Hey Mortality (4 page)

With no response
to my note after two days, I decide to do a little more exploration into my local area. At first I wander past other businesses to check if they too have a strange box outside. It saddens me to find that they don’t have, that this obsession isn’t just specific to one location. Instead I find that it is.

I learn that the area of the slums, Nihonzutsumi, was once called by a very different name, San’ya. But these days, San’ya no longer exists. All signs mentioning the word San’ya have been swallowed up from existence. Every mention of the area has been removed; like a Japanese history book, all traces have been erased from memory.

The only sign that has any mention of San’ya’s past, is the sign for Namidabashi. The sign translates to mean
Tears Bridge
. The bridge was where women came to say goodbye to their loved ones, usually war criminals, before they were taken to be killed at the Kozukappara Execution Ground; hence the tears. So, as it transpires, the area I call home is actually a graveyard. Dead prostitutes and dead criminals. A dark energy from a time not so distant and almost quietly forgotten; left to rot in its past.

These days, the bridge of tears has been buried under the concrete of an intersection, the execution grounds painted over by a bus station. All that really remains, other than human remains, is Enmei-ji Temple. It is here that a statue of Kubikiri Jizō, the decapitation Buddha, is located. This statue watched over the nearby execution grounds, and bore witness to every single decapitation that took place. Those fated to die were made to stand in front of the statue; the prisoners, the innocent, as their heads were sliced away. Whatever existence bound them to the living world was too, sliced away.

For those who were executed, the last image they would have seen is the Buddha; the
Neck Cutting Buddha
. An estimated two hundred thousand people were killed here. Too many dead, too many heads.

During the March 2011 Tōhoku Earthquake, the Buddha was damaged and its head broke off. I can’t think of anything more ironic than the head of the Buddha that watched heads roll having its own head severed.

There is also a sign here that says, “Nam-Myōhō-Renge-Kyō,” the all too familiar chant of the Nichiren Buddhist monks. Around the area, gravestones without names make up the backdrop.

I wander away from the since repaired headless Buddha of Nichiren, and onto the main street which is known in English as
Bone Street
. It was on this street that the decapitated heads of the executed were put on display, placed onto spikes, and left for all to see.

The executions did eventually stop in 1873, and after that point the area suffered further misery; further savagery in an area of slavery and death.

Somehow, San’ya become Japan’s biggest leather producing area. The problem with leather is that it comes from cows, and cows in Buddhism are not to be used for leather production. Japan being a heavily Buddhist country didn’t help matters. The people here working in the leather industry became complete outcasts, and leather production work was considered the lowest of careers. A certain stigma became attached to the already stigmatic San’ya area, and it fell into decline. It was around this time that the name San’ya was abolished. But the untouchables remain today in the form of the old homeless men in the arcade. And, these days, many of the leather shops are boarded up, the streets are empty except for the rats, cars drive slowly to avoid people jumping into the road to commit suicide, and the dead, hopefully stay dead.

I did once have a small run in with the Nichiren sect of Buddhism, back when I first arrived in Japan. I was wandering idly past a temple, and was invited inside to learn about Buddhism by two young, and somewhat attractive ladies. They spoke very good English, took me into their temple, and sat me in front of an altar; the altar that empty prayers are directed at.

I was naïve, but thought Buddhism was all about meditation, but the Nichiren Buddhists were different. They did not meditate, only chanted the words, “Nam-Myōhō-Renge-Kyō,” at their true Buddha.

Afterwards, they spoke in great detail about their sect, they offered me something to drink, a tea, and then they offered me something that I couldn’t quite comprehend.

I later discovered that the Nichiren sect once burnt down all of the temples of all of the other Buddhist sects in Kyōto, in a war between factions. But the information pertaining to their violence was unbeknown to me during my first experience with the cult.

Their offer to me, following their artificial introductions, and pressuring me into chanting the name of their true Buddha, was that I join them one month later at Mount Fuji, at their head temple, to convert to their religion.

I declined, of course, stating that it was perhaps too much too soon, but not to disappoint them after they had taken time to discuss their religion with me, I agreed that I would happily join their monthly service the following Sunday. In honesty, I was still interested in finding out more about religion in Japan, and no religion could be more peaceful than and as fitting as that of Buddhism.

The day came when I was to be entertained at the service of the Nichiren in their temple. Having exchanged email addresses the previous week, and responding to no less than ten messages, I had somewhat began to lose interest in the
Oko Ceremony
, but attended regardless because curiosity had still got the better of me.

At the ceremony, I was seated with the two ladies I had previously met. We waited for the Chief Priest, Mr Murakami to take the stage, a fat man built in the image of Buddha himself.

What followed for the next forty-five minutes was that the three to four hundred strong crowd of believers chanted non-stop the sacred mantra of, “Nam-Myōhō-Renge-Kyō.”

After this, two of the newest neophytes were brought onto the stage and asked to tell their stories. They of course spoke in Japanese, but tears flowed from their eyes as they recounted their tales of enlightenment and conversion.

After the ceremony was over, I needed water to cleanse my dry throat, broken by the chanting. Instead, I was asked to meet Mr Murakami, and again to convert at the main temple. Of course, I declined.

After the incident at the temple, I received over fifty emails telling me that I would never be happy unless I prayed to the true Buddha, or that my life, though maybe good right then, would end up in turmoil and despair. Both facts have since become true, however, propitiating to savages such as the Nichiren is of no interest to me. It is said that they are focused on murdering the peaceful religion of Buddhism, therefore, I will never convert.

I was told once by somebody that if you are sitting in a bar in Japan, and you say a hateful thing about the Nichiren, and if a member is listening, they will call in other members of the cult, and beat you, punish you, torture you, or maybe even kill you. Worse than the Yakuza are these religious cultists.

It is probably best for me to remove these words from these pages, and live peacefully and safely, but freedom of speech and to address fear is important to survival and to forewarn future potential converts of the danger imposed.

After arriving home from the execution grounds, I search my room, and eventually find a letter that I received after the
Oko Ceremony
. I am not sure why I kept hold of it with such fondness or protest, but it had this to tell me:

“June is the turning point of the year. It is important to review the first half, and to break the evil mind which slanders the Buddha. We follow the true law, and if we sincerely follow it, it becomes the joy. We believe the true Buddha, and if someone practices without beliefs, it’s like a person going into the treasure mountain without hands (they get nothing).

“When we say believe, there are two meanings. The first is normal understanding, to believe in the Buddha as the only way to happiness. The second is deeper understanding, to substitute belief for Buddha’s wisdom.
Gohonzan
itself is the truth of the universe, it is the universe itself. And, it can be said that we are actually the same as
Gohonzan
, involving the whole wisdom of the universe.

“And, there are two kinds of, ‘Nam-Myōhō-Renge-Kyō.’ The first is
Jigyo
, to practice for oneself. The second is
Keta
, to practice for others, spread the true law, and make others truly as happy as Buddha.

“
Gohonzan
is the core. If we chant, ‘Nam-Myōhō-Renge-Kyō,’ towards other objects of worship, it doesn’t work. A person who practices true Buddhism sincerely is clearly different from others. We only have normal abilities to recognise this world; we can’t know what is important, what is higher or lower than ourselves. So, the original Buddha, Nichiren Daishonin, left
Gohonzon
as a shape we can see. The truth.”

After reading the
letter last night, I slept the deepest and most peaceful of sleeps in a long while, and I am not entirely sure why or how. But today the dead stopped staying dead, and the demons returned.

Somebody began working alongside me at the Kangaroo Hotel, an Australian born twenty-three-year-old. He is most probably the Devil; perhaps the very thing that the Nichiren were trying to warn me about. He makes me question the very meaning of life and whatever is left of me now. Nothing, nothing but the burning suffering that I am fated to endure. And just like Laplace’s Demon, the boy knows all of my dreams and all of my secrets. He makes passing comments from his pretentious childish self of my thoughts; thoughts that he could not possibly know.

He is somebody beyond life, perhaps even beyond death. He frightens me. Frightens me by his very presence. Just knowing that I am in the same building as him, working in the same place as him, the Kangaroo Hotel, it chills my bones.

This man, this boy, he has an arcane ability to know my deepest feelings, and my wildest fantasies, to the point that just hearing him speak, just imagining words from his lips is enough to make my skin crawl off.

He can see my dreams, my desires, and my horrors. He knows all and is mostly immortal. He knows every little thought, every dream I have ever had, and he taunts me with his words.

He makes the occasional passing comment during a cleaning shift, usually something that references the woman I loved. His references to a life that is left behind, to Liar. He shouldn’t know about this, and even if he has this advanced and obtuse knowledge of my life, I wonder why he brandishes his phrases and his mockeries. Only a poisoned soul would do such things, act in such ways.

The other members of staff talk about him when he is not around. They hate him, and he fills them with the same fear that washes over me when I am in his presence.

This is the problem. This is what made my decision easy, to leave the Kangaroo Hotel. Now I am not only without her, but without work; I am left with nothing. No job, no income, no dreams, just a demon stalking every thought, waiting to crush me, waiting to squash me under some immortal power.

It is in these thoughts as I sit at the steps now with only a home and my bed of nightmares, I consider that maybe I am already dead. Is the life I lead now a quiet transcendence from the life before? Living and dying as ever one. And if it is so, how would I ever know? How could I confirm that this life is in itself the hell that this demon has created for me? This demon, or soul, or person of utter darkness.

This life is a lot worse than the life I had before, before I lost her. A life now offering only suffering and pain. So therefore I must surely be already dead. There is nothing to heal me, nothing to protect me, just loneliness. Everything shattered to dust, swirling away in the wind.

And it is in this vast expanse of loneliness, that I sit and I contemplate as to what to do next. It is at this moment that I have absolutely nothing to lose. It is at this moment that I decide to finally stand up, finally resolve my fate.

I cross the road, and at the sushi restaurant, I silently lift the lid to the box. The silver lid slides off with ease to reveal a yellow bucket. A bucket full to the brim with the stench and brown stains of soy sauce and fish guts.

But, I wonder who collects soy sauce stained fish guts at two in the morning. It is with this thought in mind that I carefully lift the bucket from the box. The swishing of liquid and the occasional spilling of soy sauce and guts make me retch; the smell strong and difficult.

Beneath the bucket sits the single object of my desire. A photograph.

I don’t know why there is a photograph below the bucket. It is old, black and white, torn at the corners, frayed at the edges and fading; like my dreams. But as I look and inspect the photograph I see an image. A festival. A festival in Yoshiwara.

I recognise the festival from a collection of recent photographs around the red light district. It is none other than the Asakusa Kannon-ura Ichiyō Sakura-matsuri Festival, one that is full of tradition and takes place every year in April.

A beautiful woman is dressed in a satin kimono, face painted white, the
Oiran
, a courtesan and the number one ranking prostitute of the year. She walks the street in arms with a man. A large man with a smile on his face. Confident. Security. In the photograph they walk the streets of Yoshiwara. His hand on her shoulder, hidden beneath his black and white
Yukata
.

And as they walk, they are captured by this photograph. Behind them, a crowd. Seven people standing and watching, but I am sure there are more; not enough boundaries to the photograph to capture everyone and the beautiful whore.

I stare in horror, as amongst those Japanese onlookers, there is an image of myself. A foreigner at the very least, and at a time when there were no foreigners in Japan. I can see myself clearly smiling as I watch the parade. I am there. It is absolutely me. It is me for sure, but I have no idea why or how. Perhaps this is the doing of the demon, another way to taunt me. Maybe some kind of trick, a forged image created by a prankster. The photo is so old that it cannot be so. A photograph so out of place, and me, so out of time.

The image offers nothing close to reality. A photograph collected in the morning. A photograph of me, perhaps the same age as I am now, and I have no idea why. If I existed back then when the photograph was taken, then I am indeed dead now. I must be dead now. Either dead or immortal and erased of any memory. Dead, only to be risen again to endure hell in the slums.