M

y mother-in-law’s eighty-three year old uncle died yesterday, and now, at seven in the evening, we’re attending what is basically a prayer service before the funeral proper takes place tomorrow.

A priest dressed in brown robes enters the large room, sits himself in front of the white coffin and begins chanting sutras, the only accompaniment to his lone voice the small drum beside him that is occasionally struck.

The coffin has two small doors that have been left open, so that the face of the uncle may be seen. Before the priest’s arrival, every person here took turns to light a stick of incense and place it in a pot in front of the coffin.

The coffin is quite deep; on a sort of shelf above the uncle’s body a black suit has been left neatly folded. I ask my wife why, but she’s not sure. Usually, she tells me, the deceased are clad in a kimono prior to cremation. Burial is illegal here in Japan; there simply isn’t the space.  

The chanting lasts for about forty-five minutes and then, with a bow to the immediate family who are sat to one side of the coffin rather than in front of it, the priest departs. Afterwards it is explained to me by my brother-in-law – himself a Buddhist head priest – that this is rather bad etiquette; for obvious reasons, the priest conducting the service should have remained to speak to the family afterwards.

We transfer to another, more intimate room, several plates of sushi and sashimi placed on a table in the centre. We help ourselves and both adults and children laugh politely at my attempts to sit crossed-legged, the seiza position (where the soles of your feet are directly below your backside) being an absolute impossibility for me. Of course, I’m earnestly assured, even the Japanese can’t tolerate such a position for longer than three or four hours… (After which time, I’m quite certain, I’d require amputation of both legs.)

The atmosphere is relatively relaxed and good-humoured. The uncle had by all accounts been in chronic ill-health for some time, so that his death is viewed almost as something of a release. His granddaughters dressed in their school-uniforms of white shirts and blue pleated dresses introduce themselves in English, and then giggle and cover their mouths when I do the same in Japanese. I meet a professional Japanese baseball player – a game that is hugely popular here, the star-players elevated to Beckham-like status – and generally (I hope it’s okay to say this) have quite a good time.

The following day another priest conducts the service; two monks sit on either side of him. This priest is elderly and dressed in purple and orange robes. He frequently has to clear his throat during the chanting. At one point he drops a small bell and one of the monks hastens to pick it up.

At the end of the service each member of the congregation is given a flower to drop inside the coffin, the lid of which has been removed. There is scarcely a dry eye here except for the one person who never met the much-loved uncle – me. The picture above the coffin, carved wooden dragons and white chrysanthemums on either side, shows an intelligent-looking man wearing glasses and a white shirt. And that’s about as much as I’ll ever know about him.

It’s a short taxi ride to the crematorium, and after a wait of approximately two hours (during which time I talk to one of the grandsons, an interesting young man of eighteen, about his desire to become a professor of ancient Japanese – a conversation that takes place mainly in English) we’re taken to see what the flames have left us.

‘Good God!’ I mutter involuntarily, a phrase I’m certain I’ve never uttered before. Now I know what burnt bones smell like – the same burnt bones that I and the others observe lying on a long metal trolley before us. The legs and arms have mostly turned to dust, but much of the ribs and vertebrae remain and so does the skull.

But first we work from the bottom up, using stout wooden chopsticks to transfer pieces of bone into the metal urn, a member of staff periodically crushing the contents to make more space. My wife tells me that her father, a tall man, required two of these urns. It falls upon the immediate family to transfer what remains of the upper body and the skull into their final resting place; one urn proves sufficient.

My mother-in-law then drives my wife and myself to the temple where the uncle used to worship. The same ancient priest as earlier smiles as he speaks at some length about the deceased – I can’t understand the exact words but the meaning is clear: the uncle is at peace now and while his passing should of course be mourned, the life that he lived should also be celebrated.

Shortly afterwards, I find myself sitting at another low table eating raw seafood, this time in the house where the deceased lived alone. We’ve been to the family plot in one of Nagasaki’s numerous sprawling cemeteries, this one a beautiful spot called ‘Memorial Park’ that is beside the sea. Hands placed together, a beaded bracelet strung around both thumbs, we pray to the uncle’s memory once again.

According to Buddhist belief he now has ahead of him seven different judgments, one taking place every seven days, where it will be decided if he has lied, cheated and so on during the course of his life. If judged innocent of these human sins, he will be permitted entry to Buddha’s place of enlightenment.  

There remains only one final thing to do. At the dinner table, glasses filled with beer and raised aloft, we toast the uncle’s memory with a resounding cry of ‘Kampai!’ – ‘Cheers’.

Then the granddaughters reappear, puffy-eyed but also smiling, to ask if I can remember their names. And surprising no one more than myself, I find that I can.