Son Of A Buddha

This morning the grandfathers and I were enjoying our cups of instant coffee, fanning ourselves with fans inscribed by Teacher Song. The temperatures have steadily climbed over the past few days – it’s now a miserably tolerable very hot. The conversation was sluggish. We were too hot to exert the energy pleasantries required. Most of the grandfathers leaned back in their chairs or on the sofa, eyes at half mast, legs stretched out in front of them. Suddenly, Mr. Lau, funny man, leaned forward. He asked Teacher Song for a scrap of paper. He began scribbling slowly, trying to remember Chinese characters. He wrote one, after consideration crossed it out, wrote another, amended it, shook his head, attempted it again. He began speaking. The other grandfathers slowly opened their eyes, then leaned forward. I leaned forward, too, even though I couldn’t understand what was being said. I watched him write, trying to explain. The other men listened carefully, cocking their heads to one side and making tsking noises. Teacher Song pulled out a massive dictionary. He flipped from page to page, eventually finding the entry he wanted with the assistance of a huge magnifying glass. He spoke, nods all around, reclining positions resumed.

I had no idea what had just transpired. I hadn’t recognized any of the words. I turned to Mr. Lee.

He began: Buddha. Once a prince. In India. Married. Wife had son. But Buddha left. Became Buddha. Son, very, very bad. Troublemaker. Lahoorya.

Me: Lahoorya? Is that a Korean word?

Him: No. Indian. La-hooooo-rya. His son. Very bad. Troublemaker. Son of a Buddha.

He said it with such contempt. He wouldn’t say what the son did that was so bad. Just that it was very, very bad. I really tried not to laugh, but to me “Son of a Buddha” sounds like an insult gone awry…