The Ramen King and I (28 page)

Of course, the decor was not a tribute to
Star Wars
, and I shook my head as I figured it out. The funeral was going to be one final homage to Ando’s special relationship with Halley’s Comet.

Thousands of people were already seated in folding chairs that filled the playing field. (The official attendance was nearly seven thousand.) The audience faced out toward the home run wall, where a magnificent stage had been constructed. Long and white, the stage was fringed on both sides by white orchids and rows of Buddhist monks sitting
seiza
style. The monks sported shaved heads and formal robes—some yellow, some purple. Above them, another large video screen displayed a head shot of Ando wearing a turquoise suit, a blue diamond-patterned tie, and clear, wire-rimmed glasses. I judged that the photo had been taken when Ando was in his eighties. He seemed happy.

I had emerged from the tunnel in foul territory, somewhere in the vicinity of third base. In front of me, a long line of armbanded Nissin employees wielding flashlights greeted guests and helped them find their way in the dark. A female Nissin employee bowed in front of me, and I followed her to an empty seat in shallow center field.

“Would you like a blanket?” she asked.

With the synthesized music and the spinning galaxies and the offer of a blanket, I felt as if I had boarded a spaceship in which the Nissin staff members were flight attendants and we were bound for another galaxy. It was chilly.

“I would love a blanket.”

Wrapping my legs in the thin blue wool, I squinted to examine the contents of the white shopping bag in the dark. There were three items:

The book was a 235-page collection of Ando’s famous sayings, and it had been published the day before the ceremony. (The Japanese title employed an archaic construction meant to evoke Friedrich Nietzsche’s
Thus Spake Zarathustra
.) Thumbing through, I recognized many of the sayings from Ando’s autobiographies. Some, however, were unfamiliar:

Guests were still filing in when the deep voice of a male announcer boomed through the sound system:

“He was the inventor of instant ramen. It was easy to eat, and economical. He also invented Cup Noodles. He came from outer space, and now we send him back to outer space. That is our theme today.”

The spinning galaxies faded out again, and a video tribute to Ando filled the monitors. It began with images of the first Chikin Ramen package, above which was printed another of Ando’s famous sayings: “In life, there is no such thing as too late!” A folksy pop song by the Japanese band Mr. Children played while the video cut quickly between scenes from Ando’s life: the first Nissin assembly lines; Ando standing next to the Golden Gate Bridge (during his legendary trip to America in 1966); a container of Cup Noodles (and Ando saying, “Let’s put it in a cup so they can eat it with a fork!”). Over a montage in which people of all colors and sizes were enjoying instant ramen, a narrator declared, “It was an invention that changed the world!” Here was Ando fishing with Masako during the days when he ran the salt operation in Izumi-Otsu; Ando receiving the honorary doctorate from Ritsumeikan University; his noodle-study trips throughout Asia; astronaut Soichi Noguchi eating Space Ram aboard the space shuttle; Ando sinking a particularly difficult putt in 1987. “He was a man who lived life on a planetary scale,” the narrator said. The video ended with computer-generated images of Halley’s Comet.

Next, a procession of more monks emerged, slowly and in single file, from an area near the bull pen. As they made their way up to the stage via a long white ramp, their faces filled the stadium displays. The only thing behind them was the dark, star-filled bleacher section, so on the monitors the monks appeared to be ascending a path to heaven. Once all the bull pen monks had joined the monks who were already onstage, the head monk—distinguished by robes more elaborate than those of his colleagues—began waving what looked like a white-haired doll. The stadium cameras zoomed in, and I saw that it was not a doll but a ceremonial wand from which hair dangled at one end. The head monk waved the hairy wand in circles over his head, and then in circles to his left and to his right.

“Please assume the
gassho
pose,” the announcer said.

Everyone in the stadium stood up and brought their hands together. Meanwhile, the monks chanted a single sound.

“Oooooooh...”

Absolute silence.

The monks beat drums now, which was the cue for the audience to sit back down. One monk played what sounded like a shakuhachi, the traditional Japanese flute. There was more chanting, but this time it came from only the head monk. His back to the audience, he bobbed back and forth, still seated
seiza
-style in front of the large photo of Ando’s face. The first words of his chant were the mantra said to guarantee all who utter it automatic entrance to the Land of Happiness.

“Na-Mu-A-Mi-Da-Bu-Tsu...”

The monk chanted the syllables in the growling drone of an outboard motor. He went on and on for minutes, allowing my mind to drift. Specifically, I recalled how Zen once told me that the cost of a funeral was directly proportional to the number of monks in attendance. I counted more than thirty monks at Kyocera Dome Osaka. When Zen’s father died, his mother initially tried to save money by hiring only one monk, but the monks at his family’s temple had a clever up-selling technique. They explained to Zen’s mother that each monk would carry a different percussion instrument, and that at a key point in the ceremony, they would play a melody that sounded like “cheen-tone-shan.” One monk’s instrument would make the “cheen” sound, another the “tone,” and a third the “shan.” If Zen’s mother hired just one monk, they told her, her husband would hear only “cheen,” which was not ideal for his happiness in the next world. She gave in and hired three monks. Later, the monks explained how Zen’s father would benefit from a longer
kaimyo
—afterlife name—and charged his mother for every kanji character they added to it.

When my mind returned to the head monk chanting in front of me, I realized that he was no longer chanting Buddhist syllables. His chant had morphed into modern Japanese words spoken in the same monotonous drone. This is what they would have sounded like in English:

“. . . In-Vent-Ed-In-Stant-Ra-Men-Found-Ed-Com-Pa-Ny-Gave-To-The-World-Not-Just-Ja-Pan . . .”

Drums and flutes accented every syllable.

“. . . Born-Nine-Teen-Ten-A-Long-With-HaL-Ley’s-Co-Met-Two-Thou-Sand-Five-In-Vent-Ed-Space-Ram...”

The monk concluded with another “Na-Mu-A-Mi-Da-Bu-Tsu” and some other typically Buddhist chants. The announcer said, “Former Prime Minister Yasuhiro Nakasone will now deliver the main address.”

If you’re looking for a prestigious keynote speaker at your Japanese funeral, it would be hard to do better than Nakasone, who, despite being implicated in the notorious Recruit stock scandal, presided over Japan’s economic boom of the mid-1980s. A thin, spry-looking eighty-eight-year-old, Nakasone got up from his seat on the field and ascended the ramp to the main podium. A white ribbon, like a prize ribbon at a county fair, hung from his black suit jacket, and he was bathed in a heart-shaped spotlight. His speech had been printed on a white scroll, which he unfurled to read. He spoke in highly formal Japanese, so I didn’t understand everything.

“He made a huge contribution to the everyday life of people around the world. . . .”

“A man who invented a great food product . . .”

“I respected and loved him. . . .”

“He failed time after time . . . Chikin Ramen . . . Cup Noodles . . . I learned so much from him.”

Following Nakasone were the chairmen of Itochu and Mitsubishi, Nissin’s big distributors.

“He was like a father to me,” the Itochu chairman said. “I always called him Momofuku, so I think I’ll call him that now. I talked to Momofuku about anything and everything. I often spoke to him on the phone early in the morning. Someone told me that Momofuku kept my telephone number written on a piece of paper in his house so he could always reach me. I was happy to hear that.”

The chairman of Mitsubishi was more poetic.

“In heaven,” he said, “play a round of golf for me. Then, make yourself some ramen.”

After the announcer read a condolence message sent by Shinzo Abe, the current prime minister, a condolence video recorded by Soichi Noguchi, the space shuttle astronaut, played on the stadium screens.

“Mr. Ando was really great for us astronauts,” Noguchi said, holding up what looked like shrink-wrapped dried noodles. “I took this Space Ram with me on the Shuttle
Discovery
and ate it in space. I’ll never forget how delicious it tasted. When I went to the Instant Ramen Invention Museum, Mr. Ando showed me around himself, and together we enjoyed Chikin Ramen.”

I should have been an astronaut, because then Ando would have shown me around the museum and made Chikin Ramen with me.

“Mr. Ando,” Noguchi concluded, “now that you’re traveling among the distant stars, please look over us and protect us.”

The last person to speak was the man designated in the program as Chief Mourner: Nissin CEO Koki Ando. In person, Ando’s second-eldest son looked more like his father than in photos I had seen. Like everyone else I had met at Nissin, he referred to his father as “the chairman.”

“The chairman was really into outer space,” Koki said after reaching the podium. “And his life was connected to Halley’s Comet, so we decided to make outer space the theme of today’s ceremony.” Koki paused for a moment. He looked as if he were about to cry. “The chairman once told me something that I have never forgotten. He said, ‘Son, nothing in this world is real, except for love.’ ” Now Koki
was
crying. “And he told me, ‘If I’m strict with you, it’s because I love you so much.’ ” He paused again, but he was still crying when he continued. “Why couldn’t I ever say ‘thank you’ to the chairman while he was still alive? I guess I’ll never know the answer to that. But at least I can say it now. Chairman, wherever you are, go ahead and eat Chikin Ramen. Play golf. And please accept the deepest, deepest thanks—from me, and from all of the people you have touched on this Earth.”

I almost cried, too.

The last part of the service was the thurification, which turned out to be a ritual burning of incense, known in Japanese as
shoko
. The announcer invited Nakasone to thurify first. The former prime minister rose from his seat again, stopping at a long table that stretched nearly the width of the stage. Twenty or so ceramic pots had been set out on the table, and Nakasone, standing in front of one of the pots, clasped his hands together in the
gassho
pose. A video close-up on the monitors showed him reaching with his right hand into the pot and pulling out a pinch of black incense between his thumb and forefinger. He brought the incense to his forehead, held it there for a moment, then tossed it into another pot, where a piece of red-hot coal incinerated it. As the incense burned, Nakasone brought his hands together again and bowed deeply in front of Ando’s image on the central video screen.

Next the announcer called Ando’s wife, Masako. She emerged from the crowd in a wheelchair, pushed by a helper toward the incense table. After reading Hirotoshi’s tale of Ando’s former wives and Masako’s struggles, I wondered if she was happy with the way her life had turned out. Still seated in the wheelchair, she reached into one of the pots, pinched some incense, and brought it to her forehead. She looked up at Ando’s picture, and for a while she just sat there. Then she tossed the incense into the coal jar in front of her, bowing her head. The man pushing her wheelchair returned her to the audience.

The announcer invited various business leaders, relatives, and politicians (including popular ex-prime minister Junichiro Koizumi), one by one, to thurify next, and a long line formed in front of the table. Forty-five minutes later, the announcer was still calling up VIPs. People around me began looking at their watches. I figured it was time to leave, so I threw my backpack over my shoulders and picked up the white shopping bag.

I should have been a more important person, because then I would have gotten to thurify.

“Now,” the announcer said, “everyone seated on the field is invited to perform the thurification.”

 

 

 

S
o many hundreds of people wanted to thurify that eight lines formed in front of the table. Nissin employees at the head of each line directed thurifiers to open jars. I waited in line for nearly an hour, carefully studying those ahead of me as they performed the ritual. Everyone seemed to have a personal thurification style. Some touched their hand to their forehead three times. Some did it just once. Some didn’t touch their foreheads at all. Some bowed deeply, others less so. The monks chanted mantras throughout, while more images flashed on the stadium screens: Ando enjoying a strawberry short-cake for his ninety-sixth birthday; Ando with his grandson; the Earth again, big and blue.

When it was finally my turn, I walked toward the table. I stood in front of the jar with my feet together as I had seen others stand. I reached my hand in as I had watched others reach. The incense between my thumb and index finger was coarse, like rock salt. Up close, it was mottled, gray and black. I lifted it to my forehead three times—why not go all out?—and tossed it into the jar with the hot coal. I smelled the incense turn to ash and clasped my hands together, bowing to the portrait of Ando on the video screen. I closed my eyes.