Dangling in the sky

"I'm going to be a Christian," I declared nonchalantly one lazy midweek afternoon when Ma was lounging between meals some forty years ago.

She was stunned.

Yes. Too much musings over years long gone. I am currently between treatment and with the fragility of Life dangling over me like the Sword of Damocles, I found myself looking back to where it all began. It is a time for healing and a time for reflection.

But let's get back to Ma. Like I said, she was stunned. It took a pensive moment before she packed all her thoughts into one statement.  She said, "When Christians die, they dangle midway in the sky."

I had no idea what inspired me to make that statement in the first place. Maybe it was the raging hormones (I was a teenager at the time) or maybe someone higher up the pecking order issued the impulse.  It was probably inspired by a sense of curiosity. How will Ma react? Will she hit the roof?  In any case, I made that decision, dubious as it was, some forty years ago, not knowing, not understanding the implication of my stand or the consequences thereof.

There were only three things I knew about Christianity at the time.

• Jesus Christ was the founder. (My history book said so.)
• A person who embraces Christianity is indifferent to the concept of filial piety. (Filial piety is a Confucian ideal quoted to exhaustion. Ma often told me about the funerals she attended where Christian children refused to honour their deceased parent by performing the Taoist funeral rites.)
• After death, a Christian dangled midway in the sky. (That was so cool, I thought, as I conjured images of a winged me dangling in the sky and petrifying the shit out of the birds. To understand how this image came to mind, read The Strange Book.)

I was tired of Ma's religious discipline and its encompassing bondage of fear. Her life was directed by what the gods told her through the spiritual mediums she consulted. Ma's gods governed without logic or reason. They had no historical record except for those passed down through word of mouth, some of several wobbling feebly at the edge of idiosyncrasy.

In Ma's world, there were a lot of gods. Greater gods and lesser gods, each to be periodically appeased. Life is but a passage to Hell for that is the ultimate destination. At a traditional Chinese funeral, currency notes (legal tender) issued by the Bank of Hell is offered to the dead. From this, one would conjecture that Hell is where the dearly departed is headed. 

Ma used to tell me about the eighteen tortures of Hell.  It was a Buddhist Naraka concept loosely intertwined with traditional Chinese mythology. It was undeniably gruesome. The person who conjured this idea had to be some masochist. The deceased died over and over again through various forms of torture. (Except that you can't possibly die all over again once you're technically dead.) The idea used to scare the shit out of me when I was a kid. I once saw a movie scene where a dead man's tongue was cut off because he lied. He survived that torture and went on to the next one where he was strapped to a flaming pillar. I can't remember the rest of the tortures but the one which topped it all was the one where the dead man's stomach was sawn in two while he howled in excruciating pain. (Technically, a dead man whose nervous system is no longer in action should not be feeling any pain. Just saying ...)

You need to look at this objectively. If I followed Ma's beliefs, I probably wouldn't survive all eighteen levels. (I can't remember how many times I lied about my age.)  It's like having to choose between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. If I chose the former, I'll be headed for the eighteen tortures. If I go with the latter ... well, dangling midway in the sky can be pretty cool.

It was the logical choice.

Now I wonder ...  Where did Ma get the dangling idea?

UPDATE
Chemotherapy completed. Now waiting for the hospital to fix my first radiotherapy appointment. My hair is about an inch long. Still waiting for it to turn black or curly, preferably both. Finger tips and flat of foot still tingling. Finger and toe nails looked frightful. The persistent numbness in my left arm is an annoyance. Other than that, I feel fine. Sometimes, I forgot that I'm sick. Occasionally, I remembered that I came this close to Death. If I hadn't been decisive about the operation, I would have been quite dead by now, and - probably ... dangling midway in the sky.

Alternatively, I might probably become a glob of energy traversing space to join the hypothetical Dark Energy which helped accelerate the expansion of the Universe.

Or not!

The Nonya

The Nonya was in her forties when I first knew her. She was all skin and bones, all five feet of her. She lived with her boyfriend at a temple under an old tree by the riverside. Her boyfriend was a dubious character who strutted in and out the temple with bare-chested arrogance.

I was about twelve at the time.

Upstairs, at the shophouse where I lived was an open passage about three feet wide which connected the front portion of the building to the kitchen and toilet at the back. This open passage was barricaded by a metal balustrade about 3 feet high along its length of about 20 feet. I spent hours perched on the balustrade looking out at the life going on below.

There wasn't much to see. The road on the left was frequented by students feeding the three schools up ahead. Smaller buildings occupied the centre while the temple on the right stole the show. It was a busy temple so there was always something to look at from my vantage point.

There weren't any neighbourhood kids I could hang out with, so on school holidays, I often found myself drifting towards the temple, peering into the river behind it and imagining crocodiles lurking beneath the muddy water.

At the back of the temple was a short cemented narrow passageway which led to the Nyonya's quarters. Her living condition was squalid by any standard. Her bed was a plywood laid upon a wooden frame eased towards the walls on the far side of the passage. The other side of the passage looked over the river.  Further up the passage was a small dark kitchen and wooden shelves for her personal effects.

While the river wasn't teeming with crocodiles, their presence had been a widely whispered rumour. There were stories of human carcasses found half-eaten upriver so respecting it like I should, I gave it a wide berth. Still, I worried that the crocodile may devour the Nyonya in her sleep one dark moonless night when it was especially hungry and dinner was scarce. Nothing of the kind happened. Maybe she was protected by the shield of spirituality.

The Nyonya was one of several spiritual mediums practising their trade at the temple. It was not clear what sort of qualification is required for this trade but having a knack for the theatrics is a prerequisite.

She started by lighting up candles and joss-sticks, casually chatting with her client as she goes. That done, she settled on a chair before the temple altar. This is the part where it is imperatively important to be quiet so that the gods may descend upon her without any blunder.

At some point in this quietude, her knees under the sarong knocked each other and she came to life. The client who was breathing down her neck bend over her with religious reverence. Most of the gods were soft-spoken for I seldom hear any of the spiritual mediums yell. Still the exchange between client and medium was fluid and is usually concluded when the red doodles hit the yellow paper. (talisman?)

The Nyonya's boyfriend was far more theatrical. He shifted his weight between his left and right leg in tempo with his song, hands outstretched and resting on the table. Suddenly, he slammed the table that all may know the arrival of the gods.

Their world was a nest of intrigue. In their transient state, they seemed in control of their faculties and mine was a questioning mind.

Still, this forms the basis of my childhood and one wonders how it was that I made the transition from a childhood steeped in spiritual razzmatazz to become a bible believing follower of the true and living God.

Parallel Lines

Two parallel lines which I hadn't noticed before mysteriously appeared at the base of all my fingernails.  I couldn't imagine what they were doing there.  Picture two parallel lines etched by a sharp penknife across the base of your fingernails  and you'd just about understand what I'm talking about.

Other than sitting there and looking disagreeable, the lines had no other bearing on my general well-being.  My fingers still hurt as does the flat of my foot. It will be a few more months before I see the last of this.

As far as radiotherapy goes, I am still waiting for them to call me with an appointment. I am intimidated by the 5X Boost I should be getting but according to my surgeon, that is nothing to worry about.  I'll be glad when all this nightmare is behind me.

Also, my surgeon whom I saw yesterday, remarked that I was "looking good." That's gotta count for something.

She is awake

SHE (MORE HERE) is awake.  The prognosis is bacteria/viral infection.  That means, they haven't the vaguest clue.

UPDATE HERE