The legend of the Snake Spirit can be briefly retold as follows. Long ago, there lived a fisherman and his wife. They worked hard to scrape out a living, never complained about their poverty and were always trying to be of service to others. They were happy together with, however, one sad thought: they had no children. They gave alms, went to many temples to pray, but as time passed, their chance of having children grew more remote day by day. They entered into old age when the wife miraculously became pregnant. Their joy was without bounds. But as suddenly as joy came, tragedy struck. The woman gave birth, not to a human, but to a snake without a tail. She died. Her husband did not survive her for long. Villagers were shocked by what happened. They could not understand why a couple who had not harmed anyone and had done nothing but good met with such a tragedy at the end of their lives. “Mysterious are the ways of Heaven,” they could only tell themselves. One day, the Snake without a tail appeared. Holding supernatural powers, it helped people in distress, cured those affected with grave illnesses. Soon, prayers from people far and wide were answered by that benevolent spirit. In particular, couples without children were blessed with a family. The grateful population of our canton built a temple which soon attracted the faithful from all over the province, especially during the holy season of Tet. The big crowd going to the Chuong Market Festival always stopped there to offer prayers. Once every year, my brother and I, along with our uncles, cousins and other relatives who were also “children of the Snake Temple,” attended a service held by our family to give thanks to the Spirit. The service was celebrated in springtime when the Temple was at its best, for it had a magnificent camelia garden. Red, pink and white flowers were in bloom. Each of us was given a branch of camelia as a lucky charm to bring home. There is a tail end to the Snake story. It was quite frequent in the country to cut the tails of dogs, but such practice did not exist in our canton. No dog’s tail was ever cut, in deference to the Snake Spirit. For our people believed that the sight of a tailless dog might sadden the benevolent Spirit by reminding it of its infirmity.
I do not remember whether I was formally inducted to the Buddhist faith or not. As a child, I rarely went to the village pagoda. My grandmother would go there for prayers at the three main anniversaries of the Birth of Lord Buddha, his Enlightenment, his Death and at a few other festivals. Once or twice a year, a special altar was installed in our ancestral home and Buddhist bonzes were invited to come and celebrate ceremonies such as those for the Wandering Souls in the seventh month. Otherwise, our home did not have a permanent altar to worship Lord Buddha.
A change took place in my parents’ generation. My mother belongs to a family with strong Buddhist roots, whose members have all been inducted into the religion and all carried a Buddhist religious name. A cousin of her great-grandparents became a nun in the Buddhist temple of Xom, the village with the molasses cakes between Ha Dong and Kim Bai. The story of that nun would touch many a Vietnamese heart because it resembled so much that of Thuy Kieu, the heroine of Vietnam’s literary masterpiece. Thuy Kieu had to sell herself as a prostitute in order to save her father from financial ruin and imprisonment. Our nun’s father, Hoang Nguyen Thu, was at the end of the eighteenth century the Military Governor of Lang Son, a mountainous province bordering China and throughout the centuries a frequent battlefield between Vietnamese and Chinese. At that time there was no war between the two countries, but a troublesome situation with large bands of Chinese bandits operating on both sides of the border. In an engagement, the governor was captured by Chinese bandits and as a condition for his safe return, his daughter had to become the wife of the bandit chief. Later, she managed to leave China and return to Vietnam. Well versed in literature and poetry, she wrote a moving account of her life. After a few years back home, she announced that she would be leaving family and home again, this time to find refuge in the House of Our Lord Buddha. Then, she cut her hair and entered the nunnery at Xom.
Like grandmother before her, my mother adapted herself to the customs and habits of her husband’s family. She attended temple service only at important festivals. We children were brought along and on these occasions, I must say that I was more interested in mingling with the crowd and in the midday meal, than in the religious proceedings. Most temples served excellent vegetarian food. When the dishes were brought out, an uninformed person might think that he was at the wrong place, for in front of him on the table were displayed several dishes of meat and seafood. What looked like meat or seafood was in fact just soya bean curd shaped into pork ribs, chicken wings or prawns in batter. In spite of being wholly vegetarian, the food served had a great variety of flavors and textures. A temple meal could be quite a feast, enough to please the finest gourmet. After our family returned to Hanoi in 1948, my mother started going to temples regularly; war and suffering had brought her back to her Buddhist roots. It was in that period when she set up an altar in our Hanoi home. The Buddha she worshipped was-and remains-Quan The Am or Buddha of Mercy, the literal meaning of Quan The Am being “the one who hears the sufferings of the world.” Everyday she lit incense and prayed before the altar. It was through her that I developed an interest in the religion. Thanks to her example, Buddhism for me ceased to be just a tradition and became instead a personal involvement. Every Sunday, she went to the temple to attend commentary sessions on Buddhist Canons. She did not make any of us adolescents come with her, we were left free to choose whether or not to come. But she did need someone to accompany her to the temple and back, and between my elder brother and me, the task usually fell to me because he was always out with his friends and was never home at the right time.
A cycle rickshaw was called for her. I followed behind on my bicycle. We usually went to one of the large temples close to the center of the city. Before the war, the crowd at temples was generally middle-aged and female, but since then, the Buddhist church has enjoyed a revival. Wherever we went, there was a sizeable group of men, many of whom were middle-class intellectuals and civil servants. Also present were young students from both sexes. The boys were dressed in white “western” trousers and shirts, while the girls stayed traditional in their black silk trousers and white long dresses which fluttered as they walked; they looked demure with their shining dark hair neatly tied in a ponytail and coming down to their waistline. The majority of the faithful were still women; in the temple, our group of men kept to one corner of the hall. Everyone sat on the cool enameled brick floor. I knew many temples in Hanoi well. Then in my final years of secondary school, I often went after classes into a temple to sit in the quiet hall in front of the altars, not for any prayers or meditation, without even lighting a stick of incense; I just stayed there for a few moments before going home. My mother knew of my inclination. We sometimes discussed the meaning of Buddhist parables, but for reasons which I could not explain, I was reluctant to go in with her and attend the Sunday sessions. When I finally decided to do so, she was very happy. Alas! she was soon to be disappointed. After several sessions, I stopped going in and again stayed outside to wait for the end and accompany her home. I found myself completely out of tune with the priests’ commentaries. I could not agree with the arguments used, the examples given, the lessons drawn. Somehow, they did not fit in with the way I felt and thought. I never had that problem with commentary sessions on Confucian and Taoist texts. Yet in my heart, I knew that in the teachings of Lord Buddha, there were answers to my problems, assurances to pacify my doubts and a goal to justify my instinctive faith. Lord Buddha said that there were many different paths that one could take, many different ways to follow his teaching. I realized that among those many paths, I would have to search for my own.
6. Family Gatherings
Members of our family lived in different places, my great-grand-mother and grandmother in Kim Bai, my grandfather in Ha Dong, my parents, uncles and aunts in Hanoi and other provinces. They saw one another often, but the large gatherings when everyone was present took place only twice a year in our ancestral ho
me, at the New Year and on the anniversary of the death of my great-grandfather.
The Anniversary
In our cult, the important dates are anniversaries of the death of ancestors. Not all ancestors’ deaths are commemorated. Traditionally, anniversaries are observed only for the last four generations. In my grandparents’ time, some twenty ceremonies were celebrated each year in our ancestral home in Kim Bai. For distant ancestors, a simple worshipping service was followed by a meal for family members. For ancestors of more recent generations, relatives from the village and elsewhere came, more offerings were displayed on the altar, and after the service, all visitors stayed for a meal. The most important anniversary, of course, was that of the nearest ancestor, who was then my great-grandfather. It fell on the nineteenth day of the sixth lunar month, which corresponded to a day either in July or in August, depending on the year. That was during the summer vacation, when I stayed in Kim Bai.
One month before the event, preparations were made to ensure a sufficient provision of rice. Pigs and fowl were bought, so that there was enough time to fatten them. The compound was cleaned up to receive the many family members and guests who came for the duration of the ceremonies, which lasted three days. Wooden platforms were set up in all houses, to serve as an eating area during the day and a sleeping area at night. We were in the midst of summer, before the monsoon season. The nights were warm and dry and all that people needed to sleep was a platform, a rush mat and a mosquito net. The last one was a requirement of city folks. Those living in the country would dispense with it. With a hard headrest made of wood, bamboo or stretched leather, they could lie down anywhere and go to sleep, blissfully ignoring attacks by mosquitoes. The western house, normally closed, was made ready for the visitors, some of whom were students of my grandfather when he was a teacher back in the 1910s. With members of other branches of our extended family attending, the anniversary was the largest gathering of the year. Relatives who left Kim Bai to pursue a career in the civil service or in business came back for the occasion. Their country cousins welcomed them with pride, but also-as one could sense it-with a certain feeling of inferiority. For they were the ones who dared not get away from the village, to go and try their chance in the prosperous cities.
I stayed in Kim Bai only for the summer months, yet had begun to feel somewhat like a villager towards my peers who remained in Hanoi. I had the impression of being isolated. In particular, I missed the radio and newspapers. The war was raging in the Pacific. Steadily, it had been moving closer to us. Almost daily now, we could hear or see Allied planes flying in the direction of Japanese bases near Hanoi and in the western mountains. They had gained control of the airspace and were passing quite low over our region, occasionally shooting at a car passing on the highway. We knew that the fate of our country would depend on the outcome of the war. But Kim Bai had no electricity for listening to the radio and newspapers were circulated only in Hanoi and the big towns. I had news only once every few weeks, when my father visited Kim Bai. From the grounds of my great-grandfather’s tomb where I went to wait for him, he could be seen five kilometers away as his bicycle came out of the Thanh Oai township. His bag was full of newspapers. I was so excited that I could not choose which of the several week-old papers to read first; I just jumped from one headline to another. But more interesting still was what my father discussed with my grandfather as they sat on the wooden settee in the altar house, grandfather preparing a fresh pot of tea for his son. My father gave the latest news from the capital on the war. I let my imagination wander on the vast spaces of the Pacific Ocean where mighty battles in the air and on the sea were joined by Japan and the Allies. However, my elders were more concerned with what would happen to our country. They believed it impossible that the situation, in which Vietnam was dominated by both France and Japan, could last. Sooner or later, one of these two powers would get rid of the other and that one would be Japan, which held the military upper hand. But the war in the Pacific had not been going well for Japan. What would happen if Japan were to lose?
A few days before the anniversary, my uncle, elder brother and cousin came back, each riding a bicycle and having plenty to say about what was going on in town, the movies they saw, the games they played. Their talk made Kim Bai appear even more of a backwater to me. But there was work for us to do. The altar and all cult instruments had to be cleaned. My grandfather directed us to do this task, instead of the servants. He himself supervised us. At times, while we were working he would take out from a bookcase near the altar an old handwritten book. Its pages were full of holes made by bookworms and termites. He sat down to read, and his thoughts seemed at once to move away from our group and from what we were doing. Was it a book of poems from his father, the Hermit of the Mountains of the Twins? I wondered but did not dare to interrupt him and ask. Parasols and flags were brought out in the courtyard to be dusted, and that was the only time of the year when we could see the rich colors of the flags, for the altar room where they were kept remained constantly in the dark. Then, all brass instruments were taken out and polished. The big chandelier hanging above the altar was lowered and disassembled. The incense burner, an urn with a round belly and three sturdy legs in which aloes wood was burnt during ceremonies, was too heavy for us to move; two robust men were needed to carry it outside. There were candle holders of different sizes, in particular a pair about three feet high in the shape of a crane standing on the back of a tortoise, both animals being symbols of longevity. The long samurai-type swords were drawn out of their scabbards. With a brush we spread a light coat of oil on the blades before putting them back in. Finally, the tabernacle with all its intricate carvings had to be wiped free of dust, a very time-consuming chore. We had to climb up the altar and clean every nook and cranny, brush all the mythical beasts and birds, flowers and clouds carved into the wood. Grandfather himself dusted his father’s portrait and the tablet carrying his names and titles. It took us four boys nearly a day to do everything in the altar room.
We then moved to the new house where, in the lounge, stood an array of eight weapons, each made of a brass head set on top of a wooden shaft about two meters long. The heads were in the shape of a battle-axe, a cleaver, a mace, a coiled snake and other shapes which I cannot quite remember, but they all looked fearsome. We took the weapons out of their wooden stand, slowly, as they were quite heavy, and put a coat of polish on the brass heads. In ancient times, such arms were used by commanders engaged on horseback in single combat, as their troops looked on and stood ready to pounce on the enemy if their leader succeeded in bringing down his opponent. Warriors in those times handled a variety of weapons, designed both to inflict injury and to frighten their adversaries, and the eight weapons we had were among the most commonly used. Such weapons were no longer used for fighting, but as ornaments found mostly in temples. Called bat bao, or the eight precious weapons, they stood at the entrance of temple buildings to guard them against evil spirits. At festivals, they were carried at the head of processions. In our new house, the eight precious weapons retained their symbolic value. Planted on their wooden stand and arranged in the shape of a fan, they were placed next to the main door. Any person entering by that door was confronted by them. Even when we received our most distinguished guests, the weapons were kept in their place. The guests had to go around them to move into the lounge.
Several days prior to the anniversary, female members of the family returned to the ancestral home to help prepare the food, my mother ahead of everyone else due to her position as the wife of the eldest son. The transversal house and kitchen echoed the sound of knives chopping food, rice being ground to make cakes, meat being pounded to make gio cha, a pork sausage similar to mortadella of which Vietnamese were very fond. By the eighteenth, the day preceding the actual anniversary, the family was back in full strength. Ceremonies started in the afternoon of that day. In a simple service the doors of the tabernacle were opened. My great-grandfather’s tablet and portrait were taken
out and displayed in front. Rice and a small number of dishes were served on the altar. The purpose of the service was to invite the ancestor’s spirit to sample some of the offerings to be made the next day, hence its name Tien Thuong, meaning “a taste of the offerings.” The service was short. There was time on the eve of the anniversary to talk, exchange news and for travellers to tell about places which would forever remain mysterious to those who stayed back at home.
Since my childhood, I had dreamed of the western mountains which stood on the horizon and were believed to be the cradle of our race. They were not far away. I could see them from our village; yet I never went there. I only heard relatives describe how the green foothills rose gently up to the mountains and how, from up there, one could see the rich and fertile soil of the delta shine under the sun as if it was coated with oil. How inviting the plain must have been to the ancestors of our race, I thought, that they left their secluded highlands to venture down there and settle, millenniums ago. The mountainous region bordering China also held for me a special appeal. Under the Mac dynasty, my ancestor Nguyen Uyen served as a mandarin in Thai Nguyen and Cao Bang. For a long time, he was thought to be our first ancestor, and he was still the best known among ancestors of early generations. Those two provinces were infested with malaria, but visiting relatives also told us of their wealth and natural beauty. Thai Nguyen had a group of three lakes, hidden from all sides by high mountains. The lakes were so large that they were given the name of Ho Ba Be, or the Three Seas. A traveller weary after a long journey in the highlands would suddenly discover behind the mountains the calm waters of an inland sea dotted with small islands, and myriads of boats plying between prosperous settlements on the shore. Cao Bang, on the Chinese border, had long evoked images of war and suffering. Countless battles between the Vietnamese and their aggressors took place there. In the end of the sixteenth century, it became the scene of a long civil war. Defeated by the Trinh in the delta, the Mac retreated to Cao Bang and managed to stay there for sixty years. That meant sixty more years of fighting between them and the Trinh. The husband in the poem of the egret, which I learned to sing while pounding rice in Kim Bai, was drafted to go and fight the Mac in Cao Bang. Yet, those who went there spoke of a fertile valley nestled in the mountains, where it was good to live and where springtime brought out a profusion of peach and apricot blossoms. Cao Bang in the spring was so beautiful that it reminded people of the old legend of Luu Than and Nguyen Trieu. These two friends went up the mountains together one day and stumbled into Dao Nguyen, the Paradise of the Peach Blossoms inhabitated by fairies. They stayed on and married two beautiful maidens. After a few years, however, they became homesick and left Dao Nguyen to return to their village. But Dao Nguyen did not belong to the human world, and one year there lasted as long as one century. The two friends felt lost in the world they came back to; their parents, relatives and acquaintances all had died centuries ago. They went back to the mountains to try and find the Paradise again, but could not. “I wonder whether Dao Nguyen was any more beautiful than Cao Bang in the spring, when the blossoms came out,” said a traveller. Seated under a pomelo tree laden with young fruit, I listened avidly. Our ancestor Nguyen Uyen must be no stranger to the wonder of the Three Seas or to the splendor of spring in Cao Bang. Did he write about his time in the mountains? As he was a scholar and a member of the Academy, I felt sure that he had.
A Vietnamese Family Chronicle Page 11