Part 12
The truths that lie yonder
Xian, the site of the eighth wonder of the world. Or at
least that's what the brochures and books claim. Moving
from the east to the northwest China, the bus drops me here
in this sweltering city, even as the cooler climes of Lianyungang
still cling to me.
The history
of Xian is immediately visible, in it's ancient walls stretching
and enveloping the city in its fold. The city itself glimmers
in the yellow heat of the sun, casting its shadow over the
little spires of the pagodas and the towers of each bronzed
building. But the commercial ugliness of tourism has also
cast its shadow over this former capital of the Tang dynasty.
A shadow which darkens me the instant I step from the bus,
and the touts stand in readiness. With brochures, hotel
packages, with deals of every kind. Leading to the first
time ever, after nearly nine months in China, to the taxi
driver being kind enough to take me on a 65 minute tour
of Xian, from the bus station to my hotel, which is but
10 minutes away. A swindle. He knew it, and I knew it. But
the knowing was all over money. Little notes of paper, with
numbers on it. The biggest lure for mankind since history
began. Thanks for the ride, thanks for the history lesson,
Mr. Taxi man.
The hotel I finally reach is just in front of one of Xian's
most recognizable landmarks. The Bell Tower. But somehow
the early morning dash through the city leaves its imprint
and leaves the ennui of exhaustion. An exhaustion, which
doesn't want to visit the Bell Tower. An exhaustion, which
only barely picks itself later to make it across to the
Dayanta Pagoda. The Indian-Chinese Buddhist connection meets
here. At the Big Wild Goose Temple.The
heat is settling into a gentle evening, as I step into the
courtyard, and Buddhist chants which are so familiar in
India, reach my ears. Except, here they are in Chinese.
Exhaustion
leaves as I just walk past its huge complex, on pavements
trod since the first Chinese monk returned from India, to
spread the message of the Buddha, past the little temples
on the side, past monks in purple, to reach the pagoda,
climb the old wooden steps, all the way to the top. Till
the seventh floor where the India in me recognizes the Sanskrit
saying on the Buddha inscription. Indian Sutras. Brought
by a Chinese monk. The eternal search of the traveler. To
discover the truths that lie yonder. And to discover the
truths that were here.
And so this timeless traveler moves on, to discover the
Army of Terracotta Warriors. Xian's most famous revenue
generating site. Swarming with tourists, and touts whose
zeal to sell leaves you hallucinating under the illusion
that you must be a millionaire, a walking US dollar. "One
dollar ok? For you, one dollar ok?" And I stand there
while postcards; trinkets, statues, monkeys (yes!) and everything
possible that could be invented, brought, or sold are thrust
at me. One dollar, the chant of money again. It suffocates
the experience, this chant of money, deafens the ears. One
dollar. Till I say, "Yi Kwai," the Chinese Yuan.
And leave before they can recover from the shock of hearing
the "laowai" speak Chinese.
