The invitation came by phone. It was the unmistakable voice of Mo’s Mom, “Two hours before sunrise on the third day, arrive at the old oak tree in the middle of the old “Breadbasket Farm”.
The sun was still two hours from rising and I was by the oak tree as she had asked me, at the very spot I was standing, where many kids of my generation had played hide and seek. As I reminisced the carefree days of my childhood, I can’t help but wear a smile and feel cheery inside. All of a sudden, a loud thud interrupted the quiet morning. Unbeknownst to me, Mo’s Mom had been up on the tree and jumped off like an Airborne Trooper to deliver a loud hooting Good Morning. “Are you ready?”, she yelled. For a moment, I was speechless. All I can do was look up at the huge tree that had concealed her wondering how it was that I didn’t see her. “Come on, we have to walk to the spot where Mo said he was going to commit Hara-kiri – ceremonial suicide."
We walked for a few miles and crawled up to a berm to see a clearing with a small table no more than a foot high covered by white cloth with a knife sitting on a white porcelain plate. Gathered around were the two sisters and Mo’s 13 Disciples in quiet contemplation. At exactly sunrise, Mo marched in like Mussolini with a goose step cadence. He wore a white ceremonial robe and kneeled in front of the table. He took a few moments and closed his eyes, exuding reverence, calm and control.
The intensity of the moment caused some members of the crowd to lose control of their emotions. All of the 13 men and 2 women had an assortment of poster like expressions on their faces – at the verge of crying, sullen, long faced, dejected, sorrowful and disconsolate. One was throwing up and another had a steely look while saliva drips off his mouth. They were all there to witness the passing of their beloved Mo.
Mo turned to the crowd and said, “Thank you everyone for being here on this auspicious occasion of my passage. I am doing this because I have committed the highest dishonor that a warrior can commit. I have a face that only a mother can love and despite valiant efforts to the contrary, even my own mother hates me now. And so, I have chosen to end my life in the most honorable way a warrior can – by Sepakku – by thrusting the ceremonial knife in my stomach and disemboweling myself. At the second sound of the gong that you see behind you, I will depart this life and move on to the next. So here and now, I must say my good-bye to all of you”.
Then, he turned to the table and once again remained silent. The morning was cool and the smell of flowers commingling with the delicate scent of the outdoors perfumed the air. A breeze struck my face at the same moment the gong sounded.
Mo partly disrobed by slipping one arm from the sleeve of the robe. He untied the robe to reveal his bulging belly that embarrassingly slumped on the small table. Discovering the miscalculation, he pushed the table forward annoyingly to let the belly land on his lap instead. I could tell that he had polished his belly with baby oil because it was as shiny as a piece of glass.
Wailing cries and sounds of intense anguish could now be heard from the crowd as Mo continued to make his preparation. Then, he held on to the knife and maneuvered it closer to his stomach eliciting more howling and crying from the crowd. He discovered that the closer the knife got to the stomach the louder the crying got. So, for the next few seconds, he was moving the knife away from his stomach and closer again – like a yo-yo – controlling the volume and frequency of howling from the crowd to his own psychotic delight.
Then, without warning, the second gong sounded. GOOOOONG!!!
At the precise moment, Mo plunged both his hands under the table. All that could be heard was the unmistakable sound of a plastic grocery bag being grappled with by human hands. From under the table, he retrieved a bagel and a small jar of peanut butter. HAAAAAAAAH?, the crowed exclaimed in curious disbelief. He popped the jar open and instead of thrusting the knife into his stomach, he thrusted the knife into the thick butter of peanut goodness and wiped a thick glob on the bagel. He looked at the crowd and bellowed in a loud voice, “a man doomed to death as I am has the right to his last meal. Mine happens to be bagel with peanut butter”. Then he took the knife and licked the peanut butter off until the knife was spit and polish.
Mo’s Mom looked at me with a smile and said “There you have it. He’s a big-bellied chicken. Let’s get out of here before the crowd finds us and turns on us.” And so we slipped away quietly to ensure our safety. But for Mo’s Mom the disappointment was palpable. He had tricked her again and added another notch to the endless list of motherly deceptions.
