for dinner. Uncle Shigeharu had ordered sushi and noodles for us grandchildren; we had no choice but to obey. A question arose where my cousin, Miho, should be. She married a few years ago. Her marriage made her an "outsider" because she married into another family. But she still is a grandchild, but because of her marriage to another family, she accompanied the guests, that is, her husband and her father-in-law, to the inn. I would have thought that it would be nicer if she joined the grandchildren (as she was the only female one present) and her husband accompanied. The meal that we had at the house was all guys affair. Again, I was the non-drinker and non-smoker, gasping for fresh air. My limbs were freezing. Perhaps I needed a sip of sake to warm myself up.
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The most extraordinary thing I found in the funeral was that no body cried or even sobbed at any part of the funeral. Perhaps my relatives and the guests took a clinical approach to death. Perhaps his death was too sudden for us to feel. Anotehr striking aspect of the funeral was that the monks made frequent references to two major instances of earthquake in central Niigata, the first one in October 2004 and the second one recently in July 2007. Living in an ageing dying town, afflicted with damages and deaths caused by earthquake, death for the locals is a reality that they have to get on with.
After the funeral, the mess unfolds like scramble for inheritance. A few weeks after the funeral my mum reported on inheritance.
"Zero", she said. "He left nothing for us."
"How do you mean? He did not have any savings. We were expecting he would have something, but nothing at all. There was an insurance policy that he had had. Upon death Uncle Shige and his family would be receiving two million yen. But the insurance would not pay you out if you die past the age of eighty!" she looked exasperated.
"That is a rip-off. It must have been a small-print issue that no one really read carefully", I offered.
"You know something worse? You know, grandma is still alive. She keeps saying to us 'in my insurance policy, you will get some cash when I die. Not two million, it is three million. She is 83, and we will not get a single yen from the insurance policy. We are not too sure whether we should tell her."
One is born with nothing and dies with nothing, people say. I was wondering if one could draw a parallel between this insurance debacle and the Katagiri family's unrewarded wartime investment. Whether he left no asset was intentional, we do not know. One is born with nothing and dies with nothing, people say. I felt like toasting in his honour.
