The Old Man

Source: The internet

The old man who picked up scraps still shuttled within the vegetable-market.

Pushing the cart that had accompanied him for many years and those old and new boxes carried on it were the wealth that the old man relied upon for his living. Only knowing that the old man was very old, we could not tell how old he was. As the passing of time, his face was marked with traces of age, making him look a lot older than he was.

Besides collecting his natural resources at the morning vegetable-market and the dusk-market at nearby streets, the old man also went to the night-market by the side of the main road.

This afternoon, a roar of depressed thunder struck out the tears from the sky, making the formerly busy and bustling market suddenly turn cold and cheerless. Wearing old torn raincoat, the old man was still wandering along the road. And I was just riding my motorcycle from my company to a nearby market, which was not far from my home, to carry out some field work. Seeing the old man himself in the heavy rain, still bravely collecting waste paper boxes and metal tins, I felt a sudden sadness.

This inexplicable sadness was unnecessary and in fact should not exist within this cold and detached city. Hurriedly ran into the shop that I had contacted before, tried hard to sell all the products I had brought with me, hoping that they would all be put on the shelves of this fine shop.

Back on the streets, the rain became lighter. I saw the old man standing at the entrance of a bakery nearby.  He took out a broken plastic bag and counted the coins inside. He was hoping he had enough coins to buy bread that could fill his empty stomach.

This was the only one luxury the old man could afford within days. I could not bear it anymore. I rushed towards the back of the old man and pressed my hand on both his hand and the opening of the plastic carrier, “Uncle, no need to count, let me invite you to eat noodles for lunch.”

The old man starred at me with his small eyes, but the eyes reveal deep wisdom, “Good boy, I recognise you; you’re the little chap who took used tissues to recycle.”

I could not refrain from blushing by his saying, and could only nod. The old man laughed and said, “Good, good!”

I was not sure whether I was praised for my habit of thorough recycling or he was accepting my invitation. Ten minutes later, a fully drenched salesman and a dark skinned destitute old man both sat down at the front of the noodle shop.

Ignoring the owner’s frown, both young and old ate heartily at the noodle shop. “Why did you suddenly invite me to eat noodles?” asked the old man laughingly.

I could not say. I could not say that it was because I saw his figure working in the rain, nor could I say that it was due to his broken plastic carrier and his few coins.

The old man continued to say, “Is it because you often see me in such dire straits and you sympathize with me?”

All of a sudden I was dumbstruck and carried on quietly eating the noodles.

I hurriedly paid the bill before the old man finished eating. Once we finished, the old man stood up and showed a smile of satisfaction. It seemed like it was not just because of the noodles.

He extended his hand, filled with experience, to touch my face, “Good boy, you‘ve too much compassion and sentiment, don’t waste them on me, but spend more time with your parents.” As soon as he finished, he put on his conical bamboo hat and raincoat, and pushed his cart going back to where he worked.

But from that evening onwards, the old man no longer appeared in the market, and the plot of derelict land where he piled his assets had been allocated as a building site. I felt puzzled, but as time went by my curiosity subsided.

Until one afternoon three months later, an extra letter without a sender’s address appeared in the letterbox. Feeling curiosity, I opened the letter, ‘Good boy, do you still remember me?  It was the last day of my scraps collecting era when you invited me for noodles. I had that job for thirty years. Even though I knew it was the last day, how could I be willing to stop working?

Ask me why I stopped collecting scraps?  Because the vacant land where I piled my waste was sold by my two sons, this was also the piece of land where they were raised and grew up!  However, they sold it for the return of a high price paid by land developer. They told me that I should transfer the land to them because the inheritance tax was hefty. They repeatedly guaranteed that they would not sell the land.

This piece of land is the same as their father, which raised them from when they were little. Now that the land is sold to the land developer, I have had to live at the old people’s home. Both the land and I were abandoned, being dumped by the sons whom I have supported through university to achieve doctorate degrees. During all those years, other than bringing up my sons, I did not waste a penny on myself. What I ate most were the leftovers from eateries by the roadside, and fruits discarded from fruit stores. Those few coins in the broken plastic bag were found when collecting scraps. I could only have some proper food to eat when I had accumulated enough money. I spent every penny I earned on my bringing up and educating my sons.

Now, at the old people’s home, my sons told me that the land was sold for the price of 500 million, and that since I was old and not dead yet, what use could I be other than to spend their money?  Good boy, before they even said one word, I was already numb. I only remembered the sincerity you showed when you invited me to eat noodles, and the warmth you gave when you held my hand. I hope that we may see each other again one day.’

I discovered traces of dried tears at the bottom corner of the letter, as new tears could not stop falling from my eyes. Resolutely, I got on my motorbike and rushed back to my parents’ house.

As I ran into the house, with disappointing tears still rolling down my face, I tried to choke back the tears and said, “I’m back, Dad, Mum, I’m back. Let’s have dinner together.”

The poem “Birthday (Mother’s Suffering Day)” written by
Yu Kuang-chung is especially touching:

This Life, This Age
Twice, the sound of crying is the most indifferent
Once, at the beginning of my life
The other, at the end of your life 
The first time, I couldn’t remember but heard from you
The second time, you wouldn’t know even if I told
Oh, between these two crying sounds
Are endless and boundless of laughter
Again, again and again
Echoing fully thirty years
This surely you know, and surely I remember

Rinpoche said, “Buddhist disciples must read (The Sutra As Spoken by the Buddha on the Profound Kindness of Parents and the Difficulties in Repaying them)!”