Namo Amituofo
By Ann Yuan
Sitting in lotus position on a woven mat, Sam Bou smelled fried tofu, red bean bun, and sesame cake. His empty stomach twitched, fluid welling up to his throat.
***
Thousands had come to town to watch this annual meditation marathon. Street vendors hauled their carts to the square, charcoal blazing in the stoves and chopsticks clattering in the bamboo crocks. People greeted friends with mouthfuls of food and guessed who could break last year’s record. There was a new participant this year, a thirteen-year-old boy from a nearby village. Boys in his age couldn’t sit still for a bowl of pig feet noodle. He would be the first one left the mediation mat.
***
Sam Bou told his parents that he wanted to attend the competition. The winner would bring home three bamboo baskets heaped with white rice — enough to feed the family until next spring. Papa glazed over in the distance and Ma mended his pants. Both were silent like the barren land.
***
The tropical sun was flaming on its zenith. A man wriggled and moaned and was hauled off the stage. The rule was strict—any fidgeting disqualified the contestant. One by one the meditators conceded. With each removal the crowd Oohed. They crammed into the area close to the stage. Boys sat astride the tree branches; toddlers rode on their father’s shoulders; grandmas held their palms together and murmured —Namo Amituofu.
***
Namo Amituofu, Ma kneeled in front of a Buddha's statue and chanted the mantra. A swarm of locusts blanketed the family's rice field in the spring. Two days later the insects were gone, so was their harvest. All summer long the family slurped watery porridge in the morning and gnawed sweet potato at night.
This is our karma, Ma said. Karma explained everything, Sam Bou thought, the doomed harvest, the chickens no longer laying eggs, the bull that went missing and then found its way back. There was never coincidence or luck.
***
The crowd sighed in disappointment—two contestants scrambled to their feet and bowed out. Now it was just the boy and last year’s champion, a silver-haired man with a long goatee. The legend had it that the champion once meditated at the root of a sacred fig tree overnight and in the morning, people woke up to see him still sitting in perfect lotus posture, legs dusted with incense ash and dead mosquitoes.
***
Sam Bou recited the mantra in his head, feeling a little uneasy because he had the prize in his mind. Namo Amituofu. Sweat trickled down his cheek, and splashed on his robe. He slightly rocked his body back and forth, his secret way to relieve the back pain. His legs, one being shorter than the other, all went numb. They were useless anyway. If what he could do was sit, at least he could make his family benefit from it.
***
Ma used palm leaf to fan out buzzing mosquitoes and draped a net over his bed. A stick of dried mugwort was lit as a bug repellent. The room was filled with a bitter aroma. She sat beside him on the bed and massaged his polio-withered leg.
Is this my karma? Sam Bou asked.
Namo Amituofu. Ma closed her eyes.
***
Nine incense had burned out, one after the other, and the tenth was reaching its end. It was a contest record. The sun was setting but it was still hot and humid. The square became quiet. People stared at the two statues on the stage, mouths open, necks stretched upward as if invisible strings were tugging their heads. An infant wailed and the mother stuffed her nipple into her baby’s mouth.
***
Namo Amituofu. Sam Bou had repeated it for a thousand times. All the senses were leaving him. He was not hungry, nor in any pain. The desire for winning was gone. What left there was a strange feeling of detachment that made him weightless and serene.
***
The copper gong thudded — the champion collapsed and the boy had won the contest. People cheered, laughing about how wrong they were about the result. The boy remained in his meditation posture, not a bit of a stir. An old woman climbed on the stage and ran toward the him. She flailed her arms around as if she was celebrating a victory, while her face suggested the opposite.
***
Ma was yelling his name and wept. Sam Bou wanted to tell her don’t worry but he couldn’t utter a word. He reached out his hand, trying to wipe out the her tears. His fingers passed through her head like an intangible breeze in a blue twilight.
THE END
Author Bio: Ann Yuan lives on Long Island, NY. She loves reading and writing fiction. Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, On the Run, Overheard, Gone Lawn, and elsewhere.