In the heart of China

by Amy Punchard (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find China

Looking down at the street below, the umbrellas moved in a steady flow towards the city centre. There was no rain. It was a particularly hot morning, and as I’d quickly learnt during my first week in Chengdu, a fragment of shelter was far more valuable on a day like this. It was the day of my visit to the cottage of Du Fu, a great poet of the Tang dynasty who spent the last few years of his life in Chengdu. The cottage is a replica, now a small museum dedicated to his life, but it lies in the gardens of the original. After arriving at the cottage, where the morning sun had now surrendered to a murky sky, a stone archway led me through the façade and into the presence of a bronze statue. His stance was wistful. Composed. Courtly. But his expression offered a deep sense of longing, almost mournful, which left me with a jarring feeling in my stomach. The faces around me, though unfamiliar, mirrored my own. We all stood in silence gazing at the bronze man, with the muted patter of raindrops the only distraction from the sombre tension in the room. “This way please” A tour guide led us into the museum, and began to tell the story of Du Fu. His lifelong dream to serve as civil servant was devastated when he failed the imperial exam, and on his second attempt he lost his chance forever when the exams were cancelled to prevent the emergence of political rivals. Much of his life was spent travelling, where he wrote poems documenting the bitter, painful stories he saw during the An Lushan rebellion, which tore families apart and killed millions. His poems have captured a moment in time, and preserved the stories that would never have been told. The unsettling feeling returned as I read the words painted on the wall… “Behind the gates of the wealthy food lies rotting from waste Outside it's the poor who lie frozen to death” Nearing the end of his tumultuous life, plagued by sickness and war, he was said to have finally found peace when he built this cottage. I approached another plaque… “Have my writings not made any mark? An official should stop when old and sick. Fluttering from place to place I resemble, A gull between heaven and earth.” As I walked through the gardens his words echoed inside my head. Between heaven and earth. This is where his poems were discovered, fifty years after his death. He died believing no one would ever know his name. The gardens are quiet, with more statues hidden amongst a network of intertwining pathways and streams. Towering clusters of bamboo lean over the path, and ferns dip into the water where the reflections of the plum trees are still. There’s a sense of history, of loss, and yet of beauty, that I never expected to find just three miles out from one of the world’s largest cities, and that I doubt I will ever encounter again. Returning to my hotel that evening on the subway, I met the gaze of an elderly man on the other side of the carriage. His eyes took me back to the bronze statue — deep and calm, but behind them a tinge of pain, and stories I will never hear.