Little Shramanera came back a little after one in the afternoon. Wu Aizhen was in the study writing an article for Women magazine. She heard him slam the door shut with a bang, and a moment later he burst in excitedly, pulled Wu Aizhen up from her chair, and spun her around twice in his arms. Little Shramanera was incredibly strong today.
“Bodhisattva, you know what? Today’s exhibition was a huge success. Even the city leaders praised it, saying the event was organized with real class. I’ve never seen President Zheng so happy, so proud. She held one last year too, organized by Mi Lang, but she was very dissatisfied afterwards. At lunch, in front of so many people, she made a point of toasting me. She said I’d done a great service for this exhibition, told the others to handle the remaining days, and said I’d worked hard and should go home and rest well…” Ren Qingfei spoke excitedly. Fueled by the wine, his face was flushed red, and his clear, bright eyes held a tipsy haze that brimmed with proud delight.
“I think it’s you who’s happy and proud — getting Zheng Meiqin’s praise.” Wu Aizhen teased him, pushing him away and sitting back down to pick up her pen.
Little Shramanera seemed to realize he was a bit too excited and laughed sheepishly. “What are you writing? You just don’t understand my heart. My boss recognizes and appreciates my work, and you won’t even reward me for it.” He pressed himself close and sidled over, wrapped his arms around her neck from behind, and peered at what she was writing on the desk. “Wow! ‘Secret Methods for Cultivating Beauty’ — now there’s a hot topic. Our office’s ‘Cactus’ — that’s a nickname for one of Ren Qingfei’s female colleagues — is always trying to turn into a ‘Peony.’ I always thought beauties were born, not made. So you can actually cultivate yourself into one!” As he spoke, Ren Qingfei snatched the draft Wu Aizhen was working on and flopped onto the study’s recliner, reading aloud in a loud voice:
True beauty in a woman lies not in skinniness or plumpness, not in the face, but in naturalness, and even more in spiritual radiance. Outward beauty, ugliness, fatness, or thinness are hard to change, but spiritual radiance arises from the heart — therefore it can be cultivated. For example: First, a woman free of jealousy will have a serene expression, her face as quiet and lovely as the autumn moon; second, a woman free of anger and hatred will possess a disposition gentle and yielding as water, her gaze exceptionally pure and limpid; third, a woman who always speaks softly and gently, never coarse words, and who often rejoices in others’ merit and praises them, can make her breath sweet as orchids and achieve a honey-sweet, pleasing voice; fourth, a woman who refrains from sexual misconduct will attain an appearance of noble sacred purity, an elegant bearing, movingly lovely; fifth, a woman free of arrogance will achieve a simple, pure look, with the beauty of a mountain stream flowing gently; sixth, a woman who harbors love for all things and constantly practices giving will, through her equal, loving heart, radiate a motherly glow and achieve a brilliance of compassionate, kindly beauty; seventh, a woman who is not greedy and does not complain, because her spirit is tranquil and inwardly collected, will acquire a full, rounded bodily charm and the beauty of a body seemingly boneless in its suppleness; eighth, a woman who performs tasks with concentration, whose heart is purely directed, and who possesses the above virtues, will have her energy focused and spirit concentrated, so that over time her skin becomes pure as cream, her bearing serene and gracefully poised, still as the bright moon, in motion like shimmering ripples of light spreading outward — naturally perfecting all manner of virtuous feminine qualities, her form and spirit irresistible in their charm.
“Wow! Is there really such a woman? She’s practically a saint. Still, this idea that beauty lies in spiritual radiance, and that spiritual radiance comes from the heart — that’s a fresh viewpoint. All those girls at our office who are about to go dieting or get plastic surgery won’t need to spend money or suffer pain. Just adjust their minds, keep things natural, and everything will be fine.”
Ren Qingfei put the unfinished manuscript back on the desk; one page fell to the floor. “Of course it’s true,” Wu Aizhen said, picking up the fallen sheet. “The face is given by your parents, and the body’s weight is not yours to decide. The knowledge of this world can only elevate a woman’s bearing, but spiritual radiance flows from the heart — it is a beauty that truly never fades, and any woman can achieve it. If a woman can accomplish those points, she will fully reveal the beauty of her spiritual radiance. A woman with that radiance, facing all things, will not lose her confidence because her heart is in harmony with nature. In that case, a ‘Cactus’ has the charm of a cactus. Why should she put on a clumsy imitation of the ‘Peony’? Perhaps among a garden full of surgically cultivated ‘Peonies,’ Prince Charming will favor the ‘Cactus’ alone — because at least she has natural beauty.”
“I salute you on behalf of ‘Cactus’! The cactus’s confidence is saved. As soon as I get to work, I’ll deliver this good news: the beauty of a woman lies in naturalness, in spiritual radiance. But, my beauty, how about we take a nap together?” Without giving Wu Aizhen a chance to argue, Ren Qingfei stubbornly pulled her by the hand into the bedroom.
Little Shramanera held her and kissed her for a while, then fell asleep, letting out soft snores. It looked as if these past few days had indeed tired him out. Wu Aizhen sat up in bed, looking tenderly at Little Shramanera’s face, sleeping like a child. Although they had been together over a year, they didn’t usually live together. Little Shramanera stayed in the company apartment; they only got together on weekends, and he often went on business trips or worked overtime — the time they truly spent together was not much. Little Shramanera called her Bodhisattva because he admired her wisdom and the profoundly compassionate heart she so often showed.
Before she began cultivating and realizing the Dharma, Wu Aizhen felt that this was actually the weakest, most vulnerable part of her character. Wisdom only allowed her to see life more deeply, perceive the many facets of human nature, grasp the impermanence of phenomena more clearly, and feel the warmth and coldness of human relationships more keenly. She often helplessly watched things happen or pass away — her own, her friends’. She remembered a period when she was unusually sentimental and prone to melancholy; even the blooming and withering of flowers, the shifting of the seasons, would inexplicably leave tears streaming down her face…
As she grew older and more experienced, she became somewhat indifferent toward life, lacking in passion. She felt she had no power to change anything, nor could she draw strength, renewal, or any stirring of feeling from the countless things that change and shift. Yet she did not feel she had lost her love for life, or her tolerance and understanding of human nature — that, perhaps, was the professional ethics of a psychologist. But she was not satisfied with herself. She felt her life was somewhat dull, somewhat stifled, not carefree and at ease enough.
Since she began cultivating and realizing the Buddhadharma, however, she had gradually learned to observe everything with composure, no longer wounded by change, and within that composure she used the wisdom of the Dharma to arrive at a fuller and clearer understanding of the impermanence of life and all things. In particular, through constant self-reflection, she perceived ever more distinctly the habitual tendencies behind every arising and movement of her own thoughts. This made her no longer pessimistic or apathetic, and her insight into herself made her more tolerant of others, her grasp of people and phenomena more penetrating, and compassion for sentient beings would often well up spontaneously within her. But she still could not always draw joy from this wisdom. A faint melancholy would often rise from the depths of her heart, like a wisp of cloud drifting before a bright moon. Outside of work, she was mostly silent. Perhaps, as the Master had said, she still could not attain No-Self or universal love; desire not yet spent still lingered in her heart; she still had attachments, and her samadhi power was not yet sufficient to sustain that state of awakening at every moment…
Little Shramanera seemed to be dreaming. A low sound came from his throat, and his brows furrowed slightly. Wu Aizhen gazed quietly at him, and a question suddenly rose in her heart: “Little Shramanera, how long can this love between us last?” In that moment, she felt a trace of bitterness seep out from the bottom of her heart, and a mist of tears welled in her eyes. She did not know why, but Wu Aizhen had far too strong a sense of fate about this love. She had always believed that among all human bonds, romantic love was the most beautiful. It was not like familial love, which required blood ties; nor like friendship, where the bond between gentlemen is as mild as water. It was familial love, yet it needed no blood to sustain it; it encompassed friendship, yet was more intense and more selfless than the affection between friends. It was the loveliest flower that bloomed from the meeting and fusion of two lives. She had once longed for a love that was focused, profound, and free of worldly taint — but did such a love exist in this world? And even if it did, could it endure? Little Shramanera’s love might be pure, but from the restless flux of his spirit — now exhilarated and impassioned, now desolate and low, drifting and unsettled — she could see no lasting guarantee for what lay between them. What awaited this love tomorrow? At the thought, her heart felt so tired…
Suddenly, Little Shramanera started awake from his dream. His reddened eyes stared at Wu Aizhen in astonishment. “Who’s playing the xiao?” “You were dreaming,” Wu Aizhen said, touching his forehead with her hand. Little Shramanera blinked, only then realizing he had been dreaming. “What did you dream?” Wu Aizhen asked. “That dream again!” Ren Qingfei shut his eyes, and tears unexpectedly welled up in them — one drop rolled from the corner of his eye. “Haven’t you asked the Master for me yet? I’ve had this dream so many times now.”
“I did ask. The Master only said it’s a karmic affinity.”
“Some things really are strange. The sound I hear in that dream is like a xiao and like a flute at the same time. Whenever I hear it, I feel frightened, and an inexplicable shame and remorse rises in my heart.”
“It’s a jade flute!” Wu Aizhen said with certainty. Ren Qingfei stared at her wide-eyed. “How do you know?” “I just feel it is. I like the sound of the jade flute. In Chan samadhi, I’ve heard it.”
Ren Qingfei sprang up. “Hey, tell me about it. What did you hear in Chan samadhi?”
“In one sitting meditation, I felt myself soaring lightly between gentle breezes and drifting clouds, a white crane at my side for company. I had grown light and joyful. Looking down, the mountains and rivers were all clear and distinct — it was so beautiful. Then suddenly, clouds and mist surged before me, and there in the sea of clouds, as if in a daze, I saw a young man playing a jade flute. The melody was resonant and lovely, like lofty mountains and flowing streams, every note brimming with feeling. I flew toward him, and suddenly he vanished, but the flute sound didn’t stop. In the thickening mist, I kept flying with the flute sound; the fog grew heavier and heavier until I could not open my eyes, and breathing became difficult. But the flute grew richer, and my heart seemed bound tightly to it. The flute sound was the state of my heart; it was my emotion. I kept flying with the sound, flying until I was utterly exhausted…” Wu Aizhen stopped.
“Where did you fly to?” Ren Qingfei asked.
Wu Aizhen said, “The Master said that was the heaven of emotion. Flying the way I was, I would never fly out.”
“Who was that young man playing the flute?” Ren Qingfei always took these things seriously.
“It was you!” Wu Aizhen said jokingly.
“But I do love you. Why would you fly out of the heaven of emotion?” Ren Qingfei had grown unexpectedly earnest, like a child, his eyes reddening as though tears were about to fall.
“It was only an illusory realm. Why are you taking it so seriously?” Wu Aizhen said tenderly.
“Hmm! I think some things in Chan samadhi carry a certain meaning,” Ren Qingfei said. He lay back down quietly, resting his head on his hands, lost in thought.
“Why do I feel shame and remorse when I hear the xiao? Is the sound I hear the same as yours?”
“I think, if you feel shame and remorse, it’s because your heart has been stained. The flute sound is the voice of the ‘heart,’ expressing feelings that are utterly pure, because it is in the heaven of emotion—it is free of desire.”
“Did your Master say how to fly out of the heaven of emotion?”
“Do you even need to ask? The Master would surely say: see through it, let go, and you attain liberation.”
“If that’s the case, then once you’ve seen through it and let go, but others haven’t yet managed to — won’t cultivators all turn into people without heart or honor?”
“How could that be? A Bodhisattva who truly sees through the world of emotion and the ocean of desire and has already transcended emotional desire will certainly possess great loving-kindness and great compassion at the same time. And that letting go is only letting go of clinging to and discriminating emotional desire. If she found herself in the heaven of emotion, she would plunge into emotion even more deeply, with even greater concentration. Because her body, speech, and mind are unified, in every kshana her love is total devotion of body and mind, total self-giving, without seeking anything in return. Because of her non-attachment to her own emotional desires and her realization of emptiness, she would never harm anyone through pursuing, gaining, and losing emotional desire—unless for the benefit of sentient beings she gave up everything of herself.”
“Can you do that?” Ren Qingfei asked.
“No.”
“Then how do you understand it?”
“Wisdom from hearing and contemplation, not attained through cultivation and realization—so I can’t. But in Chan samadhi, I seemed to reach the very edge of the heaven of emotion. Deep in a sea of clouds, I stood beneath a cherry tree, its blossoms drifting down in flurries. I watched that youth still playing his jade flute. His melody suddenly turned piercing and surging, full of grief. I waved to him, then turned and leaped from the churning sea of clouds. Below was the bottomless ocean of desire.”
“If you haven’t ‘left emotion behind’ and fall into the ocean of desire, wouldn’t that be worse than death?!” Ren Qingfei thought about it naively for a moment and said with concern.
“Exactly! So you’d better not fall into the ocean of desire and get led around by the nose by desire. I don’t think you’re cut out to be a cold and heartless person. Keep a bottom line for yourself, so your heart won’t be tortured if you sink into the ocean of desire.” Wu Aizhen teased him.
“Nonsense. How can you separate emotion and desire so cleanly? Haven’t you heard the saying: when emotion stirs, the ocean of desire surges; when desire stirs, emotion pulls you along?”
“There’s always a dominant inclination.”
“I think people who are heartless and without loyalty, living only for desire, are still pretty rare. Feelings change fast only because there are too many temptations. Most people can’t remain unperturbed with a woman in their lap, and they can’t resist the lure of fame and profit either,” Ren Qingfei said.
“Don’t make excuses for those faithless people. The truth is, once someone really falls into the ocean of desire, even if that person was full of feeling and loyalty before, the swelling of the fame-and-profit mind will turn them cold and heartless, treacherous and faithless, utterly selfish,” Wu Aizhen said.
“That bad? Don’t be so black and white about it.”
“But there is one kind of exception. The Master says that when a great Bodhisattva enters the world of emotion and the ocean of desire, her irreversible compassionate love keeps her heart undefiled and undeluded. And because she deeply understands the habitual tendencies of sentient beings, she can acquire even more skillful means to rescue and liberate them.”
“But neither of us is a Bodhisattva right now. We’re just ordinary mortals. Let’s not discuss these questions anymore.” As Ren Qingfei spoke, he drew Wu Aizhen into the crook of his arm, kissing her gently . . . Soon Ren Qingfei grew aroused. Wu Aizhen pushed the breathless Little Shramanera away. The two of them lay quietly on the bed.
“Bodhisattva, I feel that the way it is now—emotion is beautiful, desire is beautiful too. Why seek liberation?”
“It’s true—emotional desire is beautiful too! But emotion will change and vanish, and desire is endless. Losing love is suffering, parting is suffering, desire unsatisfied is suffering, fear of losing what you have is suffering . . . And how many afflictions, how much pain, how many wars and illnesses spring from emotional desire. You only see her beautiful side, her pleasurable side. But these things are far too brief. What such pleasure and stimulation bring people is life after life in the Six Paths of Rebirth—birth, aging, sickness, and death from which one can never be freed. If you’re not careful and your blessings run out, there is also the suffering of Hell with no end in sight.”
“Isn’t it enough if I’m a good person? Even if I went to Hell after death, I don’t think it would be my turn,” Little Shramanera said.
“If the social climate is bad, it’s hard even to be a good person, let alone the problem of collective karma. If you only cultivate yourself while everyone else’s moral level lags behind, in that larger environment you’ll sooner or later be stained in every color. Besides, you say you’ll be a good person—what’s your standard?”
“I think if a person can follow the Confucian Five Constants—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness—that should qualify as a noble person, a good person.”
“From the standpoint of being human alone, doing these things would indeed make one a noble person,” Wu Aizhen said thoughtfully. “But in the Buddhadharma, the body’s cycle of rebirth requires the end of a life, yet the mind’s cycle of rebirth is moment to moment, arising and perishing in every kshana. If, as you say, a person could follow this moral standard of a ‘noble person’ from beginning to end, then that person’s mind would also be arising and perishing moment to moment within the human path. Only then would they truly be a ‘human being.’ But now, the minds of most people cycle through the other paths in every kshana, and most of the time they align with the Three Lower Realms. Some because desire has swollen, some because they cannot withstand life’s setbacks and hardships.”
“For example, a patient at my clinic lost her child. She was utterly grief-stricken, had no heart to do anything, weeping all day long. I felt her mind was already suffering in Hell. Another patient’s husband took a mistress. She could not sleep day or night, seemed on the verge of madness, thought only of revenge, had lost emotional control. Setting aside the question of her husband’s right or wrong, I felt her mind was already cycling through the asura path. Both of these patients might have dearly wished to be high-minded noble persons, but faced with life’s adversity, they could not respond with wisdom, and their minds fell just the same. In fact, the minds of most people now spend long stretches outside the human path. I believe when the sutras say that in the Dharma-Ending Age human beings grow fewer and fewer, they are speaking of the human mind—they mean that human minds can no longer remain in the human path. If a person’s mind constantly aligns with other paths, once their blessings are exhausted they will certainly lose their human body in the cycle of rebirth. In this way, will there be any human beings left?!”
Little Shramanera fell silent. What Wu Aizhen had said certainly sounded reasonable enough, but it was not what concerned him at the moment. In the real world, what worried people more was the population explosion and whether the earth’s resources would hold out. As for what happened when a person’s blessings ran out—natural disasters, man-made calamities, plagues, wars, or sinking lower in the Six Paths of Rebirth—he felt too powerless to change any of it. “The rise and fall of the nation rests on every common man’s shoulders” was something great men said. He was just an ordinary mortal; keeping his own character and his own life in order was enough. He could not yet shoulder any great purpose or heavy mission.
“Hey! You met our company’s Mr. Mi today—what did you think of him?” Ren Qingfei changed the subject. Those earlier topics felt too heavy.
“That man is extremely phony. If you work together, you’d better watch your back.”
“Oh, here we go again. I’m good buddies with the guy now. He’s very capable—when he first joined the company, he was just Zheng Meiqin’s driver, and within a year he was promoted to vice president. He treats people with real warmth. For several years running he’s been voted the company’s model of civility. Even the cleaning lady gives him a thumbs-up. Though I do think that warmth of his is a little overdone—a bit hollow. But he’s decisive and efficient, and he thinks things through carefully. President Zheng wants me to coordinate with him, and I do appreciate the guy.”
“No matter how you see him, Mr. Mi left a bad impression on me. Not sunny enough—dark. When you deal with him, be careful.”
“Even if he’s dark, he wouldn’t harm me. There’s nothing at stake between us. But I have noticed that Mi Lang and Zheng Meiqin have a somewhat ambiguous relationship.”
“You’re still curious about that sort of thing?”
“It’s not Zheng Meiqin and Mi Lang’s relationship that strikes me as odd. What’s strange is that Zheng Meiqin and her husband are, by all outside appearances, exceptionally loving. I hear they’ve been married five years, and people still see them strolling hand in hand.”
“They don’t have children?”
“No. Once, Mi Lang helped get in touch with an old Chinese medicine doctor who treats infertility. From how eager he was, I’m guessing he was helping President Zheng. Probably Zheng Meiqin is infertile.”
“They say brilliance leads to baldness. Could it be that too much talent leads to childlessness?” Wu Aizhen put on a look of feigned thoughtfulness.
“Bah, careful your Master doesn’t scold you for creating verbal karma.” This was the one quality in Ren Qingfei that was so pure it was endearing: behind the back of anyone he admired, he would not permit a single unpleasant word.
“Right body, right thought, right speech—cleanse body, speech, and mind.” Wu Aizhen imitated the Master’s voice with an exaggeratedly deep, solemn tone, making Ren Qingfei laugh.
“Let’s go eat at Flying Apsara tonight,” Ren Qingfei said.
“You just want to see those two little ‘flying apsaras’ again, don’t you?!” Wu Aizhen teased. Flying Apsara was a vegetarian restaurant not far from Wu Aizhen’s home, apparently opened by a woman from Gansu who owned it. The private rooms had murals imitating the Dunhuang flying apsaras and dim wall lamps. The atmosphere did carry a hint of the Mogao Caves in the vast desert, though the food was only so-so. Wu Aizhen and Ren Qingfei had been there once before. Ren Qingfei really liked the décor in that private room. It was just that the two waitresses who served the food were far too homely, hardly living up to the elegant name “little flying apsaras.” But the two girls loved to laugh. One had a pair of little tiger teeth that made her grin look adorably goofy, and the other blushed the moment she smiled—she’d probably been hired fresh from the countryside. Ren Qingfei said that for all their plainness, those two little apsaras were frank and endearing; it was rare to find girls so unspoiled in the city. Hence Wu Aizhen’s teasing.
“Hmm, I’ve got a Bodhisattva beside me. I wouldn’t look at any apsara, no matter how lovely.” Ren Qingfei wore a cheeky grin.
Once inside Flying Apsara, they asked again for the private room called Mandala Flower. Today the waitstaff had changed—the little tiger-toothed apsara was gone. The first to come in was a girl pouring tea. She was quite pretty, but her face was set tight, radiating impatience. Little Shramanera deliberately tried striking up a conversation and got several eye-rolls for his trouble. He had only himself to blame; this apsara was probably in a bad mood. Then came another girl to take their order. She too was pleasant-looking, but her expression was all animation and flirtation. A single teasing word from Little Shramanera and she was batting her eyes at him, a little too flirtatious, apparently paying no mind to the Bodhisattva sitting right beside him. Little Shramanera’s interest faded, and even the meal felt flat.
After eating, they lingered in the private room drinking tea. At one point, Little Shramanera mentioned that he had been reading the Book of Songs these past few days, and with evident satisfaction he recited its opening poem, “Guan Ju”:
“Guan guan cry the ospreys
On the islet in the river.
A gentle and graceful maiden—
A fine match for a gentleman.
Watercress grows long and short,
Left and right we gather it.
A gentle and graceful maiden—
Waking and sleeping he seeks her.
Seeking and not finding her,
Waking and sleeping he longs for her.
Long, oh long he yearns,
Tossing and turning he cannot rest.
Watercress grows long and short,
Left and right we pick it.
A gentle and graceful maiden—
With zither and lute he befriends her.
Watercress grows long and short,
Left and right we cull it.
A gentle and graceful maiden—
With bells and drums he delights her.”
“I like this poem very much. Every time I recite it, I seem to see a scene: on a riverbank where ospreys call to one another, a beautiful, graceful young woman and a young man of noble character meet. The watercress leaves, long and short, sway gently with the current. The man is stirred by the woman’s beauty, and his heart pounds as wildly as those cress leaves rocking on the water. He cannot help himself, cannot restrain his adoration and longing for her—he dreams of winning her heart. He yearns for the harmony of zither and lute with her, to be true companions of the spirit, to make music together that endures as long as heaven and earth. He yearns to share the joy of bells and drums with her, to take her hand and grow old together. I don’t think the young man and woman in this poem are real people. They exist as a vision in the hearts of real young men and women—a longing and a pursuit, an ideal of a beautiful, morally noble love.” Having finished reciting the poem with his head swaying, Little Shramanera continued to expound his grand theory.
While Ren Qingfei was reciting, Wu Aizhen had lightly tapped her bowl with chopsticks, giving him a rhythm. Hearing him say this, she laughed and chimed in. “Yes! I love this opening poem of the Book of Songs, too. Confucius said, ‘The Odes are three hundred, and one phrase covers them all: thoughts free of depravity.’ I think ‘thoughts free of depravity’ makes a fitting title for this opening piece. Still, to me, the longing the man describes in the poem seems already fulfilled. Look at the later stanzas: ‘Short and long the water plants, left and right we pick them’ and ‘Short and long the water plants, left and right we cull them.’ I read the ‘picking’ as their becoming lovers, and the ‘culling’ as their choosing and accepting each other. But what I love most about this poem are the states evoked by the lines ‘with lutes and zithers befriend her’ and ‘with bells and drums delight her.’ I think ‘with lutes and zithers befriend her’ pictures the joy, understanding, and mutual love they share when together or exchanging news. And ‘with bells and drums delight her’ says that neither poverty nor wealth, neither low station nor high rank, can shake the harmony, happiness, and affection of their home. Bells and drums ringing together — that is the harmony and joy of a family. A virtuous husband, a worthy wife — they lift the tray to the level of their eyebrows, treating each other with the respect due to an honored guest. What’s more, I feel these two stanzas carry the sense that the man honors and admires the woman’s virtuous character and noble sentiments.” Here Wu Aizhen paused, her eyes gazing into the distance as if deep in thought, brimming with yearning. “Few people today can truly feel this poem in their hearts. If a girl can grasp it — well, you could absolutely marry her.” She seemed to be speaking to Ren Qingfei, but also murmuring to herself. Listening, Ren Qingfei’s eyes widened. He stared at her as if listening to a fool’s dream.
“Wife, marry me!” Ren Qingfei’s face was unusually grave and earnest, and the words startled Wu Aizhen, snapping her back to the moment. “What kind of proposal is that? If I’m already your wife, what reason is there to marry again?” Wu Aizhen teased, dodging. “Right now we’re at ‘Left and right we pick it; with zither and lute he befriends her.’ I want us to reach ‘Left and right we cull it; with bells and drums he delights her.’” Ren Qingfei’s face flushed deep red. He was getting stubborn again. Wu Aizhen felt a flutter of unease inside — she didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t ready for marriage, yet she could find no reason to refuse Little Shramanera.
Seeing her hesitation and panic, Ren Qingfei felt suddenly wounded. He said no more; his eyes dimmed and turned away. “Right! I don’t have a house or a car. I own nothing. I’m not qualified to marry you.” “You know I’m not like that.” Wu Aizhen’s eyes suddenly filled with tears; she felt her feelings had been soiled by his misunderstanding. “Then you don’t love me?!” Ren Qingfei still looked wounded and angry.
“That’s not it either.”
“Then what is it? Are you planning to love without ever marrying?” Wu Aizhen shook her head. “The path of cultivation is still a long road. Perhaps everything will change and pass away. Feelings are unreliable,” she said in a very low voice. For a moment, she didn’t know how to express the vague, uneasy foreboding inside her — a premonition without a shred of evidence.
Ren Qingfei caught only her last two sentences. A wave of uncontainable fury surged up from within. “To hell with your theories — aren’t you exhausted living like that? I know everything is impermanent, too. Love disappears; feelings aren’t reliable. But maybe before we ever fall for someone else, we’ll be dead. Life itself is impermanent! You’ve got no optimism at all. Live in the present moment. Seize every drop of real experience in life and face it with wisdom — that’s what makes life meaningful. Am I wrong?”
“You’re absolutely right. It’s my attitude that’s the problem. Aren’t you the one who lives in the present moment? Why are you angry now over my temporary refusal? What are you clinging to? And what kind of wisdom are you using to face this moment?” Wu Aizhen had steadied herself and tried to mount some defense. Apart from true feeling, any clever argument is superfluous and powerless.
Ren Qingfei said nothing more. After a pause, he said fiercely, “You just want to test me for a few more years, don’t you? Fine. I won’t bring up marriage again. Whenever you think I’m fit to be your husband, let me know. All right, let’s go back.”
Wu Aizhen rose in silence. Ren Qingfei suddenly pulled her into his arms, and with fierce earnestness said, “You witch — I’m telling you I love you.” Then, with his arm around her shoulders, he walked out. Under his arm, a pang of bitterness stirred inside Wu Aizhen. Softly, she sighed for herself… From the vegetarian restaurant, familiar music drifted out — the Great Compassion Mantra in Tibetan. Little Shramanera hummed it all the way, his tune lilting and plaintive, a note of sorrow in his voice.
“The Master says you need more loving-kindness and compassion to resonate with the Great Compassion Mantra, not sadness,” Wu Aizhen said.
Little Shramanera paid no attention, humming to himself. “How do you know I don’t have loving-kindness and compassion? I’m extending loving-kindness and compassion to Ren Qingfei — he too is a suffering sentient being.”
“Smart-mouth! Mere lip-Zen!” Wu Aizhen let out a light laugh. But deep inside, Ren Qingfei felt a strong urge to weep.
“Qingfei, let’s go to the Lake-Heart Park together tomorrow,” Wu Aizhen ventured, trying to lift his low spirits. Ren Qingfei neither agreed nor refused, just kept humming the Great Compassion Mantra…
That night, in the moment they lay in each other’s arms about to fall asleep, Wu Aizhen suddenly said, “Qingfei, if one day you stop loving me, please tell me directly.” With his eyes closed, Ren Qingfei said, “I will,” but inside he felt a surge of irritation. He found Wu Aizhen unreasonably pessimistic sometimes, often pouring cold water at the height of his passion. He admitted she understood human affairs better than he did and saw through them more clearly. But so what if you could see things coming—you still had to live happily. Everyone dies sooner or later; if you dwelled on that every day, how could you live with any joy? Wu Aizhen also said his mind drifted, that he was not focused enough on love. But the love of beauty was in everyone’s nature. If he looked a little longer at a beautiful woman, or exchanged a few teasing words with a woman he found attractive, that didn’t mean his love for her wasn’t devoted. He had never chased after other women. Life should be easy and simple; he thought Wu Aizhen lived too complicated a life and was too exhausted. He respected her deeply and loved her too. What he couldn’t understand was why someone who could see through so much still couldn’t let go with a light heart. She was often sentimental, and her constant reminders—watch out for this, pay attention to that—like an old grandmother, sometimes made a life that already felt pressured seem even heavier. To be honest, after being together for a long stretch, he sometimes felt a little stifled, a feeling he had always escaped. He was afraid that feeling would affect their relationship and make Wu Aizhen even more pessimistic about love. Yet he loved her sharp insight and her wisdom, and the sincerity and single-mindedness of her feelings often moved him. Sometimes he felt her heart was kind and saintly, sometimes mysterious and unfathomable, and other times dark and gloomy; her moods often seeped into him. He couldn’t share her burdens. It seemed to him that she loved with her whole being, yet she was an utterly self-contained whole—no one could truly enter her. He was simple and couldn’t grasp much that lay beyond the reach of his wisdom; he could only cherish her, and cherish what they had, with his own love, which felt so faint. He only felt that her love was sometimes so vast, vast without boundary, and no matter how hard he tried, his was only lamplight set against the sun. He had heard her explain the Bodhisattva’s “selfless love,” the Bodhisattva’s wisdom and compassion—perhaps one day she would truly attain it. But now, he knew, her love was not yet that; her pessimism and disappointment were the full expression of “self.” He, by contrast, lived more freely. A few times in their conversations he had felt suddenly restless, a desire to flee. He had no excessive cravings now; he only wanted to earn some money, buy a house of his own, buy a car. Several of his friends were doing quite well in society, with houses, cars, and families, while he had nothing. At college reunions, those classmates were flush with money—this manager, that CEO—which only deepened his sense of shabbiness. He didn’t think he was greedy; if he could build some foundation and savings, he could go practice the path too, and he would willingly practice alongside Wu Aizhen. He felt she had a natural gift for comprehending the Dharma. At that moment he suddenly thought of the flute in his dream, and his heart couldn’t help another rush of fright. She had said his heart was defiled; he hadn’t been moved—he felt he was far purer than a great many people. Perhaps one day he would come to understand where that inexplicable shame came from…
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