It is a winter day in a small town at the far eastern edge of the Himalaya, in the Chinese province of Yunnan. The province is known for its mild climate. Though snowy days are not uncommon, especially in January, if they do occur they are few. Some years go by without any snow reaching the ground at all. On this January day, temperatures are low, but not low enough for snow. It is cold, if one asks the people living here, or cool, if one were to ask people accustomed to harsher climates.
Xiaohui is in his usual place: the corner of the inner courtyard of a walled compound that includes a three-story house and a few sheds. To his left, there is the big gate that separates the courtyard from a small alley. The alley leads to the main road, where buses on their way to Qujing pass a few times a day. Qujing is home to more people than dozens of countries, and yet in China it is not a very big city. The most imposing part of the whole compound is the gate through which one enters. Its sheer size alone makes it an impressive structure. It is covered in gold-colored ornaments in the forms of dragons, large Chinese letters, and elaborate patterns. The pillars that carry the gate are red and golden and have wishes for prosperity and wealth written on them in red letters. No practical purpose is served by a gate this large and extravagant. If one was a burglar, one would simply climb one of the walls that extend from its sides and are noticeably lower. The gate was not chosen for reasons of security. It is the most visible feature from the vantage point of passersby, and what others think is important. After all, this small town is not so much a town as it is a village, and certain village norms are universal.
To Xiaohui’s right, there is an open shed with a corrugated metal roof. The shed stores corn. Some of the corn is packed in red mesh bags, the rest is piled up loosely, waiting to be bagged, or fed to the animals of the household. Across the courtyard, a lone water buffalo rests on dried corn stalks and husks in an enclosure behind yet another wall. Entertainment is provided by geese and chicken who share the same space. The far end of the enclosure is formed by the wall of another shed, which houses two or three pigs. From time to time, their snouts can be seen peeking through the shed’s little windows. Carefully laid out to dry on the concrete floor of the courtyard, there are different kinds of chili peppers. One batch is green, two dark red, two earthy yellow, and several batches are red. While food in Yunnan may not match the fiery intensity of the famed Sichuan cuisine, spice is a vital element of the local culinary identity.
Xiaohui is sitting on the concrete floor. He has been in this corner for as long as he can remember clearly. For some time, he had memories of another place, and of playing with his siblings, chasing them around tea bushes with their distinct sweet aroma that was most prominent in the early morning. These memories have since dissolved into a distant blur. It has been eight years perhaps, more likely ten. His fur is gray in color, and it is rugged and unkempt, like an old hairy carpet. The elements have done quite a bit of damage over the years. The color, however, is neither a sign of time, nor of exposure to the forces of nature. Xiaohui has always been gray. In fact, that is how he got his name. In Chinese characters, Xiaohui is written as 小灰. The first character means “little,” the second “gray” – words that describe Xiaohui rather bluntly. Xiaohui himself prefers to think of his name as 小慧 (“little wisdom”), which in Pinyin transliteration also becomes “Xiaohui,” and he carries it with a certain sense of pride. Though he has not seen much of the village, let alone the world, every day he watches the people passing through the gate and coming in and out of the house, and he rightly believes that this has allowed him to achieve some degree of wisdom. Observing people’s actions tells you more about humans, and humanity, than listening to their words. It does not matter much that Xiaohui only understands fragments of their language.
At this moment, Xiaohui is watching a small boy in a winter jacket. The boy is holding a toy truck in his hands. He seems excited. He just got the truck from the oldest daughter of the house, his mother’s cousin. She is visiting from Kunming, the capital and only “big city” of Yunnan. Kunming has a population larger than Sydney’s, yet – like many big cities in China, and unlike Sydney – it is mostly unheard of in other parts of the world. The boy is inspecting his new acquisition. He has figured out some of its functions already. Others are still a mystery. How can he extend the truck’s loading ramp so that he can drive one of his other toy cars onto it? He has curated quite a collection, by specifically asking for a different kind of car whenever a relative comes to visit. The boy is one of rural China’s tens of millions of “left-behind children,” as they are called in Chinese. His parents have gone to a far-away city to work in a factory, leaving him in the care of his grandmother and extended family who remain in the village. It is one of the costs of the country’s rapid economic rise.
The boy’s grandmother is somewhere around the compound as well, busy like everyone in the village at this time of the year. A flurry of preparations has been underway for days now. The household is preparing for the upcoming Spring Festival, which marks the beginning of a new year on the traditional Chinese calendar and is China’s most important holiday. It is tradition that families come together during this time. Hundreds of millions of people travel to their hometowns to celebrate, making this the largest annual human migration in the world. The Spring Festival is still a few weeks away, but the elder daughter and her sister, the only other sibling, have come home early to help with the preparations. Custom demands that the house be cleaned thoroughly, to clear away any bad luck and make room for the good things the New Year may bring. Xiaohui is amused to see the sister cleaning the window bars on the ground floor with much fervor. The courtyard is his territory and he knows it better than anybody else. He knows that the bars will again be covered by the dust that lies in a thin layer on top of the concrete before the Year of the Dragon comes to an end. All it takes is a small gust of wind. Two red lanterns are installed on each side of the main door, as is custom too. Below the lanterns, banners are being affixed to the wall with red tape. They contain wishes for the New Year, the Year of the Snake, similar to the ones on the pillars of the gate. People here want what all people want: health, money, and generally a good life.
Xiaohui watches the cheerful bustle. His role in the household is simple: make noise if a stranger approaches the gate. He is getting old and cannot see very well anymore, but he can still count on his nose to distinguish between people he knows and strangers. The day before, an unfamiliar smell had alerted him to a newcomer who arrived with the two sisters. He did his duty. It should have become obvious quickly that the newcomer was a guest rather than a threat, but he kept making noise, as if to convince himself and the universe that he is still useful. The guest was brought to the kitchen across the courtyard. Food was served: rice, tofu, vegetables. Xiaohui watched the guest through the open door of the kitchen and noticed the focused strain on his face as he used chopsticks to clumsily navigate pieces of tofu and vegetable from the bowl to his mouth. He must have come from far.
When Xiaohui first got here, he would have tried to walk over to have a closer look at the newcomer, but now he just sits and observes from a distance. He understands the restrictions imposed by the chain connecting his collar to a short metal pole set into the ground. It allows him to make it about halfway across the courtyard. These days, he rarely leaves his corner. Looking at Xiaohui from the outside, one may be tempted to think of him as having resigned to his fate. He himself likes to think that he has merely gotten used to his circumstances. The chain has become his companion, in fact, and he can no longer imagine life without its faithful presence. The same holds true for the gate, the corn, the concrete floor. Calling Xiaohui happy would go too far, but for the most part, he is content.
As evening sets in and the stars begin appearing in the dark sky above the village, a sharp series of pops and bangs pierces through Xiaohui’s peace. It is the sound of firecrackers lit by the neighborhood’s children, which invariably plunges Xiaohui into a raw, all-consuming terror. As the Spring Festival draws closer, these terrifying episodes are becoming more frequent. They usually end as abruptly as they begin and rarely last longer than a minute or two. This evening is no different. After the last pop and the last bang, a smell of burnt sulfur lingers in the air for some time, eventually giving way to the smell of the fire that is burning in a small oven in the house. The whole family is sitting around the oven with their guest. The father is keeping the fire alive by feeding it corncobs, one after another, as they burn more quickly than wood. Corn is woven into nearly every aspect of daily life in this household, and it would only be logical for grilled corn or popcorn to be the snack of choice. Yet, it is sunflower seeds that keep their hands busy as they talk, and there is always much to talk about in a village. The hulls are falling to the floor in a constant drizzle until late at night, setting a task for the next morning.
Xiaohui has lain down to rest. He enjoys gazing into the sky at night. For a brief moment, he lifts his head. Did he hear them say his name? He misheard. They are talking about Xiaohei (小黑) – in English, “little black.” Xiaohei lived with the grandfather. Both have passed away years ago. Xiaohei had black fur and was well-liked by everybody who knew him. He never bit anybody, and his good character as well as his cleverness are the stuff of many stories that are still being told today. He lived a long and healthy life. When he passed away, he was about ninety in human years. It is no coincidence that Xiaohui’s name sounds similar to that of Xiaohei. Xiaohui was given his name not only because it describes him well, but also as a way to commemorate Xiaohei, and in the hope that Xiaohui would also be good and have a long life. Only someone looking to offend would have considered naming him after the grandfather or some other revered relative instead. In China, a person is a person, and an animal is an animal. For the grandfather, naturally, a different form of commemoration was chosen. As is traditional Chinese custom, a shrine was built inside the house. It includes incense and candles, and a large photograph of him in his later years, sitting in one of the fields the family has farmed for generations. During the Spring Festival, food and other offerings will be placed at the shrine, and mother will bring new candles from a nearby temple.
The story of Xiaohei was one of many stories that were conveyed to the guest around the nightly fires. Another story painted a vivid picture of the village’s remarkable transformation from humble mud houses to modern homes with solar panels on their roofs, electric cars parked at their doorsteps, and all the conveniences of contemporary life within – all achieved within the span of a single generation. Local wedding customs, funeral rites, food, the seasons, and the advantages of the Chinese way of life over Western decadence were discussed as well, but no topic seemed to captivate the guest as much as Xiaohei’s life, and by extension Xiaohui’s. He appeared taken aback by the amount of thought that was evidently put into choosing Xiaohui’s name, and the care it reflects. It reminded him of the love and attention one might give to a family member, making it difficult for him to reconcile that affection with the seemingly stark reality of Xiaohui’s existence.
It is not long before, one sunny morning, the guest leaves through the gate, never to return. Xiaohui is sitting upright, breathing the crisp morning air as the sun gently warms his fur. Quietly, he watches the guest’s steps. The gate closes and, for a little while, everything is back to how it always was. Eventually, the Spring Festival arrives and the kitchen goes into a frenzied overdrive. A steady stream of neighbors and relatives from near and far needs to be fed. Each morning, the mother uses a broom to gather the scattered sunflower hulls into a growing mound. The mound is a temporary testament to the conversations of previous nights, waiting to share the corncobs’ destiny. Xiaohui cherishes and resents this time of year in equal measure. The many strangers walking in and out the gate mean more work and little rest, and the firecrackers may well give him a heart attack one day. But he is handsomely compensated by an abundance of left-over food from the kitchen. He has never been a picky eater and will eat almost anything, happily.
It is a quiet afternoon and the festivities are nearing their end when the father drives the family’s electric car through the gate. He had gone to a neighboring town to pick up a delivery from Taobao, China’s Amazon, which literally means “search for treasure.” This particular treasure arrived in a cardboard box so large that the backseats had to be folded down to make space for it. The daughters help to unload the box from the trunk. They put the backseats back up, and the father parks the car next to the front door, its usual spot. The treasure chest made of cardboard contains thick plastic panels that are quickly assembled into a small house. The father is visibly amused by this strange idea of a gift, but not surprised, as strange ideas are expected from outsiders – and hospitality requires that one indulges one’s guests, within reason. The house is placed in Xiaohui’s corner. Xiaohui eyes the foreign structure with suspicion. He does not trust it.
Days go by. Every now and then, one sister or the other appears at one of the windows facing the courtyard, checking to see if Xiaohui has gone inside his new house. But each time they look, they find the little house empty, Xiaohui still sitting or lying on the concrete floor. The older sister is particularly invested, which does not go unnoticed by the father. “I could have told you that he won’t go inside,” he says in a variety of Mandarin commonly spoken in Yunnan. Mandarin is a Chinese language, but not all Chinese is Mandarin. “Chinese,” in fact, is not the name of a language at all. It refers to a group of languages, many as different from one another as Spanish and Italian, that are spoken natively by the ethnic Han Chinese majority. The father is part of one of China’s ethnic minority groups, the Yi, and so is the mother, yet unlike the mother and many other Yi people, he does not speak the Yi language. Why that is remains a forgotten chapter of family history. – “Xiaohui just needs some time,” the sister counters her father. Surely, he must prefer warmth and shelter.
As temperatures drop and snow is expected soon, the older sister decides to take a more active approach. She lines the floor of the small house with a warm blanket and places some food inside. Xiaohui sniffs around the entrance, lingers for a little while, and then retreats back to a spot on the concrete floor near the stored corn. For a brief moment, it looked like he might go inside. He hesitantly extended his head towards the entrance. His nose was twitching as it caught the enticing scent of food, and he imagined what it would feel like if he were to place his fur on the blanket. But the courage to step over the threshold eluded him, and he quickly withdrew. Some neighbors chuckle at the sister’s persistence, while others offer advice. Maybe it is the house’s orientation that makes the structure unattractive to Xiaohui. The entrance faces the corn rather than the gate and the courtyard, and someone named after the late Xiaohei surely cannot be expected to abandon his sacred duty. Sometimes, unsolicited advice is still good advice, so the house is reoriented. But Xiaohui remains unmoved.
Late in the afternoon of the next day, the snow sets in as predicted. The sisters are back at the window which offers the best view of Xiaohui’s corner, expecting him to finally seek shelter. Instead, Xiaohui curls up in a little space under the wooden slats on which the bags of corn are stored to keep them off the ground. Though corn is not very effective at storing heat, it offers some protection from the snow and helps fend off the wind. “If he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want it,” remarks the grandmother, who is over for afternoon tea, as she often is. “Look at me. How often have your parents offered me to move in with them? Their house has air conditioning for the summer, heating for the winter, warm water in the showers, and a big couch in front of a big TV. And where am I? In my old little place down the street with none of this modern comfort, where I’ve always been, sitting in front of my old wood stove, listening to old Chinese songs on the radio. I’m used to it.” As the snow slowly covers the empty little house in white, Xiaohui remains nestled beneath the wooden slats, surrounded by the familiar scent of corn and the voices coming from the fireplace. Though the family’s love for him is not expressed in grand gestures, he feels its warmth.
Days go by, then weeks. The snow has long melted away and the sun is back, warming Xiaohui’s fur. The little house remains untouched, until it is eventually moved away. Xiaohui had come to resent it, and he is relieved it is gone – a stubborn storm cloud has moved on at last. Life continues as before. Xiaohui stretches, yawns, and reclaims the spot on the concrete previously occupied by the house. He perks up when people pass, watches the sky at night, sits in the rain, seeks shelter below the corn when the rain gets too cold, or turns into snow, attentively listens to distant conversations he does not understand, and gets excited whenever there is activity in the kitchen, hoping for his next meal. Though his days are back to their old rhythm, a quiet weariness settles into his bones. Xiaohui is tired.
This short story was first published in two parts in the literature section of The Daily Star (Bangladesh, 31 January & 21 February 2026):
Rainer Ebert 