3 The effect the dream had on Fak lasted many days, and for many nights afterward he dreamed again and again that all of the villagers now understood the truth. On the nights that he dreamed, he was filled with a warmth and happiness that sated him to the point that he hardly wished to wake up ever again.
When he awoke and faced reality, however, he realised that his happiness was only a dream and that he could no longer deceive himself, even though he tried every way he knew to make the real world resemble his dream.
In the real world, no one was willing to believe him, but in the world of his dreams, everyone praised and admired him.
Each time he saw his dad in his dreams, he felt that his dad’s soul would not rest in peace so long as his body had not been cremated as tradition required. His dad’s soul kept visiting him in his dreams as though it was asking him, “Aren’t you going to let me be reborn like the others?”
Only Fak could answer this question. The widow Somsong had never made any mention of cremating the body. Maybe she had forgotten already that she once had a husband named Foo and that the man named Foo was the father of the person she was living with now.
The rainy season had begun, and with the first drizzle came the pervasive smell of damp earth.
Within days, rounds of cheers resounded through the village, together with the beat of long drums, the blasts of a brass band and the soothing entreaties of the master of ceremonies: the time for ordinations had come.
Fak received no invitation card. Nobody came to ask for his help in pounding flour to make Thai vermicelli, cracking open and scraping coconuts or washing dishes. Nobody came to invite him to attend the ordination celebrations. It was as though he didn’t live in the village at all. On some evenings, the comforting voice of the master of ceremonies came drifting by, making Fak sad that he would never be ordained as a monk in this lifetime.
Whenever an ordination ceremony took place on a Saturday or Sunday morning, he would go and stand outside the monastery fence and watch the procession go by as it went around the prayer hall, watch the men and women shuffling along to the rhythm of the long drums, look at the little girls dressed in colourful traditional Thai costumes, with pencilled-in eyebrows and painted lips, filing past, from the smallest tots to the tallest maids, all holding candles in cones made out of banana leaves. The young man about to be ordained was paraded on his friends’ shoulders and wore a white, thin cloth with golden hems over his white undergarments. He held a lotus, a candle and incense sticks in his hands, which he kept at chest level, palms joined. His father carried an alms bowl on his shoulder and held a ceremonial fan; his mother, the future monk’s set of three robes. His brothers and sisters, old people and other relatives and friends and neighbours followed, carrying gifts to offer the monks who took part in the ceremony as well as basic implements for the new monk, such as kettle, teapot, water scoop, soap, pillow, blanket and so on. The procession, crowded with just about everybody in the village, stretched out until its head nearly met with its tail.
When the future monk knelt before one of the leaf-shaped boundary stones in front of the prayer hall and asked for forgiveness for all his wrongdoings, Fak also forgave him, giving up every misgiving about the past. The young man then threw coins into the air, and when the people jostled to catch them, Fak didn’t join them, but remained standing outside the fence. He watched until the young man was carried into the prayer hall, thinking idly all the while how happy he’d be if he were the one being carried into the temple.
As the days went by, the rain became more regular and sometimes it rained for two or three days without letting up. The festive period of ordinations was coming to an end and the start of the Buddhist Lent was getting closer. An unending stream of people kept visiting the new monks and bringing food. But Fak no longer went to the monastery. He was afraid of the looks he would get.
Once the merit-making alms-giving ceremony on the first day of Lent was over, the villagers took turns each day to bring lunch to the monks. They would do so for the entire Lent season and not a day would pass without these offerings, except holy days, when an alms-giving ceremony took place at the temple itself.
When the ceremony coincided with his days off, Fak would go to the temple to help wash the dishes, lay out the mats, empty the spittoons, carry things and do whatever else needed to be done. He carried out the work as though it was his duty, and whatever food was left over he took home for his and M’am Somsong’s dinner. Nobody said anything to him about this, but among themselves people said: “These leftovers already brought us merit, so the devil might as well have ’m.”
Throughout Lent, the widow Somsong behaved exactly as if she was in jail. Fak kept a close eye on her and, fearful of possible repercussions if she didn’t behave herself, he lay down strict rules for her to follow: don’t walk in the monastery grounds; don’t bother people in the kitchen; don’t pull up your sarong or expose your breasts in front of anyone; don’t look or smile at monks. The penalty for any breach was most severe: “I’ll kick you out for good.” Even though it was only a threat, it had the desired effect and kept her under control.
During this time, she did nothing to add to Fak’s worries. Actually, this was not entirely true, because there were still occasions when she would try to crawl under his mosquito net at night. Fak maintained his chastity as strictly as the newly ordained monks practised their discipline.
School time had moved on to midterm and there was nothing wanting in the way Fak carried out his duties. The special alms gathering that marked the end of Lent went by and monastery time moved on to the day of presentation of robes to the monks. Soon after that, the new monks began to disrobe. The refectory was now complete and the last row of old quarters for monks was being demolished to make way for new ones. After the bustle of Lent, the temple was back to its usual peace and quiet. The restrictions placed on the widow Somsong were rescinded and everything returned to normal.
As things turned quiet at the temple, Fak had more time to think, and his father’s cremation was again on his mind. He decided that he would definitely cremate his father’s body before the end of the year, as tradition demanded. But who could he consult about this, apart from M’am Somsong, and what kind of ideas could she possibly come up with? As it turned out, though, she did have one suggestion to make, but for someone of Fak’s standing it was way beyond his means: she wanted to have a likei performance at the cremation. Apart from that, she had no opinion on the subject.
Fak had no relatives whose advice he could seek. He was alone, and moreover, resented by the villagers. There was no one he could turn to, no place he could go. The idea of having to rely on someone else made him feel lonelier than ever. At first, he had thought that he’d be able to look after M’am without too much trouble. He had asked for just one thing: that nobody harmed her. But now, he felt that being ostracised by all was a torture worse than any other.
Two days after the celebration of the abbot’s birthday, in November, Fak shyly revealed his intention to the headmaster.
“Oh, good,” the headmaster said. “It’s a good idea to cremate the body.”
“Do I have to bring an invitation card to Kamnan Yorm also, sir?”
“Oh ho! Sending out invitation cards as well, eh? You’d be better off making it a quiet affair. Just go and tell him, for form’s sake. Word of mouth is better.”
“Yessir.”
“Also check with the abbot which day the monks are available, so that it doesn’t clash with anybody else’s ceremony. If it does, just postpone it.”
“Yessir.”
The abbot and the headmaster set the seventh of December, during the school vacation, as the date for the cremation.
As the day approached, Fak went to see Kamnan Yorm. On the way to his house, Fak felt his body becoming smaller, as though he was approaching a mountain. Many times he thought of turning back but didn’t dare, because not to invite Kamnan Yorm would be tantamount to not showing respect. The closer he got to the kamnan’s house, the smaller he felt. When he finally reached the house, he stopped and stood outside the bamboo fence. Four or five dogs ran towards him and surrounded him, barking riotously. Kamnan Yorm’s grandson came out to see what was happening. When the little boy saw Fak standing behind the fence, he put on a fierce expression.
“What are you doing here?”
“I want to see the kamnan,” Fak told the boy, while keeping his eyes on the dogs, which were still barking all around him.
“Hey! Get back here!” a voice shouted. When they heard Kamnan Yorm’s voice, the dogs ran back under the house, their tails between their legs.
Fak raised his hands to his face and bowed to the kamnan, who was walking towards him. The kamnan acknowledged Fak’s greeting by raising his left hand, as though he were brushing a fly off his chin.
“What’s the matter?” the kamnan asked.
“I’ve come to let you know, sir, that I’m going to cremate my father’s body on the seventh,” Fak said most respectfully, even though his voice was shaking.
“Oh, good.”
“I also came to invite you to the cremation, sir.” His voice continued to quiver.
“On the seventh, eh?” The kamnan made as though he had just thought of something. “Hold on – hold on for a minute. Wait here for a moment.” He turned and went back into the house and returned after a while.
“I don’t think I can make it. I have to go to a meeting in town on the seventh.”
“If you’re not free, then never mind, sir.”
“Really, I’m not free.” The kamnan patted Fak gentl
3 The effect the dream had on Fak lasted many days, and for many nights afterward he dreamed again and again that all of the villagers now understood the truth. On the nights that he dreamed, he was filled with a warmth and happiness that sated him to the point that he hardly wished to wake up ever again.
When he awoke and faced reality, however, he realised that his happiness was only a dream and that he could no longer deceive himself, even though he tried every way he knew to make the real world resemble his dream.
In the real world, no one was willing to believe him, but in the world of his dreams, everyone praised and admired him.
Each time he saw his dad in his dreams, he felt that his dad’s soul would not rest in peace so long as his body had not been cremated as tradition required. His dad’s soul kept visiting him in his dreams as though it was asking him, “Aren’t you going to let me be reborn like the others?”
Only Fak could answer this question. The widow Somsong had never made any mention of cremating the body. Maybe she had forgotten already that she once had a husband named Foo and that the man named Foo was the father of the person she was living with now.
The rainy season had begun, and with the first drizzle came the pervasive smell of damp earth.
Within days, rounds of cheers resounded through the village, together with the beat of long drums, the blasts of a brass band and the soothing entreaties of the master of ceremonies: the time for ordinations had come.
Fak received no invitation card. Nobody came to ask for his help in pounding flour to make Thai vermicelli, cracking open and scraping coconuts or washing dishes. Nobody came to invite him to attend the ordination celebrations. It was as though he didn’t live in the village at all. On some evenings, the comforting voice of the master of ceremonies came drifting by, making Fak sad that he would never be ordained as a monk in this lifetime.
Whenever an ordination ceremony took place on a Saturday or Sunday morning, he would go and stand outside the monastery fence and watch the procession go by as it went around the prayer hall, watch the men and women shuffling along to the rhythm of the long drums, look at the little girls dressed in colourful traditional Thai costumes, with pencilled-in eyebrows and painted lips, filing past, from the smallest tots to the tallest maids, all holding candles in cones made out of banana leaves. The young man about to be ordained was paraded on his friends’ shoulders and wore a white, thin cloth with golden hems over his white undergarments. He held a lotus, a candle and incense sticks in his hands, which he kept at chest level, palms joined. His father carried an alms bowl on his shoulder and held a ceremonial fan; his mother, the future monk’s set of three robes. His brothers and sisters, old people and other relatives and friends and neighbours followed, carrying gifts to offer the monks who took part in the ceremony as well as basic implements for the new monk, such as kettle, teapot, water scoop, soap, pillow, blanket and so on. The procession, crowded with just about everybody in the village, stretched out until its head nearly met with its tail.
When the future monk knelt before one of the leaf-shaped boundary stones in front of the prayer hall and asked for forgiveness for all his wrongdoings, Fak also forgave him, giving up every misgiving about the past. The young man then threw coins into the air, and when the people jostled to catch them, Fak didn’t join them, but remained standing outside the fence. He watched until the young man was carried into the prayer hall, thinking idly all the while how happy he’d be if he were the one being carried into the temple.
As the days went by, the rain became more regular and sometimes it rained for two or three days without letting up. The festive period of ordinations was coming to an end and the start of the Buddhist Lent was getting closer. An unending stream of people kept visiting the new monks and bringing food. But Fak no longer went to the monastery. He was afraid of the looks he would get.
Once the merit-making alms-giving ceremony on the first day of Lent was over, the villagers took turns each day to bring lunch to the monks. They would do so for the entire Lent season and not a day would pass without these offerings, except holy days, when an alms-giving ceremony took place at the temple itself.
When the ceremony coincided with his days off, Fak would go to the temple to help wash the dishes, lay out the mats, empty the spittoons, carry things and do whatever else needed to be done. He carried out the work as though it was his duty, and whatever food was left over he took home for his and M’am Somsong’s dinner. Nobody said anything to him about this, but among themselves people said: “These leftovers already brought us merit, so the devil might as well have ’m.”
Throughout Lent, the widow Somsong behaved exactly as if she was in jail. Fak kept a close eye on her and, fearful of possible repercussions if she didn’t behave herself, he lay down strict rules for her to follow: don’t walk in the monastery grounds; don’t bother people in the kitchen; don’t pull up your sarong or expose your breasts in front of anyone; don’t look or smile at monks. The penalty for any breach was most severe: “I’ll kick you out for good.” Even though it was only a threat, it had the desired effect and kept her under control.
During this time, she did nothing to add to Fak’s worries. Actually, this was not entirely true, because there were still occasions when she would try to crawl under his mosquito net at night. Fak maintained his chastity as strictly as the newly ordained monks practised their discipline.
School time had moved on to midterm and there was nothing wanting in the way Fak carried out his duties. The special alms gathering that marked the end of Lent went by and monastery time moved on to the day of presentation of robes to the monks. Soon after that, the new monks began to disrobe. The refectory was now complete and the last row of old quarters for monks was being demolished to make way for new ones. After the bustle of Lent, the temple was back to its usual peace and quiet. The restrictions placed on the widow Somsong were rescinded and everything returned to normal.
As things turned quiet at the temple, Fak had more time to think, and his father’s cremation was again on his mind. He decided that he would definitely cremate his father’s body before the end of the year, as tradition demanded. But who could he consult about this, apart from M’am Somsong, and what kind of ideas could she possibly come up with? As it turned out, though, she did have one suggestion to make, but for someone of Fak’s standing it was way beyond his means: she wanted to have a likei performance at the cremation. Apart from that, she had no opinion on the subject.
Fak had no relatives whose advice he could seek. He was alone, and moreover, resented by the villagers. There was no one he could turn to, no place he could go. The idea of having to rely on someone else made him feel lonelier than ever. At first, he had thought that he’d be able to look after M’am without too much trouble. He had asked for just one thing: that nobody harmed her. But now, he felt that being ostracised by all was a torture worse than any other.
Two days after the celebration of the abbot’s birthday, in November, Fak shyly revealed his intention to the headmaster.
“Oh, good,” the headmaster said. “It’s a good idea to cremate the body.”
“Do I have to bring an invitation card to Kamnan Yorm also, sir?”
“Oh ho! Sending out invitation cards as well, eh? You’d be better off making it a quiet affair. Just go and tell him, for form’s sake. Word of mouth is better.”
“Yessir.”
“Also check with the abbot which day the monks are available, so that it doesn’t clash with anybody else’s ceremony. If it does, just postpone it.”
“Yessir.”
The abbot and the headmaster set the seventh of December, during the school vacation, as the date for the cremation.
As the day approached, Fak went to see Kamnan Yorm. On the way to his house, Fak felt his body becoming smaller, as though he was approaching a mountain. Many times he thought of turning back but didn’t dare, because not to invite Kamnan Yorm would be tantamount to not showing respect. The closer he got to the kamnan’s house, the smaller he felt. When he finally reached the house, he stopped and stood outside the bamboo fence. Four or five dogs ran towards him and surrounded him, barking riotously. Kamnan Yorm’s grandson came out to see what was happening. When the little boy saw Fak standing behind the fence, he put on a fierce expression.
“What are you doing here?”
“I want to see the kamnan,” Fak told the boy, while keeping his eyes on the dogs, which were still barking all around him.
“Hey! Get back here!” a voice shouted. When they heard Kamnan Yorm’s voice, the dogs ran back under the house, their tails between their legs.
Fak raised his hands to his face and bowed to the kamnan, who was walking towards him. The kamnan acknowledged Fak’s greeting by raising his left hand, as though he were brushing a fly off his chin.
“What’s the matter?” the kamnan asked.
“I’ve come to let you know, sir, that I’m going to cremate my father’s body on the seventh,” Fak said most respectfully, even though his voice was shaking.
“Oh, good.”
“I also came to invite you to the cremation, sir.” His voice continued to quiver.
“On the seventh, eh?” The kamnan made as though he had just thought of something. “Hold on – hold on for a minute. Wait here for a moment.” He turned and went back into the house and returned after a while.
“I don’t think I can make it. I have to go to a meeting in town on the seventh.”
“If you’re not free, then never mind, sir.”
“Really, I’m not free.” The kamnan patted Fak gentl
การแปล กรุณารอสักครู่..