Tomb Sweeping

Today is Tomb Sweeping Day, a national holiday, we go to sweep the tomb of my dad's grandmother. It's no easy task. She was buried without a tombstone and nowhere near a cemetery. The only recollection my dad has of her burial ground is that it is next to a railway track outside of Gaoliying, a village under an hour’s drive from central Beijing.

But it may as well have been any village in the country’s undeveloped interior instead of the developed coast. Faces are sun burnt and wind blown. Men kick the dust with their synthetic shoes while twirling grass between their teeth. Youngsters whistle pop tunes while watching passing girls dressed in imitation designer jeans. Young mothers watch their babies play amongst thick dust and exhaust smoke. Matronly shopkeepers count change behind shelves of ramen, candy, and other past expiration date, non-perishable foods. Old men chat and smoke in heavy blue overalls dating to the communist era. Looking down at my T-shirt, I am reminded that heating in their homes is not central; they salvage their own wood or coal.

Like all country sides, Beijing's is all things to all people. Existing alongside are subtle charm and blatant poverty, green fields and brown sewage, four-star resorts and one-roomed huts, open skies and closed roads, where dirt paths rarely lead into city roads.

It takes numerous detours before we find that railroad track. Gaoliying, like the rest of China, has bloated in the last 20 years to beyond recognition.

“There it is: the circle of stones I made as a marker all those years ago. I can’t believe we found it.” My dad says softly.

It is a restful place. The sun makes a warm spot of it, nestled amongst peach blossoms in full bloom this time of the year, broken out of its tranquility by the occasional passing train. My dad pours baijiu on that circle of stones. The sweet fragrance of the 56% alcohol hits my nose and I cry.

My great-grandmother’s image immerges before my eyes. Tolstoy's Anna was born out of a friend, Kundera's Agnes out of a gesture, Laolao was born out of my dad's stories. She was a shy young bride, given as a concubine to a husband with daughters her age. Not coming from a wealthy family, becoming a small landlord’s concubine, i.e. a titled servant, was among the better options. She still had to work day and night, but it was mostly in the house instead in the house and on the farm. When she settled in the routine of serving her husband and children, as all women settled then, the Cultural Revolution came. She was publicly humiliated and chastised as a landlord’s wife though she had little more choice than a chair does in belonging to a man. They were both property. Her grandson watched helplessly as a crowd of people enclosed her, taunted her, and threw things at her. She survived, but parts of her died. In her old age, she moved from east to west China to live with her daughters’ families. In a foreign environment, she raised all her grandchildren. It was a life endured in silence; one spent taking care of others but not oneself. I cry not for her death, but for the life denied her.

I cry for the farmers and migrant workers in Gaolinying, for the lives they will never know. Beijing is an hour away, but it may as well be several life times. I cry for my illiterate grandmother. For her, every outing is composed of indescribable insecurities and fears. All the world’s a stage, and she's never a player. 

“Life is like this.” My dad breaks into my tears. “You never figure out its meaning. Once you do, it’s all over. To live is to seek, to be free to seek.”

I don’t quite comprehend his meaning, but I’m okay with that for now. I’ll seek it out by and by.

The alcohol evaporates, along with my tears. I place another stone in the circle and pray that my great-grandmother knows how loved she is by her children and children's children. The sun sets. I put my arm in my dad’s and we walk away amidst the peach blossoms.