Of Home

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By the Yangtze River, there lies a small town nestled amongst the mountains in the Banan County of Chongqing.

Three generations of my father’s side dwell along the river, one of the famous landmarks of China. Family gatherings are always a loud and riotous affair, with aunts and uncles and cousins filling up the small confines of a waiting room for a restaurant, while waitresses dressed in traditional red Chinese garb stand by, waiting nervously for this seemingly uncontrollable crowd of people to be fed. Yet my relatives are a friendly bunch, and even though several of my uncles are inebriated with white wine, they ask with surprising civility for the waitress to bring in the next dish. Thus there is much revelry and shouting in the room, and the waitresses seem to relax, knowing that we are a harmless group of people, who have come to eat and have a little fun. I lean back in my chair, gorged with rice and countless dishes, and watch as my uncles play a drinking game while my aunts look on disapprovingly. I try not to be amused, but there is so much lively banter amongst them that I cannot help but break a little smile.

We go home by the means of a "san-l'er che," which translates simply to a three-wheel carriage powered by the strong legs of a laborer on a bicycle. He pedals without struggle, seemingly not even noticing my hyperactive sister bouncing in the backseat, and then we stop beside the river, where my grandmother's apartment is. The driver waits patiently as I fumble around in my wallet for the small payment, and he nods his head in appreciation at a tip before he pedals away, in search of more business. I wave to the doorman guarding the apartment. He knows the face of each of the tenants that live in the building, having gained much experience from watching all these years. He questions those who try to pass through the gates whose faces he does not recognize, but to me his greetings are always amiable.

Though the sun has begun to set, it sets slowly: a luminous ripening sphere dipping delicately into the river. Ah yes. The river. When I returned last summer, the surroundings around the water had changed, aged, but the proud River had not yet lost any of its magic. Its vast waters could only be matched by its ancient history, stretching forever and beyond 2,000 years of China’s past. As a small child, the hidden power of the river fascinated me, and the idea that its destructive power might unleash at any time seemed almost incomprehensible. Swelling with pride, its swirling waves colored by silt trip over each other in a tumultuous manner. Now, as I peer over the edge of the stone bridge, I am no longer a child, but I stare into the endless waters that flow by and feel so small compared to their eternal forces, their unyielding, unstoppable strength. My sister runs next to me, clambering for me to hold her, but I do not because I fear she might fall in. Nevertheless, I let her look through the openings between the bridge posts, and we both stare out into the waters in silence—in awe.

A wide promenade runs along the river, paved with pieces of stone slabs that do not quite fit each other perfectly. Thus, when I run down the path, the loose stone slabs create a clinking miniature tune, a secret musical only the most observant can appreciate and enjoy. Little kids play hide-and-seek among the vegetation, puppies romp around on the grass, and adults sit and sigh contently on the flats of natural boulders set up to act as chairs. Individuals as aged as the river itself walk also down the path, carrying large, straw fans and swinging their arms back and forth, back and forth, loosening the muscles in their shoulders. Somewhere in the distance, a man has ventured down the steps and stands next to the river, blowing into his bamboo flute and filling the listeners with wonder with just a simple melody. I stroll down the path, my eyes blinking as the rippling water splits the sunlight into a thousand rays. Closing my eyes, I wish that I could stay forever, that I may be eternally lost in this paradise.

As if on cue, a cool breeze blows through the atmosphere, and locals emerge from their air-conditioned homes, lugging out mah-jong tables and collapsible chairs, ready to begin another night filled with betting, cigarette smoke, and relaxation. Hot tea is poured despite of the humidity that hangs heavily in the air, roasted sunflower seeds delivered to each table, and soon the shouts of children are joined by the shouts of men and women engaged in a vigorous game of cards. The people hired by the small noodle shop rush about here and there, taking orders and coming back promptly with several bowls of steaming noodles. Patrons down the noodles, spicy soup and all, their long continuous slurps of contentment only broken only by the quick, scattered words of conversation between swallows.

Farther down, streetlights illuminate a courtyard, the scene of the daily dancing hour. There are couples everywhere. I can tell who has been married the longest, not by their age but how they dance. The younger couples are slightly awkward—some are shy to be seen together in public, and some do not know any proper dance steps. The older couples, knowledgeable in the art, glide about the courtyard gracefully to the music, their bodies in perfect harmony.

Slowly, the sounds of the nightlife die down. The last mah-jong game is completed, the last dancers twirl their final step and leave the courtyard, and the last children are carried away, tired from play, in their parents’ arms. As the lights on the eateries turn off, one by one, so the stars awake one by one, each taking its own place in the endless space above my head. I feel the denouement, the ending of the day creeping slowly upon me as I watch the darkness envelope the sky.

As I lay my head down on my bed, there is little sound that comes from the street through the window. Even the crickets have ceased to chirp, their sounds quieted under the starry sky. Only the river flows steadily on, its currents carrying forth my dreams...of home.

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