Chapter 44 The morning of Losa is…
The morning of Lostath is awakened by a solemn and mysterious atmosphere. Before the sky is fully bright, the sounds of horns and chanting can be faintly heard in the distance, and the air is filled with the fragrance of burning pine branches.
Ren Xiyao and Quan Zhilong, bundled up like two rice dumplings, joined the flow of people heading to Larung Gar Buddhist Academy. The temperature was extremely low, and every breath they exhaled quickly condensed into white mist. But the cold could not dampen people's enthusiasm; everywhere one could see Tibetans wearing brand-new Tibetan robes and precious ornaments, their faces beaming with the joy and piety of the New Year.
When the legendary red valley finally unfolded before our eyes, it truly possessed a breathtaking power. Red houses, built densely packed and layered against the mountainside, resembled a burning flame under the morning light and the backdrop of pristine white snow, creating a visually striking effect. The solemn prayer flags fluttered in the wind, adding to the sacred and solemn atmosphere. Ren Xiyao explained softly, "This is one of the world's largest Tibetan Buddhist academies. Those red houses were all built by the monks and nuns themselves."
They followed the crowd to the place where the incense-burning ceremony was being held. There, offerings such as pine branches, tsampa, and barley were burning fiercely, and thick white smoke rose straight into the sky. Lamas played conch shells and gongs, and the deep, melodious chanting echoed through the valley.
The believers gathered around the incense burner, chanting incantations, throwing the offerings they brought into the fire, and praying devoutly with their hands clasped together.
“Burning sang,” Ren Xiyao whispered in Quan Zhilong’s ear, “'Sang' means ‘purification’ in Tibetan. They believe that burning these sacred items produces smoke that can be offered to the gods, purify impurities, and pray for good weather, good fortune, and peace in the new year.” The sang smoke spiraled upwards like a white dragon, and thousands of pieces of sang paper were thrown into the sky like snowflakes flying in reverse.
The ceremony lasted a long time. Finally, the sun broke completely above the horizon, and golden rays filled the entire valley, illuminating every devout face and the rising white smoke from the incense offerings, as if a miracle had occurred.
As the crowd dispersed slightly, a kind-looking Tibetan woman noticed the two obvious outsiders. She smiled and approached, carrying a box filled with chema (a wooden container filled with yak butter mixed with tsampa and barley grains, used for New Year's blessings), and said to them in broken Chinese, "Happy New Year! Losar Tashi Delek!"
"Losak tashi del!!" Ren Xiyao quickly returned the greeting, accepting the barley grains her mother offered with both hands. Following custom, she picked up a few grains, tossed them into the air, and then put them in her mouth to taste. She gestured for Quan Zhilong to do the same. Quan Zhilong clumsily imitated her, making his mother chuckle.
The old woman took two white hadas from her family members and offered them to them, reciting blessings. Smiling, she stuffed two handfuls of barley into their hands, speaking in broken Mandarin. Ren Xiyao's ears turned slightly red: "She said... we should scatter the barley into the incense burner; it's most effective if the couple prays together."
"Husband and wife?" Kwon Ji-yong's eyes lit up, and he deliberately repeated "?" in Korean.
Ren Xiyao shoved him: "Shut up, stop talking."
They stood side by side before the incense burner. Kwon Ji-yong, mimicking her gesture, tossed barley into the flames, then suddenly asked in a low voice, "Han Chinese weddings require a bride price, but what about Tibetan weddings?"
"Yak".
"How many?"
"Twenty heads is the minimum." Kwon Ji-yong pretended to count on his fingers: "Then my royalties should be enough..."
Ren Xiyao stepped on his hiking boots.
They walked up to the prayer wheels. The prayer wheels gleamed golden in the morning light. Kwon Ji-yong's fingers traced the bronze cylinders engraved with scriptures, and he suddenly asked, "Don't these look like Christian confessionals? They're all about telling secrets to God."
Ren Xiyao shook her head: "Every time the prayer wheel spins once, it's equivalent to reciting a sutra once. It's not about repentance, it's about accumulating merit."
“That’s amazing.” He tried pushing the prayer wheel.
Kwon Ji-yong took out his pen and notebook from the side of his backpack and quickly sketched the old lama under the prayer flags not far away. The wrinkles on the old man's face were clear, but his eyes were as clear as a child's.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the abstract lines added to the edge of the drawing, “this is graffiti I saw at MoMA in New York, and it unexpectedly matches these.”
Ren Xiyao looked at the lama in the distance, then at Quan Zhilong's drawing, which only highlighted the features of the figures. And the collision of street art elements at the edges of the drawing, she suddenly seemed to understand more deeply what he meant by "eternity and subversion".
Around 11 a.m., they were close to their next destination.
"Are you really going to see it?" Kwon Ji-yong gripped Ren Xiyao's wrist. "I read that it's very..."
"Blood?" Ren Xiyao handed him a mask: "Tibetans believe that when a person dies, the body ends, but the soul does not. The corpse is like an object. Don't worry about it."
Vultures circled overhead, their wingspans exceeding two meters. The sky burial master's knife movements were clean and swift, as if performing some sacred ritual. Kwon Ji-yong suddenly turned his face and rested his forehead on Ren Xiyao's shoulder.
"If you're not feeling well, go back first." She patted his back.
“No,” he said in a muffled voice, “I was thinking that if I died one day, YG would definitely throw a lavish funeral… but actually, that’s not so bad.” The wind carried the sound of chanting and a faint smell of blood: “It’s fair. People live to fight for fame and fortune, and when they die, they’re just a shell, fed to animals or burned to ashes, what difference does it make?”
Ren Xiyao gazed at the sky burial platform. Among the onlookers were Tibetan children, very young yet unabashedly discussing death with them. In the instant the vultures took flight and landed, she recalled a passage from the Qinghai Tibetan Culture Museum: "Buddhist culture considers the moment of death a crucial one, decisively influencing the deceased's destination. Death is not the end of everything; those facing death see light, and light is the essence of life. If there is no awakening, it will manifest in the form of life (the cycle of birth and death). Death is the most important moment in our lives, the most opportune time for human spiritual awakening; death is not a sorrowful thing, but rather a moment of complete liberation."
“Kwon Ji-yong,” she suddenly said, “I don’t think I’m afraid anymore.”
The wind swirled the smoke from the incense sticks between them, and his eyelashes were covered with what seemed to be either dew or tears.
The car radio was playing Tibetan folk songs intermittently. This time, Kwon Ji-yong was driving, and suddenly asked, "You just said you weren't afraid anymore... did you mean you were going back onto the ice?"
Ren Xiyao nodded: "It suddenly dawned on me when I saw those vultures and the very young Tibetan children on the sky burial platform. If even death can be faced so calmly and without fear, then I have nothing to fear either. It's as if the tightly taut string in my subconscious was completely released at that moment."
Kwon Ji-yong gripped the steering wheel with one hand and rested the other on her knee: "So it was useful for the artist to accompany you to Western Sichuan?"
“Hmm,” she said, deliberately keeping a straight face, “It’s not bad as a mascot.”
As they rounded a sharp bend, they encountered a group of pilgrims prostrating themselves in prayer. Elderly men with calloused foreheads and children with rosy cheeks, they made their way towards Seda with each step and each bow. Kwon Ji-yong slowed down to let them pass, and the figures in his rearview mirror grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared at the end of the mountain road.
“I get nervous before concerts too,” he suddenly said. “I’m afraid of forgetting the lyrics, singing off-key, and disappointing my fans.”
Ren Xiyao looked at his tense profile.
“But once you’re on stage and the lights are on,” he continued, “those fears turn into…”
"excited."
"Yes! How did you know?"
Ren Xiyao looked out the car window: "Because the moment I stood on the starting line, I was the same."
They passed a mani stone pile taller than a person, its inscribed stones gleaming with a bluish-gray luster in the sunlight. They stopped the car to rest. Kwon Ji-yong picked up a flat stone and used his key to carve a crooked heart on it.
“You need to carve the six-syllable mantra,” Ren Xiyao snatched the stone. “Like this.” She skillfully carved “Om Mani Padme Hum” with clean and crisp strokes.
Kwon Ji-yong raised an eyebrow: "How come you even know this?"
"I specifically checked my phone." She piled the stones on top of the mani stone pile: "Otherwise, why didn't I carve it a few days ago?"
Silence reigned all around, broken only by the sound of the wind rustling through the prayer flags. Suddenly, Kwon Ji-yong asked, "If you weren't an athlete, what would you be doing?"
Ren Xiyao thought for a while: "I'll study art history at the museum level. But I'm currently studying art history. After I retire, I'll dedicate myself to being a scholar."
“I will be a painter,” Kwon Ji-yong said, leaning against a railing. “I will rent a small studio by the Han River and paint the sunset every day.”
"Then they starved to death."
"ah!"
She laughed and reached out to rub his cheek: "But I will take care of you."
Kwon Ji-yong rolled over and pinned her against the railing. Ren Xiyao pinched his waist and then pushed him away: "A sacred place for prayer! Can't you be serious for once!"
The town of Guanyinqiao was bustling with activity at dusk, the streets filled with Tibetans dressed in their festive best. They had dinner there. Passing by a shop selling Thangka paintings, Kwon Ji-yong picked one out and took it with him.
The New Year's celebrations continued late into the night. Kwon Ji-yong sat cross-legged on a blanket, studying a Thangka painting. Ren Xiyao lay beside him, gazing out the window, and suddenly asked, "You don't believe in Tibetan Buddhism, so why do you buy Buddha statues?"
“I won’t mind if I appreciate other aesthetics.” He took out his notebook, which he used to doodle in his spare time, and handed it to her: “Just like you won’t mind if I like you both when you’re fierce on the field and when you’re dancing the Dai ethnic dance.”
“When I saw the sky burial today,” he suddenly said, “I started thinking about the concept for my new album.”
Ren Xiyao sat up, turned to a newly drawn page, and poked at the doodles in his notebook.
“Death and rebirth,” he continued, “not in a religious sense, but…” He paused, unable to find the right Chinese words.
“Transformation,” Ren Xiyao continued, “is like ice cracks moving with the earth’s crust, the old disappearing and new terrain being born.”
Kwon Ji-yong was stunned. He turned his head and stared at her intently, his heart leaping in his chest.
She understands.
She really understands.
He suddenly couldn't continue speaking.
Because she was looking at him, her eyes reflecting starlight, like melting snow.
Kwon Ji-yong had always known she was intelligent. She could predict her opponents' routes while skating at high speed, and she could also assess the situation on the field in the blink of an eye, thus making the right choice. But at this moment, he truly realized that her keenness was not limited to the competition.
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