In a small, secluded town in the Chinese province of Dongguan, live a small family—an old grandmother, a single mother and her young 8-year old son, Song Li. Their house is no bigger than a 7 by 7 foot room, clustered with a bed, a fan, a cupboard, a small table with two chairs and tattered posters hanging from the walls.
Sitting amongst a group of well-off Chinese teenagers from a Hong Kong-based international school, I, as an Indian, feel exceptionally out of place and expected a sense of hostility and an array of strange looks prior to meeting the family. However, their warm smiles and the tight grasp of Song’s hand while bringing me into his house alleviate all my fears. I can sense his excitement.
The afternoon was going well. The family was hospitable, warm and friendly. They offer us sliced fruits and cooked vegetables; it’s all they have. They tell us about their lives, albeit in Mandarin. My friends translate. Mrs. Song wakes up at 5a.m. every day to travel an hour and a half to reach the restaurant at which she works as a waitress until 10p.m., after which she commutes home for another hour and a half. She comes home, cooks, cleans and puts her son to sleep before retiring for the day, only to repeat the process within the next few hours. She earns 200 yuan per week, around 30 a day. Every penny counts.
The grandmother interrupts.
She mentions that her daughter-in-law had taken a day off work to prepare for our arrival. This catches me by surprise as I realise that Mrs. Song has just lost 30 yuan for the entire week, clearly a large sum of money for a family she single-handedly supports. I let out a sigh of surprise, failing at trying to be discreet. They all laugh while Mrs. Song brushes off the comment like it was no big deal.
The afternoon continues with Song telling us about his hobbies, his friends and his older brother, Sho, while we all patiently listen and nibble on our sweet fruits. His brother is in the army. He returns home once a year, during Lunar New Year, for three days before he is required to report back to camp. From the corner of my eye, I notice Mrs. Song tearing up. Song proceeds to tell us about a time 4 years ago, when Sho returned for the holidays, bandaged up from severe wounds. When asked about what had happened, Sho explained that he had been shot a week before the New Year. There was no way he could contact the family or vice versa. Often, the family wouldn’t speak to him or hear from him for months on end. Due to the lack of time as well as money, contact is almost impossible. Mrs. Song continues. She claims that from then on, when bidding her son farewell on his departure for the army base, it would, unintentionally, occur to her that it may possibly be the last time she ever sees or hears from her elder son. Upon hearing those words, I choke on my oranges.
Why is it that despite having so much, we always want more? These people have almost nothing; yet, they have no desires, no wants, not even a helping hand. They lead a simple life, satisfying themselves with a roof over their heads, warm clothes to wear and two square meals a day; all with a genuine smile on their faces.
If only we did the same.
Based on a true story.