Buddha and Beads

“He will bring us good luck,” my mother said showing me the little china Buddha. She brought him and a box of incense home one Saturday afternoon. She may have bought him from a store crammed with beaded slippers, silk blouses, and tea pots or someone may have given it to her. She didn’t say. She lit the incense and put it inside him. Smoke seeped through slits on his colourful painted gown and the smell of sandalwood filled the room.

“Don’t use all my matches firing it up,” my grandfather said. He lit his pipe and lay back in his chair by the window. 

My grandmother peeked around the corner from the dining room and shook her finger at me. “Elaine, you are not to touch him,” she said. Then she returned to sorting mail at the mahogany sideboard.

Mother placed the Buddha on the shelf above grandfather’s desk. “Yes,” she said, stepping back and admiring him. “He is good for us.”

I loved the Buddha. Whenever Mother and Grandmother went into town, I climbed up and took him down to join my tea parties. He sat regally on the table amongst dolls and stuffed animals. My aunt Dot didn’t care. She sat in front of the mirror all day putting her hair in rollers and thinking about boys. As long as I didn’t get into mischief and I didn’t lock myself in the bathroom. And she didn’t have to get a ladder to climb through the bathroom window, I could do what ever I wanted.

The Buddha had been with us for a week when I stuck him in the pocket of my uniform and took him to school for show and tell.

“My mother says he’s good luck,” I announced to the class.

Sister Matilda glared at me over the rim of her glasses. “Superstitious garbage,” she shouted. Her red face turned crimson. Her fingers moved quickly over the black rosary hanging from her belt. She held them up and shook them at me. “Only God and these beads can bring good fortune and certainly not to wicked little girls.”

She banished me to the chapel to reflect on the state of my soul. I sat alone in the candle lit church watching shadows of Jesus, Mary and Joseph dance on the walls. Then Sister Teresa came down the aisle with a girl from one of the upper classes dressed as Mary. A procession of girls singing hymns and throwing rose petals followed behind. One of the girls stepped out of the line.

 “What are you doing in here by yourself?” she asked.

 I showed her the little Buddha.

 “You’re stupid,” she said.

Sister Teresa yanked her back into the procession and they disappeared out the side door. I stared at the Buddha. He was making my life miserable. Sister Matilda was making my life miserable. Mother and Grandmother were making my life miserable. Sister Matilda had rules about families being good Catholics. Mother was divorced and couldn’t go to church. Grandfather said he wasn’t putting on a suit like a prize rabbit and refused to go to mass. Not only that, Mother and Grandmother had their own rules. Theirs had to do with luck. Pictures of birds were not allowed in our house — bad luck. We had paintings of ships coming into port — good luck. Elephant ornaments with upturned trunks bringing luck to us from the east were placed around the house. In December Grandmother and Mother planted rice seeds in a pot. On New Years Day they checked it.If the rice grew tall and a healthy green, it meant a good year. If it didn’t, anything bad could happen. Now we had a Buddha. But Mother and Sister Matilda were wrong. The Buddha was wasn’t lucky nor were the beads. At least not for me.