In 1978, on a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in the car; outside the iron case, all’s gloomy and grey. The huge heavy clouds were converging and descending monstrously; the hostile wind rampantly exploited the pale leaves, throwing them around haphazardly; the sun pitifully dodged under its mournful crimson swim ring. 

I arrived at my grandfather's funeral. It was at the bottom of the mountains, halfway on the highway that led to nowhere and everywhere. The place was immense; several funerals were on. I quickly changed into a white cloth with a piece of dried wormwood leaf pinned to the front of my chest and joined my family. 

The rite had already started. We formed a big circle, from the eldest to the youngest sequentially. Monks were leading the chant while handing us scripts to follow in with the tune. At the end of the extract, one representative from each branch of the family lined up, holding a candle for blessing, and walked around the deceased. 

The first one up was of course the eldest son, my uncle. Trembling and tottering he walked up, his hands were shaking uncontrollably with the candlelight madly flickering. He kneeled in front of the body, sinking his head onto the ground, and bowing his body as low as possible, as if submerging under the hard crust. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, paralyzed. The air was static and still if one could stop breathing. Limply he got up, and tears streamed down torrentially. 

One by one, people went up, kneeled, prayed, cried, and returned. The sound of sobbing spreads epidemically (yes, sadness is contagious if not happiness) and soon in every direction people were weeping louder and louder, with desperation and solemnness so concordant that it was almost cruel and mechanic as a plaintive machine gun. People were breathing too erratically: the air became thin. It was suffocating. 

Gloomy and grey, gloomy and grey. 

I looked around, almost every kin crying, even my six-year-old little cousin was covering her face with her palms, sobbing. Indeed, my grandfather had passed away. There was no reason not to cry. He was one of the dearest and most respectable family members, and we were his beloved posterity. So, I tried to cry, but no teardrops fell. What was wrong with me? He loved me with all his heart, I knew that instinctively. He would cook for me, play with me and entertain me with all sorts of fancy toys. He would wait for me at home after school and bring me cookies and a bottle of Yakult. He would always give up the TV for me whenever I wanted it. I tried again, but it was all in vain, as if the dry incense seized all the moisture from my memories, taking it with the swirling smoke, with nothing left to reclaim.

The procedure carries on. The monks start to chant again and restore the calmness. One of the monks walks up and gives a brief speech summarizing the life of the deceased. “He was born into a wealthy family in 1938. He had three siblings, a sister and two brothers. He had taken three jobs during his life and was awarded the Honor of Family twice.......” 

I was startled at the details of all these descriptions. The dead was dead; there was no need to repeat all his deeds. Leave it to the divine to judge, and the mortals to love. 

“His family was wealthy with fifteen cattle, twenty hens and owned 20 acres of land at the southern village.” 

I started to panic. Please stop. This was not a court; there was no criminal present. 

“His financial income was stable”, I shuttered and leaned back, almost falling onto my cousin behind. I was not interested. It was fruitless and futile. 

“…, as he inherited the title of landlord.” 

Landlord. It stabbed my heart hard in its wound, a wound that was never healed. My mind shut down and went blank. Emptiness. 

What should I feel? 

All that labour, exploited on the farm; all that bloodshed; boys and girls, men and women, working day and night in return for meagre breadcrumbs. Many were beaten to death, if that made the landlord pleased. I knew it instinctively, but all I did was standing there – static and still. And now they all know. 

People gasped and looked around. Shocked eyes met, asking to confirm an answer.

“All his properties were confiscated in 1970, and only a wooden pillow was exempted...” 

The respectable was a landlord. After all these years, our blood was not clean. He inherited his blood, and we inherited his. 

“Overall, what is done is done for a reason. He is at rest now and we are deeply sorry to lose him.”

What is done is done for a reason. The monk’s words echoed in my mind. Things were irretrievable as blood was. He was cruel and harsh, but after all, what choices did he have? Under the old order, the landlord was either him or someone else. Then how many descendants would be enough to bear the shame to undo what was done? 

It was either infinity or zero.

So, I chose the latter, and gratefully prayed and blessed him on his journey to the other world. I loved him very much, and that was all to know. 

At the end of the rite, I went forward to put up my candle at the very front and whispered confidently in his ear, “Grandpa, please rest and have fun in the nirvana. I am your granddaughter, and I am very proud to be so.” 

A light flashed open his eyes and they shone like stars twinkling in the sky, stars of honesty and acceptance.