Hungry Ghosts

by Melinda Li

When I was twelve years old and visiting my mother’s hometown in August, I asked her why she feeds the hungry ghosts but not the hungry humans on the streets back home. With her gaze fixed on the dancing flames in front of us, my mother shushed me, “Don’t say things like that,” flicking more joss paper into the blazing bin. Around us, the sidewalk swelled with families, men and women of all ages reverently bowing at altars adorned with burning incense and offerings. Gorgeous fruit plates and intricate ceramic bowls filled with rice wine sat alongside tender slices of roast pork and duck, laid out on the roadside for wandering spirits. From a distance, I watched a mischievous child in overalls and a bouncing bowl haircut stealthily sneak a bite of a sweet glutinous rice ball off an altar. Our eyes met and he seemed to briefly combust from within, his plump cheeks flushed into a burnt red that mirrored the embers of the joss paper. Something in his eyes illuminated with a brightness I hadn’t seen all day. Between us there existed a fleeting shared kinship, an unspoken confusion, as we stood beside our parents attempting to appease the dead we could not see.

My mother’s grip tightened on my arm and yanked me forward, a silent rebuke lingered in her scorching eyes. She explained the festival simply: “There are some ghosts that are scorned—they don’t have descendants, or their descendants didn’t honor them after they died.” She continued to walk at her fast pace as if something were chasing us. “Every year for a month,” she said, “they enter through the gates of Hell and get to roam our world, looking for food, drink, and entertainment. That’s why they are hungry.” As we navigated the labyrinth of stalls and streets, the air hung heavy with intermingled aromas of char and smoke, savory umami flavors, and the occasional sugary sesame note; I wondered if the lost souls took pleasure in this fusion of scents or if the smoke reminded them too much of Hell.

I pondered this while strolling, then asked, “Why do we have to feed and entertain them if they aren’t our family’s ancestors?” Then I realized that, in a metaphysical way, these spirits were homeless. As I opened my mouth to retract the question, my mom countered with a sharp annoyed inhale, “Because we don’t want them bringing trouble into our own lives. We have to appease them so they go away.” I nodded, but my shoulders dropped and a familiar helpless pit in my stomach expanded like a balloon. The amalgamation of festival noises swallowed the end of my mother’s sentence, and I let them absorb the tension between us—the crackling of incense paper, the dynamic buzz of communal conversation, the cacophonous reverberations of gongs and cymbals, the jingling bells of a lion show from afar.

Wisps of smoke curled up towards Heaven, fading into vapor as they floated higher, and the sky burned vibrant orange with a pink ombre. It was as if the horizon itself caught on fire. The smoggy haze bathed in the warmth of the sunset as we walked towards the city’s outdoor amphitheater for the city’s main entertainment, the evening performances. Despite the elaborate silk costumes and traditional dancing and folkloric storytelling, I never quite enjoyed Chinese operas, especially as an American child, but my mother eagerly guided me to the row where her sisters were sitting, so I smiled and performed filial piety with a radiant grin, showing off my braces with zesty yellow rubber bands. My oldest aunt vigorously and affectionately kneaded my cheeks, as if she could pinch away the language barrier between us just like how my mother could extinguish the illusion of religious skepticism with a single flame. My aunt enthusiastically declared in Chinese, “The ancestor spirits love this show. It’s their favorite,” then gestured towards the stage, “That’s why we leave the front row open for them.”

I stood up slightly halfway, knees bent and neck strained, to peer above the crowd now shrouded in darkness. The curtains drew apart and we heard the erhu announce itself with a lyrical opening tune, but my eyes flickered towards a small glow in the otherwise vacant first row of the theater. There, I saw a modest shadow of a mouth fiercely stuffing itself with mooncakes and lotus seed buns and dumplings. The wooden bench underneath the entity looked as if it was about to ignite, a kindling ready to spark. I searched the faces around me, including my family’s, but everyone else’s attention was lost in the ongoing spectacle on stage. My breath caught as I saw the overalls. The shimmer of the bowl cut now emitted a phantasmal aura. My heart sank, drowned by cold shivers. The little boy from earlier, alone and feasting as if he had been starved for months. His chubby face lit up at the operatic production, even mouthing along to some songs. His ephemeral luminance beamed outwards like the sun, rejoicing in his transient time on our earth before returning to a land I could not dare fathom.