Brief synopsis: This
chapter is mainly the continuation of the previous memoir chapter. The
remaining four hours of community service are revealed in this piece about it
took place in a religious community area known as Subang Jaya Buddhist
Association. My friend and I volunteered to help with a Buddhist holiday known
as Wesak Day and we had to keep watch on a huge number of oil lamps for a
festival. This was my first time celebrating a non-Christian holiday, so I want
to share this experience with all readers (with religion or no religion) on how
it’s like of getting to know a different religion, and surprisingly I learn
something that is related to my knowledge of being a Christian when writing
this chapter.
I was sitting on the bottom mattress of the double-story bed set. A thick cotton blanket covered from my hips to my toes and my black Dell PC balanced on my thighs. The small bedroom where I shared with my roommate Jasmine was chilled with invisible waves of cool air from the electronic air-conditioner at a top corner. But it wasn’t too cold. The temperature was just right compared to the warm, humid night of the town. You might think that I was being busy as usual, working my butt off with assignments given from that morning. But no, my head was scribbled with thick blobs of worry. I was browsing through Google, the wizard of all Internet questions.Please, please, PLEASE let there be a place for me to volunteer! I still need four hours left! God, have mercy on me!
I decided to go with a colleague from my Challenge and Change in Society class. It was a social science course that mainly discussed about culture around the world and the types of generations from baby boomers (people who were born in Post World War II, grandparents era) to millennials (people who were born from early 1980 to 2000, like me). I sent a message to twelve colleagues on Facebook that night, and only four replied back. Sadly, they couldn’t make it.
Suddenly, the popular social networking alert tone popped from the speakers of my PC. Like a tardy businessman who dashed for an important conference, I hastily clicked on the Facebook tab and saw a reply from a friend. Khai Ling decided to volunteer with me since she was also looking for four hours of community work. After a short discussion through Facebook and several attempts of calling social organizations and companies, she eventually recommended a Buddhist centre known as Subang Jaya Buddhist Association. I helped her to call this place, and it turned out that there were looking for volunteers to help with their Wesak Day festival. Wesak Day is a special day for Buddhists to celebrate the birth, enlightenment, and death of a sage named Gautama Buddha. Well, at least that’s what I heard from some Buddhist friends. I agreed to be one of the helpers. Finally!
I didn’t tell the other girls in the house about it. I was afraid that they would despise me for joining some event that was not holy. I even didn’t understand why God placed me to this location. He was definitely hiding something in his sleeves and I was eager to pull it out, like the woman who touched Jesus’ garment in the bible chapter of Luke. But still, I was excited to finish up the remaining hours.
The bustling city of Subang Jaya was taken over by the topaz illumination of the sun above like the heavenly Father’s everlasting shining. The small, round clock which was hung on a wall of the living room had its hour arrow pointed to the number nine. I peered through the curtains of the front door. Instead of a typical rectangular door, the front door was a pair of huge sliding glass squares from the floor to the ceiling. Behind them was a couple of stainless steel grilles that protected the doors with a brass padlock slipped through a metal black clamp at the middle end of the grilles. Now that I think about it, unlike the single front doors and rare sight of padlocks in North American houses, the houses in Malaysia include heavy padlocks, clamps, lock protectors, and latches for extra protection from burglars. It takes a longer time to open the doors because you have to insert a correct key to a matching padlock, and you can’t imagine how many padlocks a Malaysian house has. It’s just crazy.
A small shiny car (pity that I forgot the brand name and colour) stopped at the black iron gates fifteen minutes later. I quickly scanned through the house to make sure that every window and door was closed as well as the electrical appliances were switched off before I went out. Not only I had to lock the grilles, but I also had to lock a big silver latch and a protector (a U-shaped metal piece) that guarded over a silver padlock in the middle of the gates. I know. It’s extreme house security.
Anyway, Khai Ling greeted me with a new-day-smile as I got in her car. Her flat bob haircut was shielded by a black cap. She then checked the rear-view mirror through her square-shaped, frameless spectacles, “Hey, guess what? My aunt will drive us to the temple instead. So we’re going to her house first to see whether she’s all set.” I replied, “Sure, that’s fine.”
One thing that I didn’t realize was that Khai Ling was a Buddhist. All those months, I thought she was a Christian like most of my friends in Taylor’s College. I asked her about this, and she told me that she hadn’t been to the temple in months. She was busy with college work, of course, and she didn’t had the mood of going to worship sometimes.
We arrived at her aunt’s place fifteen minutes later. My mind is blurry of remembering what the house looked like back then. All I remember are the spacious rooms inside. There is also big fish tank at a corner and a small Buddhist figurine at another. Her aunt, who approached from the kitchen door which was farther from the living room, looked lovely in her dark mascara and red-glossed lips. She had a handbag with the short straps
glued on her right shoulder. She smiled friendlily when Khai Ling introduced me to her. We made our way to the wide porch and into her slightly bigger car (and yes, I forget the brand name and colour too). She was impressed by the fact that I lived with a group of girls instead of with my family. She then maligned on how immature Khai Ling was of not knowing how to cook or how to wash her own underwear. Honestly, I find it rude of saying such comments. Every young adult is learning to become independent. It just takes time for college students like
me to adjust.
It was eleven o’ clock and we were stuck in traffic. Two long queues of cars blocked our car’s way and a line of nicely-dressed people headed to the direction of the temple. We ended up parking at an apartment’s parking lot which was an eight-minute walk to the Subang Jaya Buddhist Association centre. First of all, I had never seen so many people to a religious place. In fact, the number of guests here looked like at if it tripled the number of Christians who went to my church. Buddhists all over the city came to this place just to celebrate the joy and peace of their beloved Buddha.
Before Khai Ling and I started to work, the aunt took us down a long corridor, turn left, down another corridor, and then through an opened door that led to a large field. A crowd of guests gathered around small dining tables and food stalls in this free buffet. In the nick of time, my stomach rumbled at the sight of delicious-looking Chinese and Malay dishes. “Go ahead and help yourselves!” Aunt Ling (we’ll just call her that) smiled. She handed two plates to us, signaling the brain receptors to get ready to switch my taste buds on. I remembered having mostly three kinds of fried noodles, veggies, Malay village-style fried chicken(small but fleshy, sometimes spicy), and satay (barbecued chicken or beef poked through bamboo sticks). And nothing got better with three cups of icy cold Milo (Malaysian chocolate drink) while being under the thirty degree Celsius heat.
After we were satisfied with the food, Aunt Ling took us to the manager’s office. Peter Chew, the person who I called the night before. We walked back through the corridor. This time, I spotted several members sitting behind wooden tables as stalls on my left. The tables were covered with a collection of Buddhism books and hymn CDs. I couldn’t remember the titles but I heard that they focused on meditation and healing. We stopped at the door of the office which was on my right. Aunt Ling politely knocked on the rectangular wood and shortly a voice from the room said, “Come in!” Once Aunt Ling pushed the door open, cool air blasted against my face. The drops of perspiration from the immense temperature were formed on my forehead like grease; I was relieved that the air-conditioner in the room had saved me. The manager was sitting at his desk at a corner of the room. He wore square-framed spectacles and a warm smile while welcoming us. He immediately took us down the front corridor and to an open- air hall. The solid grey roof above us was stabilized by pillars. A total of thirty tables were arranged in vertical lines on both sides of the hall (fifteen tables on each side). The contents struck me the most. A large number of oil lamps were placed on the tables. The lamps were made of up tall glass cups with vegetable oil that filled up almost to the brim. A small, white floating candle was placed on top of each glass. There were six other volunteers who walked around the tables, peeling their eyes open for vanished flames on the candle wicks or the subsiding volume of oil in the glasses. That moment, I wished that I don’t have to wear shorts in
the first place. Waves of extra-burning heat were released from the candles. They mixed spontaneously with the sun’s natural energy that radiated a larger dose of hellish incalescence.
Ribbons of the 1pm sunlight crept in the hall. One of them slashed its way through a glass cup , creating a golden glow around the oil like the lights of an chandelier. Peter handed me and Khai Ling a silver oilcan with a long spout sticking out on one side. He gave us his orders, “Here! You can help to fill up oil in these glasses to the brim. We want to make sure that the candles stay on top.” This is going to be a piece of cake. I took a long gulp of water from my bottle before getting the task started.
Pouring a new layer of oil into the glasses seemed like a boring task, but it actually require accuracy and awareness. The other volunteers who were mostly younger than me (range of 14 years old to 17 years old) must have been doing this task before. They looked so skilled in filling up the glasses with thick slimy oil and replacing burnt black wicks with new candles using a pair of tongs. While I was nearly done with the oil-pouring, my ears were tingling with confusion as I listen to the Buddhist hymn CD played by the staff of the association center. As the harmonious voices and soothing tunes echoed from the speakers, I wondered whether they were speaking in Mandarin or another language because I had no clue on what they were saying.
Forty minutes later, we finished filling up the oil lamps just in time. The manager, Peter, started the worshipping ceremony with a speech. He stood at a corner of the hall with a black microphone in his right hand. When he was done, a large queue of people clapped in unison. They looked so joyful as if it was the first day of Lunar New Year. Each of them was then given pens to write their names on white rectangular stickers as name tags. They pasted their name tags on the top of the glasses. I watched a woman gingerly taped her name tag on an oil lamp like her soul was connected to the little flame on the candle wick. She then passed it back to me with a glowing smile on her fair complexion. I asked Khai Ling on what was the purpose of writing down names on the oil lamps, but she had no clue.
I noticed a long line that separated from the oil lamp queue. The people in this line were heading to the very front of the hall. A large golden statue sat at the center like a boss watching over his employees with the eyes of a hawk. I believed that the statue must be Gautama Buddha, the legend Buddhists looked up to. The idol was sitting on a stone base. His eyes were closed completely and his thin lips were formed into a smile. His long hair was tied into a high bun (I didn’t know whether it was just me but the hairstyle made him looked like a girl). His single-sleeve robe draped down to his folded legs. And I could tell that he was meditating by his hands that lied flat on his lap; his palms were facing upwards.
I had a guess on why the oil lamps with the names of the people there were written and places before the Buddha. They had this kind of practice for him to remember each and every member, and to give them some sort of blessing for the near future. Each individual who formed the line beside me were holding three joss sticks, ten inches incenses with red paper wrapped around them (almost entirely). They looked familiar to me because those joss sticks looked similar to the Chinese firecrackers I used to play with back when I was little. I loved holding a
firecracker stick with its lighted fire at the top and swirled it in the air like a fairy wand. I spotted a young girl who lighted a match onto the red top of the joss stick. She bowed down and then back up before she repeated this pattern a few more times; her incenses was raised up in the air with the ends placed against her forehead. The fire on the tip was then extinguished and thrown into a garbage can nearby.
Three hours had passed, and all of the oil lamps were labeled by numerous names. We went through countless times of refilling the glasses. The candles on top had absorbed a lot of the greasy yellow liquid like little bath sponges. I couldn’t walk around the tables for too long, so I took several short breaks. The sea of candle flames with a big space in the middle reminded me of Moses from the Old Testament who used his staff to create a passageway through the Red Sea. But instead of cooling, rapid waters, the cluster of fire summoned waves of heat that was much stronger than the weather outside. I couldn’t remember taking deep breaths in that extremely toasted room because the air was just way too stuffy. This took me back to Grade One (we called it Primary One in Malaysia) when I fainted for the first time. I couldn’t remember how it happened. I was sure that I was in the classroom first, and when I woke up I was lying at the back seat of Mom’s car. I was surprised that my mom parked at a parking space that was close to the door of a nearby clinic. Mom told me that I was probably having trouble breathing in the classroom that had lack of fresh air, which explained why I prefer breathing in fresh air while surrounded by nature.
I gulped in two bottles of water which I received from the friendly staff of the Buddhist association, but it didn’t help at all. My throat was as dry as the Sahara desert; I felt like buying myself a gallon of water. And then I remembered the manager’s office which was on the second corridor. I wished I can just drop what I did and dash straight to that room to cool my head off.
Finally, the hour number five displayed on the screen of my purple digital watch. Khai Ling tapped on my shoulder while I was pouring a new layer from a nearly-empty oil can, “Hey, Michele! Four hours are up! Let’s get the manager to sign our forms!” I nodded in reply nonchalantly, “Okay.” But, in my head, I was leaping on a pasture like I couldn’t care less of the world. I handed the oil can back to one of the leading volunteers with a “thank you”. “No! Thank you, for helping us in making this Wesak Day celebration special! Without you, we
wouldn’t have prepared so much oil lamps for the people to give their offerings to Gautama Buddha.” , said the leading volunteer. He had severe elderly wrinkles on his forehead and a pair of grateful brown eyes that sparkled through his frameless spectacles. He then asked me a question, “Are you a Buddhist, by the way?”
“Nope, I’m a Christian.”
“Oh I see!”
“Is it bad for a Christian to be involved in an event like this?
I knew that I sounded rude for asking such a stupid question, but the man shook his head with a smile.
“Everyone is welcome to the festival. We are happy to have non-Buddhists to join us. I mean, just look at all these oil lamps! The candle flames give light that banishes negative thoughts especially for those who are narrow-minded.”
Now that I’m thinking about this, I realize that everyone in this living planet is given choices to be what they want to be. No matter whether we are Christians, Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, or even religionless, it’s the life that we choose that makes us individuals special.
The metaphor of the candles reminds me of one of the quotes in Disney’s Frozen. The main character, Anna, sacrifices herself for her sister Elsa (who is the snow queen) by letting the ice spell in her heart to turn into a statue. The curse fades away as she turns back to normal, proving that her love towards her sister thaws “a frozen heart”. Love give warmth and eventually light (Elsa learns that love can thaw the frozen kingdom in which she has cursed earlier in the film, therefore love can bring back summer). Same goes to the flames that signify brightness to shoo away evil.
Anyway, entering into Peter’s office once again felt like entering into wintery Narnia from the magical closet. The air-conditioner greeted me with its inviting swirls of electronic air. “Ah! There you are! I was just about to call you two,” he said as he looked up from his paperwork, “I believe I have to sign some sort of forms for you.” “Yup, just write down what we did today in this table, Mr. Chew.” Khai Ling replied. She placed her community service form on his desk. I quickly dug my hand into my black handbag; my form was a little crumpled due to the squishing of the contents in my bag. It took three minutes for Peter to fill up the table with his name, the place’s address, telephone number, the activity(s) the volunteers did, and signature. I smoothed out mine before giving to him to sign. It felt refreshing of standing at the air-conditioner’s blowing direction. But I never felt happier when the last row of the table of the form was written in black pen ink.
In an unusual way, God had arranged such an event for me to experience something valuable of working as a volunteer, and that was faith. Christians were not the only ones who seek for trust in one another. Buddhists like those in the Wesak Day festival were faithful in their religion. They were friendly to one another and were so joyful in contributing their souls to Gautama Buddha. Psychologically, religions do make people happy and motivated in life. As Aunt Ling was about to drive us home, I took one last look at the volunteers who were still
roaming around the tables of oil lamps. The leading volunteer spotted me and gave me one last smile, signaling a secret goodbye. I returned a smile, feeling their glee.
Ten hours of community service was done! Mission accomplished!
