Petals from the Sky (4 page)

6

The Fire

Y
i Kong’s voice, pealing like temple bells, woke me from my wandering thoughts. She had just begun her Dharma talk on self-centered thinking.

“We all like to judge. And no matter whether we feel superior to what we criticize or feel miserable ourselves, we still like to keep the game going. Because in judging—our spouse, our friends, our partners, even strangers on the street—we can make ourselves the center of things.” She paused. “With our mind full of judgments, prejudices, and egotism, we’ll always think things like
Why does my sixty-year-old aunt always dress like a young woman? Why does my friend’s father date a young girl half his age? I hate my mother-in-law’s cooking; it’s horrible.
”

Whispers and suppressed laughter scattered among the audience. Yi Kong waited patiently for the noise to subside, then paused to scrutinize the audience in the front rows, then those in the middle, and finally those in back, as if challenging us all to face the truth.

“We also fail to realize that what we need is not this self-centered thinking, but functional thinking—to plan our future, to run our business, to study for examinations, even to prepare a good dinner.”

She went on to talk about how meditation could help to rid us of our attachment. “When you meditate, you’ll discover self-centered thoughts are like monkeys jumping from tree to tree. Meditation is to help stop this monkey business—”

The audience laughed loudly, cutting off Yi Kong’s speech and dispelling the solemn atmosphere. I saw several boys laugh; one arched his back like a cat ready for mischief; an elderly woman giggled, cupping her mouth. I continued to look around and suddenly saw Michael Fuller. He was also looking at me, slightly turning away from a nun who talked intently to him. It was Compassionate Speech, probably now assigned to translate for him.

Yi Kong broke the spell of our stare by speaking again. “We have to empty our self-centered thoughts and learn to let go! Detach!—”

Right then a loud “Fire! Fire!” broke out like a bad dream in the peaceful hall. People looked around and whispered to one another. When more “Fire! Fire!” was heard and the smell of smoke began to fill the air, people sprang up, then pushed and screamed. As swift as a cat, the eye-twitching nun dashed onto the platform and pulled Yi Kong down, knocking over the Goddess of Mercy statue. Yi Kong wanted to say something, but was already being pushed by her captor toward the exit. But it was too late; now everybody—one body and one mind—dashed toward the gate like lunatics chased by lightning. The eye-twitching nun shielded Yi Kong with her plump torso and shouted, “Give way! Let Venerable Yi Kong pass!” The same people whose faces lit up and smiled with ecstasy when they caught sight of her now turned a completely deaf ear to the plea.

Everything happened so quickly that it took me seconds to realize I was squeezed among frightened people pushing in an advancing wave. Part of the ceiling was now ablaze. Splinters of crackling wood plunged onto the floor with startling thumps, shooting sparks in all directions. A man’s back caught fire; several people slapped him with meditation cushions. He screamed like a pig being slaughtered. Another woman wailed hysterically when a ball of flame landed on her hair.

The panic was contagious. Everybody cried and yelled—for help, for loved ones, from fear, from pain. My heart raced while my lips frantically muttered prayers. Pressed forward by the mob behind me, I looked toward the platform for Yi Kong and the eye-twitching nun, but they were nowhere to be seen. Exclamations of “Help!” and “Fire!” struck my ears above the cacophony of clanking buckets, clattering footsteps, hysterical pushing, and screaming men, women, and children. More smoke seeped out from the platform and the side walls; its acrid stink tore at my nostrils, stinging my eyes to tears.

My gaze darted around. An old woman trying to squeeze out of the entrance was flung aside by a man. A couple held hands and pushed with one heart. The Merit Accumulating Box fell over; bills and coins spilled across the floor, glittering under the sun angled through the tall windows. Meditation cushions were flattened under the stampede. Slippers and chant books were strewn everywhere on the floor, together with wallets, keys, smashed glasses, gold chains, prayer beads. People cried, squirmed, thrust, tumbled. The air was dense. More splinters of wood fell. Coughing, I covered my mouth tightly so I wouldn’t inhale the smoke, or scream. My heart raced. Mother’s image kept spinning in my head while tears burned like lava down my cheeks.

Suddenly, I saw the fire devouring the altar and melting Buddha’s face. I screamed and pushed as if chased by the King of Hell. Would I survive as I did when I had fallen into the well? Or would I die burning in this hellfire?
Guan Yin, please help me again, I don’t want to die! I came here to pursue my spirituality, not my death!
I kept praying, when suddenly I realized the Goddess of Mercy—now a heap of shards on the floor—was even more helpless than I. Another realization hit me like lightning—my fifteen years’ cultivation of nonattachment and no self were gone in a second!

Then I noticed a small boy next to me crying his heart out and calling “Mama! Mama!” I picked him up and held him close to me. Right then I felt someone grab my arm. I turned and saw Michael Fuller. He took the child from me and shouted above the din, “Come! Follow me!” Instead of moving with the mob toward the gate, he pushed me away from it. Before I had a chance to protest, he snatched the microphone and used it to smash the window. The boy cried louder. Fresh air rushed in. While I was trying to step out, a flaming beam fell right toward me. Fuller shielded me with his body and pulled me away. The three of us fell hard onto the floor. The boy shrieked. Fuller kicked away the beam, then stood up and gave me his hand. My knee hurt terribly and I was too stunned to respond. He lifted the child through the window and swiftly came back. Then, to my utter shock and surprise, he scooped me up, and before I could protest, he’d already carried me through the broken glass.

“You OK?” he asked in English after putting me down on the floor, unaware of the emotion simmering inside me. I’d never been touched by a man, let alone cuddled in his arms. I was sure now my cheeks were as hot and red as the fire. The child pulled my robe and I stooped to hold him.

Fuller spoke again, his eyes concerned. “Do you think you can take him to the front yard? I need to go in to help other people out.”

“I’m fine,” I finally said, my lips trembling. “Go ahead.”

He stepped back inside and used the microphone to smash more of the glass panes while calling to the people, “Come out through the windows!”

Limping, I led the child to the front yard. In the open air, I could see the fire coming from behind the Meditation Hall. The lapping flames, like hungry ghosts, greedily licked the wooden walls and roofs. I wiped away tears and coughed. The boy next to me cried, “Mama! Mama!” I put my arm around him.

Most people were already outside when two screaming fire engines appeared and halted with squealing tires. Firemen radiated down from the trucks, set up their hoses, and started dousing water onto the leaping fire. Then an ambulance arrived and spat out white-clad men and stretchers. Gray-robed monks and nuns were running around trying to help. Children flooded out from the adjacent orphanage to watch, refusing to be pushed back by two young nuns. The kids’ jaws dropped and their eyes shone with a hungry luster, as if watching a Hollywood film. Their curious, innocent faces shone red in the glaring fire.

Now, from a safe distance, my fear gone, I, too, watched with horrified fascination. I knew it was wicked to find the fire beautiful amidst this disaster, but I did. Its rapid motion, intense color, and strong smell reminded me of a vigorous Zen painting, where the artist splashed ink across the paper to bleed his soul and free his spirit. I wished I had my painting tools with me, so I could capture this intense moment. The fire both appalled and appealed. It was like Yi Kong—powerful, alive, and full of energy. It leaped and coiled, flapped and seethed like the Queen of Dance. Buddhism says “To die in order to live.” Did this fire carry the same mission? To burn away our ego, desire, attachment, and self-centered thinking?

Yes. But there was more to its beauty. It was passion, pure
yang
energy. Even its crackling sound seemed voluptuous. Suddenly I noticed the sensuous shape of the
stupa,
a tower, in the distance and thought of a woman’s curves. How on earth could something be so destructive and yet so powerful in its appeal to the senses? The fire awakened something in me that I couldn’t yet name.

In the glaring flame, the stifling heat, the flying cinders, and the choking smoke, my heart became aroused by the splendor of destruction and rebirth. Then I saw that the Sutra Storing Pavilion was right next to the Meditation Hall, and my mood sobered, seeing it being destroyed.

In less than an hour, the fire was under control and had become smoldering ashes. People milled about or sat on the front courtyard’s pavement smelling of smoke, their hair unkempt, eyes dazed, faces streaked with tears and soot, slacks ripped, black Buddhist robes torn. They looked as if their souls had been snatched away by some dark, evil force. The deportment of some of the women embarrassed me—legs spread apart, mouths agape, robes still pulled high, exposing bare legs and underpants.

Suddenly I remembered the child. How could I have neglected him while he was right next to me, frightened and helpless? I pulled him close and asked very gently, “Little friend, are you all right?”

To my surprise, he responded by thrusting his tiny body into my arms and rubbing his head hard on my chest. “Mama,” he whispered.

My heart melted. I savored his smallness and vulnerability for long moments—I’d never known it would feel so good to have a child nestling against me. “Little friend,” I cooed, drawing back so I could look him in the face. “I’m not your mama, but don’t you worry about her. I’m sure she’ll soon find you.”

He was four or five, his head shaved and his body wrapped in a miniature Buddhist robe. A beautiful child. He stared at me with his big, curious eyes. “Who are you?”

Then I noticed he had no eyelashes; they were all burnt!

Tenderness swelled inside me while I battled tears. Before I could answer him, he reached his small hand to touch my face. “Why are you crying?”

I couldn’t hold my tears anymore; they rolled down my cheeks like water flooding a collapsed dam. I pulled him into my arms and caressed his small bald head as motherly feelings rushed up in me. Then this feeling gave way to sadness when I remembered my short-lived little brother, whom I’d never had a chance to hold in my arms.

Right then Michael Fuller materialized out of nowhere. His face and robe were full of dirt, his hair grayed by the dust. He came up to me, removed shards of glass entangled in my hair, and put his hand on my shoulder. “Meng Ning, are you all right?”

I blushed, remembering the warmth of his body as he’d carried me out from the burning hall. Then I blinked back tears; not only had this American stranger remembered my name, he’d just saved my life and many others’ as well.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr.—”

“Michael,” he said.

As he patted the child’s head, a young woman with disheveled hair and a tear-streaked face dashed toward us and grabbed the child from me. She pinched the kid on the face, arms, and legs until he burst out crying. She laughed. “Oh, my jewel! My heart! Your flesh hurts! You’re alive!” Then she grabbed my arm. “Oh, thank you so much, miss.”

I pointed to Michael. “Thank him; it’s he who smashed the windows and led people out.”

The woman’s mouth broke into a huge grin. She put her hands together, bowed, and spoke in accented English. “Oh, dank you, dank you,
gweilo
Buddha.” Foreign devil Buddha. Then she turned to the child and hollered in Cantonese, “Son-ah, thank this aunty and this
gweilo
uncle, quick!”

The boy plopped down, prostrate, and kowtowed like a little monk. Michael and I laughed despite the recent disaster. The woman laughed, too, then again thanked us profusely as she led her son away. I watched, with sadness, the boy’s departing back as he scurried away with his mother on his small, chubby feet.

Michael pointed to the ambulance. “Meng Ning, why don’t you come with me to see if they need help?” He took my elbow and we hurried to the white van.

To my surprise, I saw Yi Kong and several other people lying semiconscious on stretchers. My heart flipped. Oh, Goddess of Mercy, please don’t let anything bad happen to my teacher!

Although Yi Kong’s face looked pale and her lips bloodless, she was whispering to the eye-twitching nun, who knelt next to her. I felt a rush of relief. Then I noticed that her torn robe revealed her smooth-skinned shoulder. It was the first time I’d seen this much of her; my cheeks felt hot. Several other nuns and monks gathered around her, muttering and watching intently. Michael walked up to the van and said to the ambulance men in English, “I’m a doctor. Can I take a look at her?”

After he had checked Yi Kong’s breathing and felt her pulse, he said, “She’s inhaled a little smoke, but otherwise I think she’s fine.”

Yi Kong blinked and muttered, “Thank you.”

Michael nodded as he walked away to check on the others.

Yi Kong reached out her hand to touch the eye-twitching nun’s sleeve. “Make sure everyone is all right….” A tear trickled down from the corner of her eye. “Oh, those books in the Sutra Storing Pavilion!”

Though I’d known her for more than fifteen years, I’d never before seen her face and voice filled with emotion. Despite the tragedy, I felt a secret pleasure at this unexpected revelation.

She spotted me. “Meng Ning, is that you?”

I went to kneel down by her side. “Yes, Yi Kong Shifu.”

She muttered, taking my hand. It was also the first time she’d touched me like this—filled with tenderness. My hand brushed against her bare shoulder—so warm and soft.