A Cremation in Tokyo

It took us about two hours to reach the crematorium in Ichikawa. The funeral service had almost ended by the time we reached. Our pastor had already performed the last rites when we entered the hall where the service was being held. We made it just in time for his final prayer after which we filed past the coffin as those gathered sang ‘Abide With Me’. His wife and young son had arrived for the funeral just a few hours earlier and the hall was filled with her wailing as his bewildered young son looked on.

Though I had expected just a few mourners from the Mizo/Zohnathlak community, there must have been about fifty or so mourners all dressed in black. Most of them were from the Burmese community with representatives from some NGOs dealing with refugees in Japan. He may have been all alone when he met his Maker last Saturday but he certainly was not alone on his last journey.

Next to the hall where the funeral service was held, across a corridor, was the electric crematorium. After the service, we were led to a big hall which was separated from the crematorium by a huge ceiling-to-floor glass wall from where one could see five identical steel doors looking very much like elevator doors which turned out to be the crematoriums. Our pastor led the small funeral procession consisting of his wife and son and close friends into the crematorium as we watched from behind the glass wall.

We watched as one of the steel doors opened at the press of a button and the coffin which had been placed on a trolley slowly moved inside. It was my first ever experience of a cremation and for some reason had expected some huge fire and brimstone kind of sight as the crematorium doors opened and the coffin was swallowed up. But it was nothing like that as the coffin slowly disappeared into what looked very much like an elevator. I half expected some passenger to emerge from the elevator-like doors as they were about to close. And, just like that, it was over.

Our group of mourners then trooped over to another part of the complex, to another hall which had typical Japanese-style long low tables where one had to sit cross-legged as well as a more conventional long table with chairs. We quickly filled the hall and commenced waiting for the cremation to be over so we could collect the ashes, or so I thought.

We were served typical Japanese oolan-cha (Japanese green tea) as we waited. A good and opportune time for a lengkhawm, I thought. But the time was used for the leaders of each community that had come together to stand up and say a ‘few words’ of condolence at the passing of a brother. There were words from the Zomi Christian Fellowship, the Burmese Fellowship, two other Fellowships (from Burma/Myanmar) and lastly, words of thanks from Pu Tawna on behalf of the Mizo Fellowship. In the event, with the lingua franca being mostly Burmese, except when his wife gave a very moving short speech in Mizo thanking everyone for being there, I had no idea of what was being said. But I felt myself being absorbed into a strange feeling of camaraderie, of being amongst brothers, of being one community.

After about an hour, we were informed that the cremation was over and we were escorted to still another hall where another ceremony awaited. The same trolley (for want of a better word) in which the coffin/body had been swallowed into the crematorium was now placed in the centre of the hall. In place of the coffin/body, there now remained only white bones with ashes all around. The hall, unexpectedly, smelled of burned wood – not unpleasant and not what I had expected, though I did not exactly know what I expected. In a typically Japanese ceremony (so I was told), two mourners with a pair of chopsticks each picked up a bone from the trolley and placed in an urn placed upon a table next to the trolley. We walked up to the trolley in pairs and, with the wooden chopsticks placed there for the purpose, solemnly picked up one of his bones and placed it into the urn.

It being my first experience of a cremation, I think I had expected something like a small mound of ashes, or that an urn or container with the ashes would be handed over to us. Coming up to the trolley with the white bones starkly visible and in contrast to the white ashes all around was a complete surprise for me. I think it dramatically brought into focus the fragility of what we call life. In almost the twinkle of an eye, a fully recognizable human body with its own unique face and features had become just a pile of brittle bones.

And so, a life once full of hope and dreams for the future ended in a faraway land.  He had dreamt of the day when he would be able to once again hold his wife and son whom he’d last seen when he was a six month old baby. They came, finally. But he was no longer able to hold them. The few hours that they were finally able to spend together was with him in a coffin, just a strange, pale, ashen face to a three year old son who will grow up never having known him. And, for his wife, an indescribable loss with only bittersweet memories remaining.

A Death in Tokyo

It was just after nine on Saturday night, as I was waiting for the traffic lights to turn green at Roppongi crossing on my way home from dinner with friends, that I received the call. Sawma called to inform that they were frantically trying to find him. He’d left home earlier in the day, dressed in black. He’d called all his friends to say goodbye for the last time and then switched off his phone. 

Then Puia called around eleven on Sunday morning to convey that he was no more. They had found his mangled body besides the railway tracks less than a hundred meters from where he was staying with friends. 

I did not personally know him that well, having spoken on phone with him only once or twice. The first time we spoke on phone was when he called to apologize for not being able to make it to the special dinner and get-together we had organized in our home for the Mizo/Zohnathlak community in Tokyo. He said that he had not been keeping well for some time and it had gotten worse that evening. I told him that we would miss him as we had so looked forward to him leading us in the singing of old Mizo classics after dinner. He said that he too had looked forward to the evening but was simply unable to make it in his condition. I told him to take care of himself and hoped he’d be able to make it the next time. 

My son had specially tuned our two guitars for that evening’s ‘lengkhawm’ and we’d even got new guitar strings. But, in his absence, all our grand plans for a good time singing late into the night came to nothing and the food and the dinner which was supposed to be just an excuse for getting together to sing became the main highlight of the evening. 

The first time I met him in person was at his workplace more than a year ago when, since we were passing by, my wife and I dropped by to pick up a bottle of kimchi from Puia. We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and he graciously welcomed us to Japan. Puia had already told us that he was a great singer who’d composed a few songs himself and had even recorded an album back home. That was the evening when the idea of getting together for a ‘sing-together’ of old/new Mizo songs was born. 

I next met him about a month back when we went to Ichikawa to participate in the fortnightly Mizo service. Apart from exchanging a few words after the service, I did not get a chance to talk to him further. But my kids had a great time with him in their small bedroom, singing and jamming together. I remember my daughter playing the guitar and singing while he accompanied her on another guitar, playing bass and switching to lead as the mood overtook. It was one of the images that came to mind when I heard the sad news. After a sumptuous early dinner of boiled pork and assorted Mizo dishes, we parted. That was the second time we met, and the last. 

We grabbed a quick lunch and immediately rushed to the small rented house in Ichikawa where he stayed. The place was already full of friends from the Mizo/Zohnathlak community, some of whom we had already met while most of the others we were meeting for the first time. As always, at times like this, thanks to our concept and practice of tlawmngaihna, they had all rushed to offer their condolences and offer any help they could. 

Later in the evening, we went to have a look at the place where his broken body had lain besides the railway tracks, up an embankment, visible from the house, just a few meters away. We climbed up the embankment, on top of which one came upon a breathtaking view of the Edo-gawa river which marks the border between Tokyo and Chiba. To the left was a railway bridge and to the right, about a hundred meters away, another bridge upon which one could see a constant flow of traffic coming from and going to Tokyo. Sawma pointed to the exact spot where his body had been found earlier in the day, hardly two meters and almost at touching distance from the fence, at almost the exact spot where the railway bridge began. He pointed to an opening in the fence where a determined person could have managed to squeeze himself in. We saw with fascinated horror the splotches of dried blood that the previous night’s rain had been unable to wash away. I looked beyond the river towards Tokyo, saw clouds in the horizon reflecting the last rays of the sinking sun, and, incongruously thought, what a beautiful day to die. 

We gathered round, just the fence separating us from the splotches of dried blood, a meter or two away, as our pastor said a prayer for the departed soul. As we came away, I glanced back to see one of the ladies quietly picking up a bunch of wild white flowers from the embankment and place it near the fence, a few meters away from the cursed spot. 

I was told that he left behind a wife and two young sons, aged seven and four. What tortured thoughts must have passed through his mind as he breathed his last, in a foreign land far away from his loved ones, I can not even begin to imagine. But I will ever remember him playing his guitar, singing, eyes closed, in his own world, fully into the moment, tapping his feet to the rhythm with thoughts, perhaps, of loved ones back home. Or, maybe, of some lost love, long gone. And, whatever the circumstances of his passing away, I can only wish that he has found his peace at last.

Prelude to Okinawa

This weekend I had the chance and privilege of returning, after a little more than a year, to my favourite place in Japan – Okinawa.

Despite the lingering winter chill, the sun was up bright and sunny on Saturday morning as I rushed to catch my early morning flight from Haneda airport. By the time I had figured out how to operate the ticket machine (or whatever it is called) and obtained my ticket, I was already beginning to regret my decision to go fully suited and tie-d up so that I could rush straight to my appointment without having to change. I greatly looked forward to changing into my jeans and exploring whatever I could of the southernmost part of Japan. But I first had to contend with the dreary 3 hours I would be spending in the air to get there.

By the time I found my seat and sat down, I could feel my stomach rumbling because, in my rush to get up and dress up, I had barely managed a cup of tea for breakfast. From past experience I already knew that, apart from a single (half-filled) paper cup of juice/coffee/oolan tea/soft drink, there would be no breakfast on flight to look forward to, even if it was breakfast time. I remember my first domestic flight in Japan when I kept waiting for the snacks which never came after that measly half-cup of juice. Unlike in India, and all other places that I have flown in, they don’t serve snacks on domestic flights no matter how long the flight is except in Business/First class. And you don’t even have the option of buying something to eat during the flight like you do on budget airlines in India. This realization only served to increase my hunger pang.

I flipped through the inflight magazine, checking the entertainment options – apart from some dreary documentary-types, all in Japanese, no movies. The only English programme available was the ‘international pops’ audio channel on Channel 6 called ‘cool cuts’ featuring a wide range of so-called hits which, in normal circumstances, you wouldn’t catch me listening to, ever. But I could see some interesting 70s numbers which included ‘I think I love you’ by the Partridge Family which sounded familiar, ‘Bridge Over Troubled Waters’ by Simon and Garfunkel and another number by Diana Ross. The programme ran for exactly an hour and would be repeated from the beginning each time it finished and in the end, counting my return trip, I ended up listening to the Partridge Family 6 times. Which, I suppose, was some sort of highlight of my trip.

And so, trying not to think of the 3 hours I would be cooped up, I settled in with the Partridge Family and a copy of Bill Bryson’s ‘Neither Here Nor There’ for company. Bill Bryson, for those who haven’t yet had the pleasure of reading his books, is one of the funniest writers around. In fact, his books should come with some sort of statutory warning (like on cigarette packets) ‘Not to be read in public’ or some such thing because they are so hilariously perceptive and funny that it takes great effort not to suddenly burst out laughing and make a spectacle of oneself in public (I had several such urges but managed to control myself and mostly just had a sort of permanent smile till the time we landed). Instead, my copy of the book only had blurbs like ‘It’s very, very funny’ (Sunday Times) and ‘Hugely funny (not snigger-snigger funny, but great-big-belly-laugh-till-you-cry funny)’ (Daily Telegraph). Seriously.

Though I felt drowsiness sweeping over me several times, I managed to keep my eyes open with Bill Bryson and David Cassidy. Another big reason was my quota of the half paper cup of juice. I once dozed off for maybe half a minute on another flight during which the air hostess managed to pass by with her tray and I ended up not having even the measly half-cup of juice that was rightfully mine. Ever since, I’ve had this feeling that the air hostesses keep an eye on me and the moment I doze off, rush to serve the one and only half-cup of juice they serve on the flights. And, ever since then, I keep an eye on their movements to make sure that I don’t get passed over when the time comes.

In between the times I had to put down the book and try to ward off sleep, I dreamed up various topics for blogs I could be writing. Such as the Eric Clapton (‘legendary guitarist, only rumored to be God’, as the publicity read) concert on 15 Feb which my son and I had been planning to attend, but could not because by the time I enquired, the tickets had long sold out. Or an account of the most exhausting thing I have ever done – climbing Mt. Fuji, and how I cursed myself for being so stupid and swearing to never, ever do it again but will probably be there again when the climbing season opens this year in August. With all the time on my hand, I actually dreamt up quite a few topics I could blog on. I remember thinking that I should write all the topics down so I could expand on them later on. But I didn’t, and here I am now, not able to recall any of them. Apart from the two above. I must really be getting old.

Hey, this is becoming really long. One of the things I have noticed lately is that I never read the really long blogs. Unless they are really interesting or well-written. Some of my earlier blogs now really make me cringe because they were so long. No wonder nobody bothered to read them. So let me call a halt right now and blog about the wondrous thing I saw, witnessed and experienced in Okinawa at a later time. Provided I remember them.

Undone

Provoked, they explode

Unbidden, unexpected, unwelcome

Thoughts from the furthest recesses of the mind

Suppressed, unprocessed and raw

Pushed away, hidden

Not meant to be spoken, ever

Or even thought

But provoked, are unleashed

 

What use the apologies

And efforts to undo the hurt

When in a thoughtless moment

What was never meant to be said

Has been said

The Beast, unleashed,

Takes its pound of flesh

And you become undone

Back Home, For a Day

The Indigo flight was supposed to land at Imphal by around 9 am, and I greatly looked forward to having my morning meal at home and catching up with family and friends well before noon. But old Mr. Fog refused to loosen its grip on Delhi that morning and by the time we took off it was already past 1 pm.

To cut short details of trying to jack up an Indica car with a screwdriver to change a wheel which blew up about 5 minutes from Imphal airport even as the sun was already setting on the horizon, the arrival of good Samaritan-friends with whom I managed to hitch a ride, the startling sight (at least to me) of soldiers in full battle gear patrolling the highway on foot at regular intervals, it was already dark by the time we reached Churachandpur.

As we passed Tuibuong and drove into town, Tom Jones’ ‘Green Green Grass of Home’ came to mind:

The old hometown looks the same

As I step down from the car

And there to meet me is my mama and papa

…..Its good to touch the green, green grass of home

After so many years, I was back home.

As we drove up what we used to call Sielmat ‘lamtung’ (steep road), I could not but notice how a road which once seemed so steep during our childhood that to bicycle up it without stopping used to be a great achievement now seemed so ordinary and not at all steep. Compared to some of the roads where I occasionally jog in Tokyo, my old Sielmat lamtung seemed quite tame and the thought that I could probably jog up from the bottom to the village field without breaking a sweat crossed my mind

And so, just as 2008 was drawing to a close and after a gap of more than 6 years, I again set foot in the only part of the world that I can fully call home. That I never fully felt ‘at home’ in the real sense of the word during my too short stay there is another matter. Though seeing my parents, especially my mother, after more than two years was a real comfort, the visible presence of so many soldiers in full battle gear on the streets and the road from the airport to my hometown made it difficult for me to feel at ease and at home. Maybe I was there for too short a time, and maybe it was only me, but I sensed a general feeling of insecurity, a feeling or sense that something bad was about to happen at any time. Especially at night, in the absence of streetlights and, for that matter, electricity, which, I was told, came on alternate nights, that also till around 10 pm. Quite a contrast to a place like Tokyo where people take such things so much for granted that they probably do not even have the word for load-shedding in their language.

For those of us who left home at a time when the highways needed no patrolling, I guess the image of ‘home’ remains that of lazy, carefree summers when we’d fish and hunt with out home-made catapults to our hearts’ content and one could go anywhere at night without fear. Those days are just memories now. Even my short, two nights’ stay is just another memory now, as I sit here in faraway Tokyo trying to make some sense of the many conflicting thoughts and feelings that engulfed me during my short visit home.

Though I did not have the time to see places or meet old friends (except those who managed to spare the time to visit me at home), it was exhilarating to be able to breathe the clean, unpolluted air of home, of my beloved hills, to look up at night and realize that there are stars in the sky and that the moon does shine more brightly than in the city. Everything felt the same, unchanged, at a standstill.

For the one day I was there, it felt as if I had been transported back to the early 80s, before I left home. The same buildings, same lack of infrastructure, same lack of electricity, same dusty roads, same water problem, same cooking gas supply problem, same daily struggle for survival and, I suppose, even the same sermons, same periodical crusades, occasional revivals, same nightly church services, same annual conferences. It was all oddly comforting in a way but, at the same time, indicated the almost complete lack of general development and change in our society, community, church and state as a whole. Like a stagnant pool or a broken record repeating the same song over and over again.

Though I had no time for any detailed interaction with anyone, the overwhelming feeling I had from the few conversations I managed to have with a few friends and relatives was that of despondency, a sense of quiet desperation, of being trapped. But I must admit at the same time that they themselves probably had no such feelings because they have become so used to their situation. It was just a feeling I had, looking at them and their situation from my position as something of a casual visitor. Having had some experience in living amidst some of the most highly developed societies and economies as well as having seen and tasted to some extent some of the highest living and working conditions, the fact that they still managed to laugh and crack jokes at the slightest provocation and generally seemed content with life made me realize that there are some things in life that cannot be quantified and the yardstick by which we judge the quality of life is not the same everywhere.

I now live, at least for the next one or two years, in one of the most developed societies and arguably the most technologically advanced city in the world with all its attendant material comforts and facilities. But there are so many things that we miss on a daily, almost constant, basis. Carefree conversations and that incomparable feeling and contentment of being amongst real friends, for one. The special camaraderie and companionship that can only come from shared experiences and a common root and language, for another. These are just a few of the things that make life worth living and, in that context, life back home does not seem so bad and, in fact, much more worth it sometimes.

It was a sunny morning, the day I left. A last look at my brother and parents, my mother waving with tears in her eyes, another goodbye and last wave, and we were off. Except for the usual stop just after Bishenpur to water the roadside hedge-fence, we drove without stopping and reached the airport well in time. We drove past small towns and villages – all so familiar and still more or less looking exactly the same as they did all those years ago during my college days in Imphal when I would rush to catch the last bus to Churachandpur every Friday evening to spend the weekend with family and loved ones at home. The scores of security personnel at almost every curve on the road the evening I came home were conspicuously absent that morning. Maybe the early morning winter chill or it being the last day of 2008 had something to do with it, but the day seemed that much more better and brighter.

Wintery Christmassy Feelings

I can feel it in the air. Though the sun was up and bright this morning and the sky was exceptionally clear and blue when I dropped the kids to school, there was a distinct chill in the air. The temperature read 15 degrees at the Akasaka-Mitsuke Crossing at around 9 in the morning. When I glanced at the temperature board on my way back this evening, it read 10 degrees. Yes, its that time of the year again. Some of you might think it a bit early, but suddenly it feels like Christmas, snow (hopefully), cold feet searching for warm skin under layers of blankets, snuggling under a blanket, listening to the cold wind blowing outside the window, downing a few to ensure the ‘inner’ blanket remains warm, hot miso soup on a cold morning, those old Christmas carols and songs on the car stereo, Jim Reeves’ Christmas songs, Anne Murray’s ’sad old wintery feeling’, memories of Christmas carols back home, Christmas ‘lengkhawm’ songs….. And, most of all, we’ll be going home for Christmas and New Year. At least to Delhi.

With all these in mind, thought I’d also change my ‘theme’ to the same old Christmas theme with which I started this blog round about this time last year. 

Here’s me (probably the first in all of blogosphere) hoping we all have a Wonderful Christmas this year

Rockin’ in Tokyo

I am probably the only driver still using audio cassettes for my daily dose of music in this hi-tech city. In this age of DVD/Blu-ray players or at least a CD player fitted in almost all cars, I ain’t got a CD player in my car – only a stereo cassette player and radio – that’s how ancient my car is. Though one of the rear woofers has started giving out strange, scratchy sounds when I turn up the volume beyond the half-way level, it is still a great stereo. Whenever the need for ramping up the sound arises (usually on the drive home after office on Friday evenings), all I need to do is adjust the setting and silence the rear speakers

The usual suspects accompany me on my faithful car stereo during my daily drives to and from office. From classic acts like Deep Purple, CCR, AC/DC, Rainbow, Van Halen, to the occasional soft ballads and country to Mizo/Hmar and sometimes, lately, gothic rock (Evanescence, HIM – courtesy my kids). But for the last few weeks Mizo-rock from t-melody (Thinlung Thawnthu) and soft ballads/covers of old Zodi/Vulmawi hits and others from the newly released ‘Zoawi’ CD seem to have elbowed out my perennial companions.

Before I got the new ‘Zoawi’ VCD a few weeks ago from a friend, it was t-melody’s ‘Thinlung Thawnthu’. I had really looked forward to the album especially after the superb ‘Sweet December Concert’ CD of a few years back. I had expected more ‘Sweet December’ type numbers and was initially disappointed with the ‘heavy’ stuff when I first played the CD. But after I transferred the album on to audio cassette and played it on my car stereo, some of the songs began to cast their spell on me. I especially love the heavy-metal-rock sound of ‘Nun Khawhar’ – a really superb number. The other numbers I like are the blue-sy ‘Inpuana’ and the heavy rock sounds of ‘Dawn La’ and ‘Hringnun Hi’. But I must confess that my fingers automatically hit the forward button whenever the other songs in the album start playing until one of the four numbers I’ve just mentioned come on. Sadly, I just can’t stand the others.

The new ‘Zoawi’ CD, on the other hand, carries on from the ‘Sweet December Concert’ and is a superb collection of terrific songs and melodies. Songs like ‘Duhaisam’, a great cover of the Zodi original song of longing for a united (mythical?) Zoram, brought so many nostalgic memories of Zodi and Vulmawi during their heydays all those years ago. Another great number is the superbly arranged ‘Liandote unau’. I love the musical arrangement in this song – starting slowly with a slow, folksy

“Oh, Liandote unau unau

Dar enge in tum in tum

Dar engmah kan tum love

Liando bur chhete kan tum kan tum”

which immediately brings on visions of a more simple time and memories of children holding hands, singing in the village fields. The simple guitar riff that follows is followed by more lusty voices before the mood suddenly changes as a heavy-metal guitar riff suddenly explodes before slowing down again and the song goes on:  

“Zo hnathlak te unau unau

Dar enge in tum in tum

Dar engmah kan tum love

Insuihkhawm leh zai I rel ang u kan ti…”

The song ends with a group of small children singing the refrain. Superb (at least, to me). The odd number, and the worse, is ‘Mizo Takin’ set to a reggae beat (or is it blues). I love the reggae music of Bob Marley, UB40 and African singers and bands but I have yet to hear any of our songs set to their (reggae-type) beat that I like. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, I don’t know, because I find them most mis-matched. Our songs set to the beats of country, rock, heavy metal, gothic, even rap, are all fine provided they are well arranged, but reggae is just not on. 

Smokeless in Tokyo

I have decided to stop smoking, again. For the umpteenth time. The last time was about six months back. It lasted about a month. But the temptation became too much – especially after a good meal and with a wife like mine who is such a good cook that every meal is a class in itself, the temptation to prolong the enjoyment with a few after-meal puffs was just too much.

But the world is becoming increasingly smaller and smaller for confirmed smokaholics like me. With everyone, including the Government, doing their best to stop or at least restrict us, I figured I might as well give in, surrender to the inevitable, make my family happy, use the money saved for more useful things, live a more healthy life, etc.

So, this morning I smoked my last one. As I stubbed it out, I melo-dramatically thought of keeping the stub as a kind of souvenir – a reminder of when I used to smoke  It’s still there, across the table, in the ashtray which I will no longer need, hopefully. 

911

Its exactly 10pm as I start typing these words on my laptop, all alone, on the 26th floor of Prince Tower Hotel in Sapporo, capital of the northernmost island of Hokkaido in Japan. Just back from an official reception, its warm and cosy inside, but a chilly 9 degrees C outside.

As I log in and check my blog, I see that I’ve had exactly 911 visitors – a significant number, expecially for Americans. Significant for me too – I can hardly believe that I’ve had 911 visitors within the last 6 months since I started this blog. I do the math in my mind (ok ok, a little scribbling on the hotel stationery, mental math  or anything to do with math was never my strong point )- that’s about 150 a month, 5 a day! Insignificant for most of my blogger friends, but for me, a landmark. And I’ve even had a few complimentary comments – thanks guys.

I sit here with a glass of ‘Suntory’ (I’ll probably be trying to delete this when I next access my blog tomorrow evening when I get back home!). Maybe its the Suntory, but my mind flies back to the six months since I started this blog and I find that its been quite an eventful six months. I’ve been to Okinawa, the southernmost part of Japan (in Jan), and now I’m in the northernmost part of Japan!. In between, I had the privilege of visiting Osaka, Nara and Kyoto, the cultural capital of Japan, and even a visit to Sado island last weekend where I caught my first fish in the sea off the coast of Akadomari, a sleepy fishing village where I stayed overnight in the only hotel. A friend of a friend kindly agreed to take me out in his motor board for a one-hour ride (is that the right word?) in the sea. But I must admit that the first fish I caught was definitely not due to any skill, or even luck, on my part. It was all a result of the amazing and scientific way the Japanese go about their daily life. In this instance, it was all due to Sato-san (the friend of a friend)’s amazing GPS system fixed in his small boat which, when switched on, could scan the water beneath and identify the presence of fish below. Once the spot was identified, all I had to do was cast my line and, voila, a bite! I reel in my line and there’s a fish at the end of my line. Not the biggest fish, but definitely a fish. And I even have a photo which I will try and upload next time.

Today we visited the Rusutsu Resort and The Windsor Hotel – probably the most exclusive and luxurious hotel I’ve ever seen. If I ever win the loterry, that’s where I take my ‘valentine’. The view of Lake Toya from there was out of this world. Unbelieveably beautiful and breathtaking. I’ve seen some breath-takingly beautiful places in Italy and Switzerland, South Africa and Swaziland and, without meaning to be pretentious  or bragging, today’s sight of Toya Lake was out of this world. I have the photos which I will try and upload next time, though I doubt the photos will do justice to the beauty of the place.

Hey, gtg, as we used to say back in the good ole MIRC days. Maybe its the Suntory and thoughts of being home tomorrow, but its almost 11pm already and my comfortable-looking bed calls.

Do Dogs Go To Heaven?

The Asahi Shimbun, one of Japan’s biggest newspaper groups, carries a regular Agony Aunt column called ‘Annie’s Mailbox’ in its English language edition which comes with the International Herald Tribune’s Japan edition. (In Japan, the IHT and the AS English edition come together as one newspaper with the AS forming the second half of the IHT in its Japan edition – a 2-in-1 newspaper, so to say).

This morning’s ‘Mailbox’ carried a letter from a boy who’d lost his pet dog and wondered whether that was it, or maybe he’d see him again in the afterlife. In reply, ‘Annie’ reproduced what she called one of her favorite essays which I also reproduce below:

*****

Do Dogs Go To Heaven?
by the Rev. Dale Turner (1917-2006)

Looking back across the years I see how important dogs have been in my life. I had been an ordained minister only a few weeks when I received a call from an 8-year-old boy. His dog had been killed by a car. “Mr. Turner,” the lad sobbed, “do you do funerals for dogs?”

I didn’t know quite how to respond, but I recalled the Scriptures’ affirmation of God’s knowing when even a sparrow falls. I replied, “Why not?” and I conducted a little ceremony for the boy’s pet.

He was very pleased and then asked, “Is my dog going to heaven?” I wasn’t prepared for that question, but my love for animals got me through it. I’m sure I made the child feel better.

Several years later I had my own personal experience that provided the answer I had never been sure of.

Our wonderful dachshund, Gretta, died and we were eager to bring another dog into our home. We went to the pound to get the dachshund whose photo had appeared in the paper. By the time we arrived, it had been claimed. Another puppy, sensing our mission, poked her nose through the wire fence. The look in her eyes seemed to say, “Please, pick me.” We did. And we named her Pick.

Whenever I came home, Pick was there to greet me. I’d say, “Pick, you’ve got it made. Other animals work for their keep. A canary sings, cows give milk, chickens lay eggs, but you don’t have to do anything but hang around.”

After 14 years, Pick became very sick and there was nothing to be done except put her out of her misery. With a heavy heart I drove her to the vet’s, who did what had to be done. I then went back to my study and wept for hours.

A few days later, a parishioner who knew of my grief sent me this poem. It healed my sorrow. Perhaps it will help others. I’d like to share it.

I explained to St. Peter,

I’d rather stay here,

Outside the pearly gate.

I won’t be a nuisance,

I won’t even bark,

I’ll be very patient and wait.

I’ll be here, chewing on a celestial bone,

No matter how long you may be.

I’d miss you so much, if I went in alone,

It wouldn’t be heaven for me.

*****

The essay, especially the wonderful poem at the end, brought back so many memories of our beloved dogs back when we were kids. I don’t recall any time when we were without a dog. We usually had two most of the time and they were treated as part of the family.

I particularly recall ‘Goofy’, an Alsatian, whose full name was ‘Dick Brown Lalgoofthang’ – ‘Goofy’ for short. ‘Dick Brown’ was his ‘Sap hming’ (‘English’ name) and ‘Lalgoofthang’ his Hmar name – the ‘goof’ part of it derived from the Walt Disney cartoon character ‘Goofy’ to whom he bore some resemblance, or so we thought. However, to anyone who cared to ask, we would first tell them his full name and then say that we normally called him ‘Goofy’ emphasizing that this was derived/shortened from his Hmar name, Lalgoofthang, and not from the Disney character.

He was a big, tough-looking dark brown dog (hence the ‘Dick Brown’ part of his name) with a big bark and a bigger heart. Apart from the season when a dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do, that is, go a-courting all round our village or even beyond, he was always there to welcome us home night or day. His ecstatic welcoming bark and ‘hug’ on our return home from a night out with friends or on coming home for the weekends from Imphal where I was studying at that time had the power to take away all your worries, at least for a moment, because his welcome and showering of affection was so genuine and heartfelt, and was something I always looked forward to.

Goofy died of old age and we buried him in our garden. My brothers and I made a wooden cross on which we wrote his name which we planted on his grave. Whenever talks turn to dogs, my mind always recalls Goofy because he gave us so much joy and companionship during the time he was with us. We had quite a number of dogs both before and after Goofy till the wise guys of our village decided to basically ban ownership of dogs because incidences of people dying of rabies from dog bites had allegedly increased. Unless, one was prepared to keep the dog leashed at all times.

To us, keeping a member of the family leashed was never an option so we reluctantly stopped keeping dogs. I suppose our leaving the family coop and going off for further studies or jobs as well as other factors such as increasing incidences of dogs disappearing and turning up in somebody’s pot contributed.

I also remember ‘Spotty’. He didn’t have a ‘full’ name like Goofy. In fact, Goofy was the only dog we had who had a ‘full’ name – from the time he came to us as a small puppy, there was something extra special about him and hence the ‘full’ name. Spotty was a black and white common mongrel with a mournful face, black on the left and white on the right. We called him Spotty because his whole body was covered with black spots. Spotty was with us much before Goofy and, as always, much loved by us while he gave back an equal or even more love in return.

For some reason, Spotty was never the robust and tough kind of dog that we usually kept. Though he grew up fine and had his share of girlfriends and wandered high and low with us as we explored the hills and vales around our village, he soon developed some kind of disease and slowly began to lose his appetite. There were no vets whom we could consult in those days, but a guy from our village who worked in the ‘vety’ department brought us some greenish looking medicine which they used to inject cattle showing similar symptoms. He came and gave Spotty his first injection, on his thigh.

Being the eldest boy in the family, it became my duty to give the rest of the injections. Once a day, I would inject Spotty on the thigh, always taking care to ensure that I did not inject him in the same place twice. I remember Spotty would perk up as I approached, wag his tails weakly and let me stab him with the syringe as I spoke soothing words and he would look at me with his big mournful eyes. The first time I stabbed Spotty with the syringe, I expected that he would maybe flinch or yelp or show some sign of pain. But he never did – and I came to realize that dogs have such thick skins that they do not feel the pinch of a syringe.

However, despite the injections and the special food and whatever care we were able to give, Spotty never recovered from his illness. We prepared a special bed, lined with soft cloth and tried to make him as comfortable as possible. At first he would sit up, wag his tail and greet us whenever we approached. But, as the disease ravaged poor Spotty’s body, he soon had no strength to sit up or even wag his tail.

But his eyes somehow remained alert as ever. Every time I approached him (which was as often as I could bear to see him slowly dying), he would try to lift up his head and his eyes would look directly at me. It was heartbreaking to see him lying there, too weak to move, and looking at you with eyes full of trust knowing that you were going to make him better.

Towards the end, we could only pray that his suffering would come to an end as swiftly as possible. But he clung on. The hours became days and the days weeks. He became all bones, unable to eat anything solid and barely managing to drink water or the special soups we had to force-feed him. Until one day, when we could no longer bear to watch him fade away ever so slowly, the family council decided that there was no option but to end his suffering once and for all.

Once it was decided, it fell on me, as the eldest, to hasten Spotty’s departure. Spotty’s trusting eyes looking directly at me as I approached to do my dastardly deed will remain forever etched in my mind. We buried him in the back garden behind our chicken shed and planted some Japan theite on his grave a few months later. Years later, the Japan theite began bearing exceptionally big and juicy fruits and we were reminded of our ever faithful Spotty with the trusting eyes.

So, I’m sitting here wondering who will be there waiting for me outside the pearly gates when my time comes. Will it be Goofy, ever faithful, waiting to give me his own special ‘hug’? Will it be Brownie, Torpu, Blackie or any one of the wonderful dogs who shared their time with us?

Or will it be Spotty? How can I face Spotty after what I did? But, maybe, he knows and understands that what I did, what I had to do, was for the best?

Dear Spotty, are you still there

Outside the pearly gate

Chewing your celestial bone

Patiently waiting for me

No matter how long I may be,

Because if you went in alone,

It wouldn’t be heaven?

Or are you still there

Outside the pearly gate

Chewing your celestial bone

Patiently waiting for me,

Sharpening your teeth,

Because you know the time will come

To finally get even for my betrayal

Tokyo 21 Apr 2008