Everyone keeps calling him “Lao Wang”. Have you read this article about “Lao Wang”?

Thread Content

“The Old Man Wang” by Yang Jiang: Around us, there are people who live in difficult circumstances, just like the Old Man Wang. They are not valued by others, yet they have hearts as pure as gold. Have you come to realize the kindness of these people? How did you treat them? Read this passage; perhaps you will have many thoughts. 　　I often ride in Old Wang’s tricycle. He pedaled while I sat, and we chatted casually along the way. 　　According to Old Wang himself, after Beijing was liberated, those who rode tricycles were organized into groups. At that time he was \"slow to understand,\" \"couldn’t grasp it,\" and \"was a step too late,\" so he \"couldn’t join them.\" He lamented that he was \"too old and of no use anymore.\" Old Wang often feels anxious about falling behind the others, as he works on his own. All he has to survive on is a broken-down tricycle. There was an elder brother who died; there are two nephews who are \"useless,\" and that’s about it in terms of relatives. 　　Lao Wang has only one eye; the other one is a ‘snail eye’ – it’s blind. Passengers were unwilling to ride in his car, fearing that he wouldn’t be able to see clearly and might hit something. Some say that this old bachelor was not honest when he was young, contracted some serious illness, and lost one eye as a result. His good eye was also sick; it couldn’t see in the dark. Once, he hit a utility pole, which caused one side of his face to swell up and turn blue and purple. At that time we were in a re-education camp; my daughter said he suffered from night blindness, so we gave him large bottles of cod liver oil, and then he was able to see at night. He may have lost one eye due to malnutrition in his childhood, or he may have suffered from some serious illness; in any case, it’s both unfortunate, but the latter situation is likely even more unfortunate. 　　One evening, my spouse and I were taking a walk when we passed by a deserted alley and saw a dilapidated courtyard with several ruined cottages inside ； Lao Wang was pushing his tricycle into the compound. Later, while sitting in Old Wang’s car and chatting with him, I asked if that was his home. He said he has lived there for many years. 　　One summer, Old Wang delivered ice to the households downstairs, and he was willing to deliver it to our house as well at half the usual fee. Of course, we don’t want him to charge half price. Every morning, Old Wang carries the ice up to the third floor and puts it in the fridge on our behalf. The ice he provided was twice as large as that provided by his predecessor, at the same price. Most of us who ride tricycles at the entrance of the hutongs know each other; Old Wang is the most honest among us. He never realized that we were easy targets; he probably didn’t think of that at all. 　　“**Starting from that time, Mo Cun② somehow lost the use of one of his legs and was unable to walk. I asked for leave on his behalf; please ask Old Wang to take him to the hospital. I didn’t dare to take a tricycle, so I crowded onto a bus and waited at the hospital entrance. Lao Wang helped me help Mo Cun get out of the car, but he firmly refused to take any money. He said, “I took Mr. Qian to see a doctor for free.” ”I definitely had to give him money. He asked me in a quiet voice, with a hoarse voice: \"Do you still have any money?\" ”I said with a smile that I had money, but he still wasn’t completely relieved after getting it. 　　We returned from the re-education camp①, and all passenger tricycles were banned. Old Wang had no choice but to convert his tricycle into a flatbed tricycle for transporting goods. He didn’t have the strength to transport any goods. Fortunately, there was an old gentleman willing to reduce himself to being “cargo” for Old Wang to transport. Lao Wang gladly installed a half-inch-high edge around the three-wheeled platform; it seemed that with this edge in place, passengers would stay around it and not fall. I asked Old Wang whether he could make a living from this client; he said it would be barely enough. But after some time, Old Wang fell ill; it was unknown what disease it was. He spent money on various medicines, but his condition did not improve. In the first few months, he could still come to my house despite being ill, but later I had to ask Old Li from the same hospital to pass on his messages for him. One day, I heard knocking at the door at home; when I opened it, I saw Old Wang stiffly frozen in the doorframe. Usually, he would sit on the seat of the tricycle or come to my house with his back bent from carrying ice, so he didn’t seem so tall. Maybe he isn’t so thin or so stiff all the time. His face was ashen, and a layer of opacity covered both of his eyes; it was impossible to tell which one was blind and which one was not. To put it humorously, he looked as if he had been taken out of a coffin – just like the zombies I imagine, with layers of dry, yellowish skin stretched over their skeletons, which would break apart into piles of bones at the slightest touch. I said in surprise, “Oh, Old Wang, are you feeling any better?” ”　　He uttered an “um,” walked in with his feet straight, and stretched out his hands to me. He was holding a bottle in one hand and a packet in the other. 　　I hurried to go get it. There is sesame oil in the bottle, and eggs in the package. I can’t remember whether it was ten or twenty, because in my memory there were so many they were impossible to count. I can’t remember exactly what he said, but the meaning was clear – it was him who gave it to us. 　　I forced a smile and said, “Old Wang, are you giving us all these fresh, big eggs to eat?” ”　　He only said, “I don’t eat.” ”　　I thanked him for the wonderful sesame oil and for the big eggs, then turned and went inside. He quickly stopped me and said, “I’m not asking for money.” ”　　I also hurried to explain, “I know, I know—but since you’re here, there’s no need to have someone deliver it.” ”　　He might have thought my words made sense, so he stayed there waiting for me. 　　I folded up and returned to him that torn piece of grayish-blue checkered cloth he used to wrap the egg in. He held the cloth in one hand and the money in the other, turning around clumsily. I hurried to open the door for him and stood at the top of the stairs, watching him walk down step by step, worried that he might fall halfway down. Only when I could no longer hear his footsteps did I return to the room and feel sorry for not inviting him in for tea. But I was so scared that I was confused. That rigid body seemed unable to sit; the slightest bend would cause it to fall apart into a pile of bones. I can’t imagine how he got home. 　　More than ten days later, I ran into Old Li from the same compound as Old Wang. I asked, “What’s wrong with Old Wang?” Are there many that aren’t? ”　　“Buried it early. ”　　“Oh, when did he…?” “When did he die? It’s the day after arriving at your place. ”　　He also talked about how many feet of brand-new white cloth were wrapped around Lao Wang’s body – because Lao Wang was a Hui Muslim, and he was buried in some ditch. I didn’t understand either, so I didn’t ask further. 　　I went home and looked at the bottle of sesame oil that hadn’t been used yet and the eggs that weren’t finished, repeatedly recalling the words exchanged between Old Wang and me, wondering whether he knew that I appreciated his thanks. I think he knows. But for some reason, whenever I think of Old Wang, I feel uneasy. Because I ate his sesame oil and eggs? Because he came to express his gratitude, and I gave him money to insult him? None of them. Years passed, and I gradually understood that it was the guilt of a fortunate person toward an unfortunate one. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------① From *Yang Jiang’s Prose* (Zhejiang Literature and Art Publishing House, 1994 edition). ① collapsed and in ruins. ② The pen name of the author’s husband, Qian Zhongshu. Qian Zhongshu (1910–1998), from Wuxi, Jiangsu, was a scholar and writer; he authored the novel \"Fortress Besieged\" as well as academic works such as \"Talks on Art\" and \"Guanzui Bian\". ① Here it refers to the “57 Cadre Schools”, places where cadres were sent for collective labor and training during that **period**. ② I’ll make do. ③ Bend (the waist), curve (the back). ④ Scars left after corneal lesions. 　　　⑤ Stupid and clumsy. ⑥ I’m ashamed.