Anime this, manga that. Even my European and Indian friends had fallen head over heels, twiddling their fingers until the next Naruto issue was hijacked and published online. Frequently, I had been unceremoniously interrupted by strings of discussion of Hei’s masterful characterization in Darker than Black or rapturous predictions of the Holy Grail War’s conclusion in Fate/Stay Night while taking notes about the nervous system or mitosis in Biology. Maybe my reproval for what I called an excuse for adults to watch cartoons was bred by shame over the years of crushing money into Pokémon cards that now adorned the inside of a crooked shoe box, cradled by cobwebs under my bed. Of course, when my parents took the family to Tokyo, I was excited to go. But not to see its rich culture, yet because for once I was traveling to a country whose technological capacities rivaled those of America and had the absurd whimsicality of humiliating game shows and fantastical story plots. I only imagined that I would be stepping into a world just as artificial as the worlds that came out of it.
At Narita International, we were greeted by a woman with the beauty of a Hollywood geisha or idyllic anime figure. She alternated between Japanese and English in her greetings. I had the misfortune of ending up in one of the Japanese time intervals. She rammed with me with a burst of rapid-fire syllables uncharacteristic of the soft, giggly girls that flaunted in traditional Japanese cartoons and though I was adapted to forceful language as a South Indian, even I was taken aback. But coming to the city, I saw there would be much more than animated charades to catch my eye. Indeed, I was mesmerized by the numerous walls of color, light, and chibi dolls that punctuated my path as greatly as the people that passed. However, I could not help but be drawn to some more unexpected hints of culture that blended seamlessly into the ultramodern aura.
It was the obon festival in Tokyo honoring the deceased spirits of the city and paper lanterns shrouded the oldest temple in Japan, the Asakusa Kannon Temple, with an enveloping glow as it flaunted cherry blossoms and deep lavender hydrangeas by the tip-toeing Sumida River. Buddhist families came to pay their respects to the dead, waving sticks of senko incense elegantly so that the smoke danced, twirling like rhythmic streamers. I flashed back to my Spanish class’ horrendous celebration of el Dia de Los Muertos which devolved into a rowdy plastic skull throwing, junk food party before anyone cared. Yet between the mix of women who wore traditional yukata secured by delicately tied, silk obis beside locals in neon pink tanktops, the profound sense of ancestor worship that was able to pervade amidst the hub of Japan, Incorporated, and the tastes of crisp millet and rice cakes with bean filling that vendors slopped over to hoards crowding at their booths, obon presented a festive ambience that was much more profound and sentimental than a innocent Spanish teacher’s attempt to bring culture to American teenagers.
But I was ultimately touched most by the Toro Nagashi, the symbolic send off of paper lanterns down the Sumida River that punctuated the end of obon. I gazed silently as families brought ornate candles to the riverbanks. Dad bought one for us and I watched as my dear grandmothers’ spirit wafted on the currents, floating on spirits prior. In the solemnity, grief and anticipation rambled within me and I half expected for Buddha to come and liberate my grandmother from the paper as he released the mother of Mokuren, one of Buddha’s disciples – the event obon draws its origin to. A drum beat soon rumbled in the distance and I became incredulous. Is she coming? Yet it was only the taiko drums signaling the bon-odori, a traditional line dance that abruptly imbued the solemn followers with a newfound exuberance. Families came to dance under the stars and my own family clapped by the side in wonder at the astounding reverence for and adherence to medieval traditions their moves and synchronization exemplified. And though I felt disappointed that I could not see my grandmother once more and greatly ashamed at having had such a childish desire, I could not help but be infected by the people’s joy and ultimately felt closer to her than ever.
Prior to my departure, it seemed the same Japanese anime woman that said hello said goodbye to all the passengers. And this time I could understand her simple “sayonara”. Now I got to take a closer look at the Narita terminal and was awestricken again by the sheer schism of time that seemed to pervade Tokyo. New age fluorescent bulbs, automated bathrooms, and men and women of all ethnicities pinned up in designer, formal attire amidst this lone woman, dressed in a kimono and traditional wooden shoes attempting to say goodbye to inattentive foreigners like me who were too busy listening to their iTouch’s to care, probably developed not too far from the airport. I plucked out my headphones for a second to half-bow in response to the woman, a response that achieved a slightly extra big smile.
But as I walked toward the airplane tunnel, an overwhelming sense of the Toro Nagashi then overcame me. I was the lantern, flowing down the river, my grandmother’s spirit slowly with me. I became enveloped by a sudden feeling of reverence for the Japanese tradition – the unbridled respect the people had for their ancestors and their culture and their unceasing efforts to connect with them. To walk by the representative of such an esteemed history with little more than a head nod suddenly became disgusting and I walked back. As she came up presumably her thousandth bow of the day, I tapped her on the shoulder and bowed deeply. Our eyes connected and I no longer saw a design of a person, with large cartoon eyes that glowed with jittering spots of light in the corner of their irises, but a wise and radiant bulwark of the awe-inspiring history and sentiment of Japan capable of resurrecting the dead and inspiring the living that industrialization could never steal. I was humbled and was left with only one more thing I could leave the representative of such an overwhelmingly magnificent being.
“Domo.”
At Narita International, we were greeted by a woman with the beauty of a Hollywood geisha or idyllic anime figure. She alternated between Japanese and English in her greetings. I had the misfortune of ending up in one of the Japanese time intervals. She rammed with me with a burst of rapid-fire syllables uncharacteristic of the soft, giggly girls that flaunted in traditional Japanese cartoons and though I was adapted to forceful language as a South Indian, even I was taken aback. But coming to the city, I saw there would be much more than animated charades to catch my eye. Indeed, I was mesmerized by the numerous walls of color, light, and chibi dolls that punctuated my path as greatly as the people that passed. However, I could not help but be drawn to some more unexpected hints of culture that blended seamlessly into the ultramodern aura.
It was the obon festival in Tokyo honoring the deceased spirits of the city and paper lanterns shrouded the oldest temple in Japan, the Asakusa Kannon Temple, with an enveloping glow as it flaunted cherry blossoms and deep lavender hydrangeas by the tip-toeing Sumida River. Buddhist families came to pay their respects to the dead, waving sticks of senko incense elegantly so that the smoke danced, twirling like rhythmic streamers. I flashed back to my Spanish class’ horrendous celebration of el Dia de Los Muertos which devolved into a rowdy plastic skull throwing, junk food party before anyone cared. Yet between the mix of women who wore traditional yukata secured by delicately tied, silk obis beside locals in neon pink tanktops, the profound sense of ancestor worship that was able to pervade amidst the hub of Japan, Incorporated, and the tastes of crisp millet and rice cakes with bean filling that vendors slopped over to hoards crowding at their booths, obon presented a festive ambience that was much more profound and sentimental than a innocent Spanish teacher’s attempt to bring culture to American teenagers.
But I was ultimately touched most by the Toro Nagashi, the symbolic send off of paper lanterns down the Sumida River that punctuated the end of obon. I gazed silently as families brought ornate candles to the riverbanks. Dad bought one for us and I watched as my dear grandmothers’ spirit wafted on the currents, floating on spirits prior. In the solemnity, grief and anticipation rambled within me and I half expected for Buddha to come and liberate my grandmother from the paper as he released the mother of Mokuren, one of Buddha’s disciples – the event obon draws its origin to. A drum beat soon rumbled in the distance and I became incredulous. Is she coming? Yet it was only the taiko drums signaling the bon-odori, a traditional line dance that abruptly imbued the solemn followers with a newfound exuberance. Families came to dance under the stars and my own family clapped by the side in wonder at the astounding reverence for and adherence to medieval traditions their moves and synchronization exemplified. And though I felt disappointed that I could not see my grandmother once more and greatly ashamed at having had such a childish desire, I could not help but be infected by the people’s joy and ultimately felt closer to her than ever.
Prior to my departure, it seemed the same Japanese anime woman that said hello said goodbye to all the passengers. And this time I could understand her simple “sayonara”. Now I got to take a closer look at the Narita terminal and was awestricken again by the sheer schism of time that seemed to pervade Tokyo. New age fluorescent bulbs, automated bathrooms, and men and women of all ethnicities pinned up in designer, formal attire amidst this lone woman, dressed in a kimono and traditional wooden shoes attempting to say goodbye to inattentive foreigners like me who were too busy listening to their iTouch’s to care, probably developed not too far from the airport. I plucked out my headphones for a second to half-bow in response to the woman, a response that achieved a slightly extra big smile.
But as I walked toward the airplane tunnel, an overwhelming sense of the Toro Nagashi then overcame me. I was the lantern, flowing down the river, my grandmother’s spirit slowly with me. I became enveloped by a sudden feeling of reverence for the Japanese tradition – the unbridled respect the people had for their ancestors and their culture and their unceasing efforts to connect with them. To walk by the representative of such an esteemed history with little more than a head nod suddenly became disgusting and I walked back. As she came up presumably her thousandth bow of the day, I tapped her on the shoulder and bowed deeply. Our eyes connected and I no longer saw a design of a person, with large cartoon eyes that glowed with jittering spots of light in the corner of their irises, but a wise and radiant bulwark of the awe-inspiring history and sentiment of Japan capable of resurrecting the dead and inspiring the living that industrialization could never steal. I was humbled and was left with only one more thing I could leave the representative of such an overwhelmingly magnificent being.
“Domo.”
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