It was almost the end of the ninth month in the Tibetan calendar, but it was still hot in the city, on top of which his fur jacket was a bit too thick, making him sweat profusely and feel an unbearable thirst. He really regretted that he hadn’t worn something lighter yesterday. When he thought about it, though, there wasn’t much he could have done, since when he’d left the house the previous morning it was raining and snowing, and a cold wind was blowing—not exactly “home sweet home.” Fortunately, he didn’t have to go too far before he came across a place selling tea and other drinks beneath a big multicolored parasol. He drank several cups of tea in succession, then continued to roam the shops looking for the radio his neighbors had asked him to get.
He had no idea how far he’d walked, but when he turned to look he could see the college building where his son went to school—the one decorated with the eight auspicious signs—standing out clearly among the other tall buildings like the moon amid the stars. This gave him some comfort, and he kept going.
After a while he felt the need to take a piss, and he remembered what his son had said to him: “If nature calls, you have to go to the public toilet. There are lots of them on the main roads. If you pee any old place, then getting a fine would be the least of our worries—you’d be harming the reputation of our nationality.” He looked around, but nowhere was there a building resembling this “public toilet” he had in mind, so he kept going.
He saw a few men go into a building, then emerge shortly after, doing up their trousers as they went. Could this be the public toilet? he wondered. But this building was even nicer than the dorms at his son’s university, and when he approached the doorway he was met by a drifting aroma of incense. No way, he thought, and decided not to go in.
By this point his bladder was on the verge of bursting. He stopped a passerby and said, “Arok, buddy, ah …” then made some gestures with his hands (he wasn’t a mute, but he didn’t know Chinese, so what else could he do?). “You’re the aluo, not me!” the man replied in Chinese and stormed off.1
“Eh, I wish I knew some Chinese,” he mumbled to himself. He scanned the area until his gaze finally fell on the secluded corner he was after, but immediately he remembered “the reputation of our nationality” and forced himself to hold it in.
“Best if I just get back quick as possible,” he thought, turning around and picking up his pace. Soon he was half trotting half running, and then he broke into a full-blown sprint. This was the first time since he’d turned forty or fifty that he’d run like a kid, full tilt. Unfortunately, a sudden unbearable pressure doubled him up, and he was left clutching his crotch as he supported himself with each heavy step forward.
The building decorated with the eight auspicious signs seemed so close—how come he still hadn’t gotten there yet? Before his eyes all was grassland, where anywhere you turned there were countless places you could piss to your heart’s content, completely worry free. Oh what a wonderful thing it is, to take a carefree piss!
The tall buildings in front of him began to wave back and forth.
“Ah, I can’t hold it anymore!” He came to a halt, but then he thought of the previous evening when his son’s college friends were talking about how every time someone from their hometown came to the city they committed some “faux pas” or other, and he thought about the angry and pained expressions on each of their faces. I can see why the youngsters get mad. I mustn’t bring shame on the next generation, he thought, and like a wounded man filled with resentment he clenched his jaw, bit his lip, and continued to drive himself onward. Finally, he arrived at the main gate of the college building decorated with the eight auspicious signs. When he regained consciousness, he couldn’t remember what had happened after that point. In any case, he’d collapsed the second he walked into his son’s dorm.
When he woke up he was surrounded by his son and his son’s college friends. There was a piss stain on his crotch, and he looked up at his son, filled with embarrassment and remorse. “Your dad has brought shame on you,” he said. His son, his expression somewhere between tearful and delighted, replied, “Don’t worry, Dad. You didn’t harm our national pride in public—I couldn’t be more grateful.”
1. Arok (friend, buddy) is a common term of greeting in Tibetan. Aluo, its approximate pronunciation in Chinese, is a derogatory term used by Han Chinese to refer to Tibetans.