The day my grandfather went into hospital I saw a patient who had died being wheeled into what Thais literally call the 'Heart-stopped Building* That was the first time I had heard of such a place, and I remember thinking what an awful name it was. It looked to me, at first, like an ordinary place; but after I learned what it was, the building suddenly became a much darker grey-almost shadowy, the way buildings and houses look just before a thunderstorm. The two large windows on either side became eyes, and the entrance below formed a wide-open mouth. I told myself not to look in that direction from then on.
The body being wheeled was covered from head to toe with a bright coloured Chinese silk sheet. Thais use these silk sheets the way people in cold countries use blankets, only the silk keeps them cool as well as protecting them from mosquitoes in the tropical climate. The woman walking alongside the wheel-bed had her umbrella open. She held it over the body, I found it amusing that art adult would actually try to shield a dead person, instead of herself, from the blazing sunlight. Even a nine-year-old like me knew that dead people cannot feel anything. What a dumb thing to do, I thought.
I was glad grandfather was going home in just a few days; I heard the doctor say so myself. Grandfather had always been a happy, healthy, robust kind of person. He was also, in every sense, a successful man: well-educated, rich, important, respected and loved. As a Buddhist he had fulfilled his six important duties: he had served his religion well; he had been a good son, a good husband and father. And surely, most definitely, he was a good-a great-grandfather.
There were four of us grandchildren living under his roof; several of his unmarried children were there: a few relatives: five generations of servants. Elderly servants who had been there since his father’s day were well taken care-of, and young ones were sent to school at his expense.
Grandmother once told me that adults call people like him ‘Bo Tree’, I knew what she meant. Most every temple I had ever gone to had huge Bo trees. They looked like gigantic umbrellas with their long branches radiating in every direction like the bamboo ribs that hold up paper umbrellas, only the masses of intense green leaves were much thicker than the paper. If you stand right underneath a Bo tree, you are sheltered from the รนท as well as the rain.
That’s why birds loved to live in Bo trees. There seemed to be thousands, because it was more than I could count. They are the Bo’s little fruit and built their nests; knowing their young would be safe from fierce sunlight and piercing rain.
Ten days later, grandfather died. Grandmother covered him with his Chinese silk sheet. I secretly wished she would not cover his face.
As we walked by his side to the 'Heart-Stopped Building* where he would have to stay before they removed him to a temple for religious rites, I opened the umbrella to shield him from the sunlight. It was April, our
The day my grandfather went into hospital I saw a patient who had died being wheeled into what Thais literally call the 'Heart-stopped Building* That was the first time I had heard of such a place, and I remember thinking what an awful name it was. It looked to me, at first, like an ordinary place; but after I learned what it was, the building suddenly became a much darker grey-almost shadowy, the way buildings and houses look just before a thunderstorm. The two large windows on either side became eyes, and the entrance below formed a wide-open mouth. I told myself not to look in that direction from then on.The body being wheeled was covered from head to toe with a bright coloured Chinese silk sheet. Thais use these silk sheets the way people in cold countries use blankets, only the silk keeps them cool as well as protecting them from mosquitoes in the tropical climate. The woman walking alongside the wheel-bed had her umbrella open. She held it over the body, I found it amusing that art adult would actually try to shield a dead person, instead of herself, from the blazing sunlight. Even a nine-year-old like me knew that dead people cannot feel anything. What a dumb thing to do, I thought.I was glad grandfather was going home in just a few days; I heard the doctor say so myself. Grandfather had always been a happy, healthy, robust kind of person. He was also, in every sense, a successful man: well-educated, rich, important, respected and loved. As a Buddhist he had fulfilled his six important duties: he had served his religion well; he had been a good son, a good husband and father. And surely, most definitely, he was a good-a great-grandfather.There were four of us grandchildren living under his roof; several of his unmarried children were there: a few relatives: five generations of servants. Elderly servants who had been there since his father’s day were well taken care-of, and young ones were sent to school at his expense.Grandmother once told me that adults call people like him ‘Bo Tree’, I knew what she meant. Most every temple I had ever gone to had huge Bo trees. They looked like gigantic umbrellas with their long branches radiating in every direction like the bamboo ribs that hold up paper umbrellas, only the masses of intense green leaves were much thicker than the paper. If you stand right underneath a Bo tree, you are sheltered from the รนท as well as the rain.That’s why birds loved to live in Bo trees. There seemed to be thousands, because it was more than I could count. They are the Bo’s little fruit and built their nests; knowing their young would be safe from fierce sunlight and piercing rain.Ten days later, grandfather died. Grandmother covered him with his Chinese silk sheet. I secretly wished she would not cover his face.As we walked by his side to the 'Heart-Stopped Building* where he would have to stay before they removed him to a temple for religious rites, I opened the umbrella to shield him from the sunlight. It was April, our
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