Part One Chapter One

Buddha said that the true meaning of "laying down the butcher's knife and becoming a Buddha" is to let go of the hatred in your heart. But Buddha also said, lay down the butcher's knife and become a Buddha—you will not become a Buddha.

— Soda

Part One

Chapter One

I Hope!

The little girl was so kind that even she felt it was excessive. Excessive in what way? She treated everyone equally and was always kind, no matter who they were.

She was a child the family cherished; her father, who was always urging her to study, hoped she could inherit their only battered minibus—Victory. The vehicle carried fewer passengers than a typical minibus, and though it was smaller by a third, with two rows less than the large luxury minibuses like the Peony, it puzzled her why the family never replaced it.

In truth, her father and stepmother had done their best. Look around their home: paper gods of wealth pasted on the walls, the family sleeping in chaotic disarray, only a double-cassette, single-door tape recorder for entertainment. Her two older sisters rarely came home, and when they did, they huddled together out of sight. Her toys were self-made paper minibuses—and they were quite realistic.

Every day, the little girl had to operate on Route 20. Route 20, Route 20—hurry up, get on, we're about to depart! Come, come, get on, then the vehicle moves forward and reverses, all for the sake of filling it to capacity. At midday, she’d have noodles topped with vegetables and an egg—a luxurious day.

The minibus had to be spotless, an essential task. Not just the exterior, but even the roof of Victory required meticulous care. She cleaned with utmost diligence, believing this might attract more passengers, her own way of thinking.

I am a good person, and by chance, I met the little girl. And because I met her, I liked her.

But the little girl was different; she had her own thoughts. She believed there were no good people in this society, or that all the good ones had long since perished, destroyed by the wicked. Why did she think so? She saw everyone as selfish and narrow-minded, even malicious.

The little girl loved to draw—her art was abstract, beautiful.

Her health was poor, prone to severe fevers, due to a congenital immune deficiency inherited from her father. Inflammation was hard to resist, her body weak, and naturally, her temperament as well—surely there was a connection. She always complained, “This damned body really gives me headaches. Sigh! What can I do? Blame my father.” Her skin was oily and problematic, as if it always carried something.

She liked calling herself “the little girl” rather than any other name. Why? Because she was obedient and strong.

I am the little girl, also known as Leng Tiantian, just sixteen this year. I love selling tickets and drawing.

Yes, I am kind, beyond dispute.

I always loved gazing up at the sky, watching the blue heavens and white clouds, imagining that someday a prince on a white horse would come and take me away to a beautiful island, where we’d love each other deeply.

Would it happen? I said it would.

Really?

Sigh! I am very confident, about everything.

I remember my teacher said one must rely on oneself, not others. This is the truth. I disagree—I want to borrow strength, that is essential.

So how should one be careful? One must be careful: listen carefully, watch closely, only then can one reap great rewards! Carefulness means being attentive and bold, and absolutely never timid. If you fear death, you’ll achieve nothing—this is the truth.

I am not pontificating about truth—I am truth itself.

Whether scrubbing the bus or energetically selling tickets, it’s all for a better future.

My real story embarrasses me, because I truly am strong, though I can’t quite articulate how.

Still, I insist: one must be careful.

Why do I always emphasize this? I have my reasons.

Running a minibus is exhausting, especially for the driver. The wages should be high, even higher—I see that clearly. Yes, high wages are justified.

I met the little girl this way: one afternoon, she came to my house to borrow money because the bus had been hit, and her father was seriously injured. At the traffic light between Forward Street and Regiment No. 2 Middle School, a speeding cement mixer truck crashed straight into their minibus, knocking it over. The story was simple: the bus cut across lanes to snatch passengers ahead, so her father, as driver, ran the red light. Why didn’t he see it?

This time, the little girl was heartbroken, her former happiness gone. She was swept into dealing with the aftermath.

Luckily, she was seated in the middle and was unhurt—a miracle, given the force and weight of that truck. She saw the truck coming, moved to the opposite seat, while her father, near the front, was badly injured, covered in blood.

The bus was totaled. What would the family do? She came to borrow money for food.

I lent her three hundred, since my wages were enough, and we got along well. I asked:

What will your family do now?

Stand up strong.

I nodded, saying, “Don’t worry about repaying.”

“Could it be a little more? Is that possible?”

I thought that was the best thing I’d ever heard.

Later, I promised I’d always help her if she needed it—truly, I liked her very much.

Her family praised her for this.

I felt it necessary to help them; after all, we were close, so I helped the little girl get a job cooking at the station.

The station manager had nothing much to do—“You old busybody, get lost.”

The little girl was headed to Zahaizala Station, located in the snowy highlands at 3500 meters altitude, where the air is thin and the pain can be sharp and peculiar. I never got used to it.

But people need reality; money must be earned, whatever the hardship.

The little girl didn’t mind and gladly accepted the job. I thought it was fine.

Two thousand five hundred a month for contract labor; if you cook well, you’ll keep the job.

I understood—I must be diligent, outdo others.

Every day, I worked according to the operating standards. Though the control station had only three tracks, there was plenty to do, because someone had to keep busy, lest the person on duty fell asleep.

The little girl never minded her work, often coming to observe our standard procedures. She asked, “Big brother, why do you always stare fixedly at those bright spots, never moving?”

I replied, “No choice, it’s the rules.”

“You too—every meal you cook must be made with care, because we need you, we can work together.”

“What do you mean?”

“The meaning’s simple—we often drink to relax. There’s rice, flour, oil, and meat here. If you…”

I hesitated to continue.

“You often make us some meals with meat and wine, right, brother? Is that okay?”

“Yes, yes, it’s fine.”

“If you know how to drink a bit, that’d be good.”

“I don’t—I can’t drink.”

Here, building relationships matters—everything happens over wine. Why? Because many things are easier to discuss while drinking; that’s the way of the railway.

“Your little station really is full of things.”

On a pitch-black, cold, and terrifying night, many strange birds cried out. It was eerie. The little girl’s room was suddenly burst into by Jiang Bin—I hated him most. He clutched his head and rushed out, shouting, “I’ll never dare again, never again!”

So that’s how it was. I truly admired the little girl.