I began to feel lightheaded, whether from the journey or the heat, the sheer exhaustion of it all, but behind that was a wonderment at the sheer otherness of everything. It was utterly dreamlike yet utterly real, and here I was, Reg Blyth, in the midst of it, walking through it.

  I entered another temple, passed through a courtyard and up a flight of worn stone steps, stopped in front of a statue I recognised as Shiva in the form of Nataraj, Lord of the Dance. The incense here was deeper and darker, musky, the smoke thick. This was the god of destruction, of transformation, that moves and moves not, dancing in a circle of flame, dancing through aeons, dancing whole worlds, the universe itself, out of existence before the cycle began again, death and rebirth, endlessly. The face of the god was impassive, looking out, looking on.

  This was openness to all of it, to everything and nothing, the void in the full and the full in the void.

  I had read of a mantra adopted by a particular school of Vedanta philosophers, who embraced an extreme form of Advaita or non-dualism. They would repeat Neti, Neti… meaning Not this, Not this…

  It was not nihilism, but transcendence, a constant going beyond.

  Not this.

  Not this. Not this, but more, always more.

  Beyond. Beyond the beyond…

  For a moment I felt I was losing my bearings. I didn’t recognise myself, didn’t know who I was. And that was the truth of it, the heart of the matter. I didn’t know who I was. But I had been given a glimpse into something vast, something timeless.

  Back out in the street I looked about me at the teeming flow. So many, so many… Drops in the ocean.

  India itself was a reality. Not this. Not the multitudes. Not the swaggering arrogance of the Raj and all its works. Not the politics of the place, not the history. It was behind and above and beyond all these, a great being, a living consciousness.

  I made my way back to the docks, to our lodgings, to Annie, to our life.

  Given the importance Japan was to assume later in my life, the intensity of what I would experience there, it is strange to think back to our arrival in Kobe. Of course we were still very much in transit, en route to Seoul, and perhaps the long voyage had finally taken its toll on me as well as Annie. Nothing felt quite real.

  I do remember Akio being at the dock to meet us when we arrived. He was not an effusive man but his joy at seeing us was evident. He seemed unsure whether to bow or shake hands, so he did both at once, laughing.

  Welcome to Japan!

  In retrospect the words resonate – Japan my home now these many long years, and soon to be my final resting place.

  Welcome.

  Akio took charge, quietly, efficiently, dealt with our luggage, our passports and paperwork, all the formalities that had to be negotiated. He had a cab waiting and sped us to a pleasant hotel.

  If we thought we would have time to rest and recuperate after the journey, Akio had other ideas.

  You have to see a little of Japan Proper, he said, before you travel on. We can make quick tour. You say whistle-stop?

  Indeed we do.

  He took us first to Kyoto, just an hour and half by train, and we found ourselves standing on the verandah of the great temple Kiyomizu-dera, jutting out from a hillside, built on huge wooden pillars. We looked out, awed, at the view across the city as Akio explained that the present building – a mere 400 years old – had been constructed without the use of a single nail, on the instruction of the Tokugawa Shogun Iemitsu.

  Akio said there was an expression, Jumping off Kiyomizu Stage. It means what you call Taking the Plunge.

  Like what we’re doing, I said.

  Yes!

  Kiyomizu, he said, means clear water, and he showed us where we could drink from a waterfall that flowed down from the hill. He said drinking it would bring long life and good luck. There were wooden ladles and I took one and leaned out, laughing as I soaked my sleeves but gathered enough to share with Annie.

  The water was clear and cold.

  Kiyomizu.

  Another day we travelled further, took the train in the opposite direction, to Hiroshima.

  It is impossible to say the word now, or write it, without conjuring the image of the cataclysm, devastation. Now I am become death… But back then it was just another port city with a rather beautiful name that sounded to my ears like waves on a shore.

  We went there en route to another famous beauty spot which Akio insisted we see, the island temple of Miyajima. From Hiroshima there was a short ferry crossing and there it stood, apparently floating on the water, a huge red torii gate.

  It’s an image much used, perhaps overused, to conjure an aspect of Japan for the tourist. But seeing it there, rising above the incoming tide, it was a thing of immense beauty, a portal to some other realm. Beyond the gate, in the temple grounds, a few little deer grazed, delicate and graceful, utterly enchanting.

  Akio would have loved to show us more of his country – but for now it was just a staging post, a stop on the way to Korea.

  Some day we come back together, he said. Spend more time.

  I would like that, I said.

  Some day.

  If merely breathing the air of India and Japan had opened my eyes (all three of them!) then being in Korea – living there – was to enter fully into another world, another reality altogether, and from the outset I found that otherness intoxicating. I was in a waking dream, though at times I felt as if my life in England had been the dream and I had awakened to this.

  I was happiest just walking the streets, taking in the sights and sounds and smells. The men here and there dressed in long white robes gathered at the waist, wearing high-crowned broad-brimmed hats. They all seemed to walk with a kind of swagger, meeting my gaze with a look of amusement, secure here in their own place, their own land, where I was the interloper, the alien, the stranger. Little children in bright tunics, carrying smaller children on their backs. All unashamedly curious. Clearly the foreigner, particularly the round-eye westerner, was still an unusual sight. I did my best not to terrify them (but did not always succeed, and often sent them scurrying).

  I found the markets a particular delight, the tradesmen and pedlars and food stalls, merchants selling everything-under-the-sun. In one stretch there was a scribe writing letters for the illiterate, a barber offering close shaves with an open razor, an old wizened medicine man dispensing potions and elixirs. There was even a dentist plying his trade (plier-ing his trade!) right there on the dusty pavement. (No anaesthetic, just a stoic acceptance of necessity, a grim trust in the man’s efficiency and skill, making it quick). I caught the scent of clove oil, perhaps all they had by way of antiseptic and painkiller, and I felt my own teeth clench.

  There were stalls selling food and drink, noodle bars and tea shacks, the smells hanging pungent in the air, fried fish and seared meat and all manner of spices. Outside one place the carcass of what I took to be a pig was roasting on a spit over an open fire. Annie covered her nose and mouth, turned away.

  I thought it was a dog, she said.

  It was not a good sign.

  Initially we stayed in staff accommodation at the University, a little self-contained apartment, clean and compact. Akio apologised for the lack of space, the smallness of the rooms, but it was larger than anywhere we had lived in London, and we set about making it comfortable. Once a week Akio invited us to his own home where his charming wife Motoko prepared vegetarian food for us, introduced us to Japanese cuisine. She had a brightness about her, a kind of quiet poise. If all Japanese women were like this, I thought, I was in danger of being severely smitten.

  The University was called Keijo, the Japanese name for Seoul.

  Why not Seoul? I asked him.

  He said Keijo was Japanese for Capital City – in Korean that was Gyeongseong. Before the arrival of the Japanese, it had been called Hanseong, Chinese City, and Hanyang, Chinese Light.

  Most Korean people, he said, are happy not to call it by those names.

  Most? I said.

  I suppose, he said, there is small minority who look to China. And some old people still say Hanseong. Or Hanyang.

  I rather like the sound of those, I said. Especially Hanseong. It sounds more musical. More true.

  Perhaps, he said. But now it is Keijo.

  Or Gyeongsong.

  Not so much used, he said. Keijo is best.

  Not Seoul?

  Not Seoul.

  The city was surrounded by mountains, a protective presence. It did the heart good to see them there, timeless. It was thrilling to look up, past buildings, see distant vistas opening out, hills beyond hills receding, and every day different, depending on the time, the light, the weather. It was always changing, always the same.

  The old hymn came back to me. I to the hills will lift mine eyes. I had sung that in London as a boy, never having seen an actual hill, only flat never-ending cityscape all around.

  This was something else entirely and I found it invigorating.

  On my first day teaching, Akio introduced me to the class of boys, all in uniform, tunics buttoned up to the neck, Japanese-style. They were uncertain, curious, respectful, polite.

  They stood to attention, chorused, Good morning Mister Buraisu, bowed in unison. No doubt they were weighing me up, this alien dropped into their midst from another world.

  Akio had said they most certainly would not know what to make of me. My appearance, he said, stocky build, large head, had something of the Slav about it, and they might think I was Russian. He said Russians often appeared in the city, the military in uniform, businessmen in their dark suits. He said perhaps to the boys I might appear similarly imposing.

  Very well then, I said. I must try not to impose.

  I did not mean…

  Stocky? I said. Big-headed? Slavic?

  He looked concerned, then realised I was teasing him.

  Still.

  By comparison with his own slight build I was indeed on the solid side.

  Like an elephant. Like Ganesha the Remover of Obstacles. Head like a battering ram.

  So.

  My lessons, and much of my conversation, would naturally be in English. But out of necessity, or at least simple courtesy, I felt I should acquire a smattering both of Korean and Japanese.

  Annie mimicked the sounds she could hear, nasal and clanging, singsong. She said (reluctantly I thought) she would try to master the basics, enough to get by in the marketplace.

  I noticed from the outset that the two languages were similar, at least in syntax, so learning them in parallel was made that little bit easier. The sentence structure, for example, the word order, was the same. Subject, object, verb.

  Focusing straight away on what for me would be the essentials, I learned to say in Japanese, Watashi-wa niku o tabemasu. And in Korean, Na nun kogi run moguo.

  I eat meat.

  And even more important, Watashi wa niku o tabemasen, and Na nun kogi run anmoguo.

  I do not eat meat.

  To most of my colleagues this would better be rendered in English as, I am decidedly odd, probably untrustworthy.

  With the boys, it was important that I conduct the lessons in English, and I tried from the start to instill a love of the language, its musicality and its rhythms. (Sense, I thought, would follow). There was no better way of doing this than introducing them to poetry, poetry and more poetry.

  I would often stride to the front of the room, motion them to sit down (for they would be standing as I entered). I would scribble the title of the poem on the blackboard, perhaps the name of the poet (even if that was the ever-prolific Anon). Then I would simply declaim.

  Who killed Cock Robin?

  I, said the Sparrow,

  With my bow and arrow.

  I killed Cock Robin.

  Who saw him die?

  I, said the Magpie,

  With my little eye.

  I saw him die.

  And so on.

  From day one I made a point of identifying the boys individually, learning their names. This, I believed, was a pleasant surprise to them. My predecessor, an American missionary by the name of Kerr, had made no such effort. Akio also told me Mr Kerr had been difficult for the boys to understand, with his American accent and his tight-lipped delivery. By contrast, said Akio, they found my voice musical and easier to follow.

  I had no sooner congratulated myself on my success, when an incident took the wind out of my sails. I was in full flow, delivering a lesson (I use the term loosely) when I noticed a change in the atmosphere, a kind of tension.

  Is something wrong? I asked.

  Nobody spoke.

  One boy cleared his throat, another meticulously straightened the sheets of paper on his desk, a third arranged his pens in a row. Nobody met my eye, until the first boy caught my gaze and looked quickly away.

  I addressed him directly.

  Well?

  He seemed to hesitate a moment, gathering himself. He took a quick sharp intake of breath and stood up abruptly, his chair scraping behind him. He bowed.

  I nodded. Hai.

  Sumimasen

  What was it I could read in his face? Anger? Apprehension? Fear? Exasperation?

  He composed himself, made his face a mask.

  What is it? I asked.

  He began by speaking in Japanese, then, remembering the rule of the class, he tried to express himself in English.

  We don’t understand, he said. Talk fast. Too many things.

  It had taken a great deal of courage. The nail that stands up gets hammered down.

  I felt great respect for the boy, even though his words stung me.

  What about the rest of you? I asked. Do you feel the same?

  Again there was that moment of hesitation. The boy looked round, and all the others stood up as one, bowed in unison.

  A year or two ago, in that little cinema in Shinjuku, I saw the Hollywood film Spartacus, a splendid story of the Slaves’ Revolt in ancient Rome, starring the redoubtable Kirk Douglas (of the craggy jaw and cleft chin). At one point in the action, after the revolt has been crushed, the Roman general in charge asks the defeated slaves which of them is Spartacus. The intention is to make an example of him by crucifying him at the roadside. The real Spartacus (played by Douglas) gets to his feet and says I am Spartacus. But immediately another slave stands up and says the same. I am Spartacus. Then they all stand up, one by one, the old and the young, and each one calls out I am Spartacus.

  This is what comes to mind now as I remember that day in the classroom at Keijo.

  The boys stood there in silent challenge. The Students’ Revolt. I was taken aback, but at some level I was impressed that they had the gumption to stand up and make a protest. Then I noticed something even more extraordinary, even more impressive. In the far corner of the room, in the very back row, was one boy who had not stood up. He had resolutely stayed in his seat, not joining in. He sat in defiance of his peers, eyes fixed ahead.

  The others had clearly agreed their strategy in advance. They would show solidarity, they would stand together. For this one boy to resist was an act of real courage and defiance.

  I remembered myself, not much older than these boys, standing in that dingy committee room in Leytonstone, stating my conscientious objection to the Great War.

  Bloody coward. Damned disgrace.

  I motioned to the rest of the class to sit down.

  The boy who had not stood up – his name was Kasai – was one of the brightest in the class, one of the most imaginative. At some level he understood what I was trying to do in the lessons. He got to his feet.

  Like the other boy he spoke first in Japanese, sotto voce, his words in a rush, with much bowing to his classmates. Then, remembering the protocol we had established, he spoke in English, softly at first, his voice a little shaky, but gaining in confidence as he continued.

  Buraisu-sensei is not always easy to understand. But maybe that is our fault. And even small part of what he says is more better…

  …is better, I corrected.

  …is better, he said, than other teachers. He make us laugh, he make us think.

  For a moment I simply did not know what to say. The young man’s stumbling eloquence had touched me deeply. I bowed, felt real humility in the face of it.

  Thank you, I said. I shall try to be more aware.

  I clapped my hands together, said, Well then! Shall we continue?

  Most of the boys looked round, at each other, at the boy in the corner, at the one who had led the protest. They looked at me. Tentatively they nodded.

  So desu, I said. Let us continue. And I promise I shall take account of what has been said. Now, where were we?

  When I told Akio what had happened he laughed and said the boys showed spirit.

  I resolved, as far as I was able, to rein myself in, curb my tendency to orate and declaim when I was teaching the boys.

  Those boys. I see their faces before me. Young Mr Kasai, who had spoken out in my defence, was serious and quiet, did not look in good health. I saw him in the street one day, not long after the incident, and I bowed and thanked him sincerely for his courage in speaking out.

  I will not forget you, I said, and he was genuinely flummoxed that I should speak to him in this way, not as a superior, but simply, man to man.

  This was the reaction when I met any of the boys outside the classroom. The Korean boys especially seemed taken aback. One young fellow – his name was Kim – bumped into me in the department store at the end of the day. I asked if he was shopping and he said, Yes. I said, Me too. I told him I was looking for chocolate and socks, and both were absolutely essential.