Ching Ming
Paying respect en masse
Humidity hangs over the cemetery like a tent, trapping under it hordes of people squeezing by each other, snaking their way through the maze of plaques and urns, vainly looking for the little picture on the wall that looks familiar. Eyes are tearing through the haze of incense smoke, the buzz of muttered prayer worms its way past the layer of prespiration to run a chill down my back.
It has been a long walk from where the taxi dropped us off, to where we are now, and we're still not there. My aunt has a tissue over her nose, my 10-year-old cousin is coughing from the smoke.
The ones who have found their destination bring out their offerings - a conucorpia ranging from little bunches of flowers to a whole haunch of roast suckling pig. The ones whose family members have travelled far, kill two birds with one stone and hold their reunion meal by the graves, bringing out the paper plates, plastic cutlery, complete with the cleaver and chopping board for the roast. Aunts and uncles and cousins munch away at the spread placed before the gravestones, chatting and reminiscing, accompanied by the ghosts of relations from time past. A chilling yet somewhat tender tableau.
This is Ching Ming, the day of paying respect to the dead. Tomb-sweeping is also an integral part of this ritual. We were looking for my grandfather, my aunt, and my cousin. Their placques were high on the wall, Hong Kong having run out of space long ago to have more burial plots. Squeezing by the others to gently touch the placques, remembering my grandfather's name again, we moved back to give the thousands other placques on the wall their chance. In lieu of tombsweeping, the uncles take out some clothes to wipe grime and dirt off the placque, and scotchtaped little bunches of flowers next to the name of the dead.
We shuffled back further, and take turns to bow 3 times, ignoring the people snaking their way in front of us to get to one of the thousands of walls of ashes ahead.
After the hasty bows, we walk away from Unit 417, Block G, Area 6 of Diamond Hill cemetery past the cemetery directory, the portable toilets, and queued up for a taxi with hundreds of people hungry for their brunch. We had spent almost 1 hour in finding the placque and worming our way out, and a total of 3 minutes paying our respects. I suppose one could say it was the thought that counted, but I couldn't help thinking this was more an excuse for most to go out for brunch than anything else.
Humidity hangs over the cemetery like a tent, trapping under it hordes of people squeezing by each other, snaking their way through the maze of plaques and urns, vainly looking for the little picture on the wall that looks familiar. Eyes are tearing through the haze of incense smoke, the buzz of muttered prayer worms its way past the layer of prespiration to run a chill down my back.
It has been a long walk from where the taxi dropped us off, to where we are now, and we're still not there. My aunt has a tissue over her nose, my 10-year-old cousin is coughing from the smoke.
The ones who have found their destination bring out their offerings - a conucorpia ranging from little bunches of flowers to a whole haunch of roast suckling pig. The ones whose family members have travelled far, kill two birds with one stone and hold their reunion meal by the graves, bringing out the paper plates, plastic cutlery, complete with the cleaver and chopping board for the roast. Aunts and uncles and cousins munch away at the spread placed before the gravestones, chatting and reminiscing, accompanied by the ghosts of relations from time past. A chilling yet somewhat tender tableau.
This is Ching Ming, the day of paying respect to the dead. Tomb-sweeping is also an integral part of this ritual. We were looking for my grandfather, my aunt, and my cousin. Their placques were high on the wall, Hong Kong having run out of space long ago to have more burial plots. Squeezing by the others to gently touch the placques, remembering my grandfather's name again, we moved back to give the thousands other placques on the wall their chance. In lieu of tombsweeping, the uncles take out some clothes to wipe grime and dirt off the placque, and scotchtaped little bunches of flowers next to the name of the dead.
We shuffled back further, and take turns to bow 3 times, ignoring the people snaking their way in front of us to get to one of the thousands of walls of ashes ahead.
After the hasty bows, we walk away from Unit 417, Block G, Area 6 of Diamond Hill cemetery past the cemetery directory, the portable toilets, and queued up for a taxi with hundreds of people hungry for their brunch. We had spent almost 1 hour in finding the placque and worming our way out, and a total of 3 minutes paying our respects. I suppose one could say it was the thought that counted, but I couldn't help thinking this was more an excuse for most to go out for brunch than anything else.
posted by tygertyger at 1:55 AM
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