Dream of Ding Village Read Online Free PDF

body’s blood is like a natural spring; the more you take, the more it flows, etc.
    Grandpa stood beneath the scholar tree in the centre of the village and gazed at the assembled villagers for a very long time before he spoke:
    ‘Follow me to the riverbed,’ he said. ‘I want to show you something.’
    Dutifully, the villagers followed Grandpa to the riverbed east of the village. Despite the recent rains, the riverbed was dry. Ding Village had the misfortune to be situated along an ancient path of the Yellow River, and when the river had changed course, Ding Village and the surrounding villages and hamlets were left high and dry. It had been this way for as long as anyone could remember. For hundreds, even thousands of years. Nowadays, the only water in these parts came from the spring rains.
    With a shovel in his hand, Grandpa led the procession. The Director of Education and two county cadres followed close behind. The villagers brought up the rear.
    When Grandpa reached the riverbed, he searched around for a moist patch of sand, rubbed it between his hands and began to dig a small hole. Before long, the hole was half-filled with water. Grandpa produced a chipped ceramic bowl and began ladling the water from the hole and pouring it on to the sand. Again and again he ladled, pouring one bowl of water after another on to the sand. Just as if it seemed that the hole had gone dry, Grandpa paused. In a matter of moments, the water began to seep in, and the hole was once again full of water.
    The more water he took, the more it flowed. It was just like the director had said.
    Grandpa threw down the bowl on the sand and dusted off his hands.
    ‘Did you see that?’ he asked, glancing around at the villagers. ‘Water never runs dry. The more you take, the more it flows.’
    He raised his voice. ‘It’s the same with blood. Blood always replenishes itself. The more you take, the more it flows.’
    Grandpa shifted his gaze to the county director. ‘They’re waiting for me at the school,’ he explained. ‘If I’m not there to ring the bell, the kids won’t know when class is over.’
    The director, who couldn’t care less whether or not the students knew when to leave class, looked first at Grandpa and then at the villagers. ‘Do you understand now?’ he barked. ‘Water never runs dry, and you can never sell too much blood. Blood is like spring water. That’s just basic science.
    ‘You can get rich or stay poor,’ the director continued, kicking at the bowl lying in the sand. ‘It’s up to you. You can travel the golden road to wealth and prosperity, or you can stay on the same dirt path and live like paupers. Ding Village is the poorest village in the province. You haven’t got two coins to rub together. Rich or poor, it’s your decision. Go home and think about that.’
    ‘Think it over,’ he continued. ‘Other places in the province are selling blood like crazy. In other villages, they’re putting up rows of multi-storey buildings. But decades after liberation, after decades of socialism and Communist Party leadership, all Ding Village has to show for itself is a bunch of thatched huts.’
    When the director had said his piece, he left. So did Grandpa.
    The villagers dispersed, each to their homes. They had a lot to think about.
    Rich or poor, it was their decision.
    As dusk fell, a bleak chill settled over the dry riverbed. Rays of setting sun washed over the sandy soil, leaving pools of redand russet, patches like congealed blood. The fresh green smell of vegetation wafted in from distant fields of wheat and flowed across the sand like water, leaving invisible ripples on the shore.
    My father, who had stayed behind after the others had left, lingered on the riverbed beside the hole that Grandpa had dug. He stared into that hole for a very long time. Finally he bent down, cupped his hands and began to drink the water, splashing it on his face and laughing.
    He plunged his hands into the hole and started