The monk’s pleasant baritone, reciting a sutra, had been teasing my mind down a placid stream when the plump little obasan waddled through our private ceremony and hailed her friends at a nearby plot. I’d managed to put the blowtorch out of my mind by then, stopped worrying about the river of sweat coursing down my back, and reconciled myself to gently rocking back and forth on my heels as a way to stay in the moment and forget about the hot noontime sun. I had no idea how much longer the ceremony would take but figured that time would pass unnoticed so long as I remained focused on the clump of greenery on the horizon and tuned in to the sutra.
We were at the cemetery consecrating the family’s new burial plot. Father-in-Law had been trying to get one for several years now and to everyone’s relief his name had finally been pulled from the basket. He’d just made a special trip to Fukuoka to bring back the ashes of his mother, biological father and step-father and Manami and I were there with Minako’s urn. Grandfather Kaji went to war with the Japanese Imperial Navy and never returned; his wife remarried but refused to be placed in the same crypt as her second husband’s sisters. Minako was born in November 1998 with Edward’s Syndrome and lived for 34 days; for the past decade we’d kept her ashes in the household shrine.
We’d debated the issue “What to do with Minako’s ashes” many times in the past but never had to reach a decision because getting a family plot convenient to the house isn’t easy in this part of metro Tokyo. Father-in-Law got on a waiting list a few years ago and began putting away the million or so yen he’d need to pay for a piece of land the size of a bathmat. Add the gravestone, transportation and other charges and he probably paid upwards of $15,000. Manami and I went to the nearest discount clothing shop and picked up blacks suits used for formal occasions in Japan. Hard to believe that after 16 years and numerous funerals this is my first black suit; this should give you some idea of how much emotional energy I was investing in the ceremony.
Japanese are often described as sticklers for convention, and it’s true, they are, but like all humans some are capable of treating formal occasions with reverence while others treat them as just another formality. I look back on this experience and marvel at the perverse beauty of its complete and utter lack of reverence. I’d been prepared for the stiffness of ceremony but what I got was a cross between the Beverly Hillbillies and Caddyshack. To my left, a score of boisterous bumpkins. Were they blissfully unaware of our presence or just numbskulls who don’t know any better? To my right, the in-laws, my spouse and children and, hovering on the edge of my field of vision, Carl Spackler incarnate.
The family plot
I dislike intensely people who gab during movies, who fart on trains, and who talk within earshot during a ceremony. Maybe it’s my Polish blood, maybe I just lack patience and perspective; whatever it is, I tend to react inappropriately. So when I strode over to the bumpkins I did so with some trepidation, aware that I was of two distinct and irreconcilable minds: the gentleman seeking to defend his father-in-law’s dignity by inquiring of these fine people if it was in any way possible for them to please be slightly more, uh, thoughtful given the, uh, circumstances; and the berserker ready and willing to throw it all away for the momentary pleasure of throttling the life out of the first gormless little bastard I could get my hands on. I thought of my long-suffering spouse and compromised: “Would you mind terribly shutting the fuck up … please?” Later, when we were at the restaurant rehashing the day’s events, Father-in-Law took a sip of beer and asked casually, “So who were those friends of yours?”
I sidled back into friendly territory. The yokels responded to my request by upping the volume, and for a second there I could see Dubya on the deck of that aircraft carrier, big old “Mission Accomplished!” banner plastered on the superstructure behind him. Fortunately, another of Nature’s lovely little creatures chose to intervene at that moment and divert my attention.
The monk was a strikingly soft-spoken, mildly obsequious man in his 50s, and the steady breeze that had kicked up was playing havoc with his ceremony. At a certain point he is supposed to stand a little paper icon on top of the gravestone; after it toppled over for the third time, he turned to face us and explained that he would hold it in his hand despite the obvious (to him) violation of protocol. With our consent he continued, drifting into the next sutra like a canoeist pushing away from shore into a firm, steady current.
Enter the beetle. Nature’s quintessential Little Black Bug™ chose that moment to alight on the back of the monk’s yellow gown. After getting its bearings, the bug began crawling up the valley between our man’s shoulder blades, doing so, I estimated, at a pace that would take it up and over the collar and onto the bare neck before the sutra had been completed. The bumpkins and the breeze were enough indignity for one day, and now the monk was in for another unpleasant surprise. My first reaction was “Smack it!” I soon came to my senses: “Can’t do that – my man’s a Buddhist!” I looked at my family. Everyone’s eyes were averted; hadn’t they noticed? So I closed my eyes, let go and let the gods: “Ah, what the hell. I’ll give it another minute and see what happens.”
Having surrendered to that which I cannot control, I opened my eyes to find that our little intruder had bugged off. In the restaurant afterward I turned to Mother-in-Law and asked, “Did you notice that bug?” A slight, reserved woman, she broke into a broad smile and said: “Are you kidding! I didn’t know what to do! It was driving me nuts!”
The final act in the ceremony is the offering of incense. At home we use one thin piece about the same length but half the thickness of a swizzle stick, break it into thirds, light and then place them in a bowl. For the consecration ritual, however, we each used a bundle of 40-50 sticks that looked like miniature fasces without the axe. “Carl” the groundskeeper took up a position slightly to the left of the gravestone, six incense fasces in his left hand, blow torch in the right.
“Right. Time to light the incense. Lemme just put these over here … that’s it … okay, gonna light the blowtorch now …Watch yourself!” FWOOSH! Father-in-Law looks at him, asks if he always uses a blowtorch. “Oh, hell yeah. Not gonna get these lit with a cigarette lighter, you know. Take hours to do that! With this it’s just touch and go.” Father-in-Law asks if anyone has ever complained about his method. “You see those people over there?” He nods in the direction of the bumpkins. “Got into an argument with them earlier. Bunch a …”
Sealing the crypt
The incense offered, all that remained was to seal the crypt. “Carl” placed a stone slab over the opening and began to seal them together with grout. “Gotta make sure nobody comes by and grabs the ashes, you know.” Father-in-Law crouches down and asks if the seal is really secure. “Well of course not! All you need is a little leverage to pop off the cover! But it’s better than nothing!”
Exeunt
Having been paid, the monk by now had wandered off. The bumpkins had dispersed unnoticed. We took our leave as “Carl” was packing away the parasol and chatting to himself. The sun hung in the sky and the cemetery, its lush green rows empty save for the odd insect gliding around the headstones, was still.
