The Broken Buddha I Kept at Home

If you ever enter my home, perhaps you’ll notice the altar with a broken statue of a Buddha.

Here’s the predicament. Unlike other broken things you can easily be disposed of, any religious symbols, once broken, are always hardest to throw away properly.

More so, when it’s personal.

You see, that statue was my late Ma’s favourite – one that she, when able, would pray to every morning without fail, and even when she was bed-ridden, would think of often. Even during her last days with us, I knew whenever there’s pain and she closed her eyes, she would conjure up the image of Buddha, and I would notice the frowns lines easing away, and her stiffness relaxing.

In hindsight, I wished I had been a better son and brought the statue to her at the hospital, and though I’m not one who focus much of regrets, I do often think, would she experience lesser pain if I had done so. Like the many other questions of similar nature, the answers would forever escape me.

Hmph… the concept of the better son. Perhaps that’s why I still keep the broken statue at my home, a constant reminder of my mom’s lessons living inside me (often drilled in during my younger days).

Looking at the statue, broken now still, I also wondered if it’s broken for a reason. Though not exactly a 100% believer of God, I do believe that He works in mysterious, often cheeky, ways. Would I had paid so much attention to it now, if it is still in one piece? Could it be that by being “out of place”, is why I constantly remind myself of my Ma’s words?

Be humble, be helpful, be grateful, just forgive, relax more, let go, look on the bright side son, there’s always hope, learn while you can, travel more, don’t harbour ill thoughts, be mindful of what you say, love your son, love your family, talk more to your siblings, be happy.

As much as I preach about non-attachment, you wanna know the honest truth? I do miss my Ma. During the quiet times, I reflect often on conversations passed, words exchanged and still until today, try to derive more meaning from the memories, vivid and clear. Sometimes when I closed my eyes, I still hear her voice. I did indulge in denial once in a while, and leave my eyes closed longer than I should, for when I know when I open them, life’s back to normal. Mom’s still not gonna be there.

Don’t get me wrong, she had a good death. The suffering she endured during the last few weeks of her life, I wouldn’t wish it even on the worst of human beings. As much as I wanted her around, so she could continue to guide me during life’s ups and downs, I couldn’t afford to see her suffer as a son. Her time wasn’t up, but her body was.

Dependant we are on this body is, aren’t we? That what I remember her saying. Attached we are to this life, aren’t we?

Funnily, my ever curious son hasn’t noticed the broken Buddha, perhaps due to his height. Well, one day when he does and ask me why I kept something broken at home, I can only hope he still remembers his grandma (she passed on when he was four), and more importantly, her lessons she had passed on to me, which I will be passing on to him. Even if it takes some drilling.

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