In Mao's ancestral home

Mao Zedong wasn’t a nice person. He was one of the most brutal dictators the world has ever seen. He was one among the three infamous butchers of humanity who dominated the 20^th century, the others being Hitler and Stalin. Hitler was considered, for long, the biggest mass murderer, followed by Stalin. But new findings say that Mao outdid them both. He is said to be responsible for the deaths of 40-80 million Chinese people or more, through the notorious ‘reforms’ he imposed on the Chinese society. The most disastrous were the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution. People in their millions died from famine, poverty, disease, forced labor, torture and by execution. The people he killed so ruthlessly were the very people he had set out to liberate and who had stood by him.

Why does then one want to visit the home of such a man? The only answer I have is that Mao Zedong was a historical force whose devastating impact upon his country and the world was horrendously real. He was a creation of history. Why did history bring him forth? It’s doubtful if anyone has the answer – least of all history. As one fascinated by the inscrutability and unaccountability of history, I couldn’t help wanting to see the physical world from which such a macabre figure emerged. What sort of home, what manner of surroundings, what kind of air, earth and sunlight gave birth to this man who, for 27 years (1949-1976), was one of the most dreaded despots on earth.

Let me right away add that there was nothing in Mao’s ancestral home to show that it hid the seeds of the deaths of many million Chinese. On the other hand, it was just a peaceful, ample, homely, turn-of-the century home of a well-to-do landlord - Mao’s father. I could imagine only a poet being born in the picture-book-like surroundings of that home. But history is famous for picking its candidates, both evil and good, from the most unlikely places.

Only the previous day we had landed in Guangzhou, the old city of Canton, the trading gateway to China for centuries, on a 15-day itinerary that included Zhangjiajie (the place of the floating mountains of Avtar fame), a 3-night Yangtze cruise, Shanghai, Beijing and of course the Great Wall.

In Guangzhou I had visited the glittering Hualin temple dedicated to Bodhidharma, a man from South India, who is venerated as the first patriarch of Chan (Zen) Buddhism in China. He is also revered as the founder of the Shaolin Kung Fu form of martial art, said to have its origins in Kalari payattu, the ancient martial art of Kerala. In China he is known by the endearing name of Damo.

Standing in the magnificence of the temple, surrounded by Bodhidharma’s majestic golden statues, I thought: here was a man handpicked by history, brought from faraway India, to create a turning point in China’s Buddhist way of life. Buddha could’ve never imagined that such a man would reinvent him in China. And, as far we know, Bodhidharma’s mission killed no one. 1500 years later history selected another man - Mao Zedong - to reinvent China. I’ve already mentioned the cost. It’s too monstrous to repeat.

The bullet train from Guangzhou travels in about 3 hours the 707 kilometres to Changsha, the township that receives visitors to Mao’s home. As the train flashes by, on both sides I see mountains canopied by thick forest, and stretches of agricultural land dotted with villages and fine homes. The train hisses through many long tunnels. At Changsha, our guide Jennifer (it’s her name for foreign clients in place of the hard-to-pronounce Chinese name), a smart, beautiful girl who’s the personification of self-confidence, puts us into a taxi and we’re speeding on the 1.30-hour drive to Shaoshan, Mao’s village, in Hunan province. The road stretches through industrial areas interspersed by the occasional village.

A massive tourist reception centre greets us at Shaoshan. It is overflowing with tourists, the majority of whom are Chinese. Soon we are transferred by bus to an arrival point near Mao’s home. Then there’s a few minutes’ walk along a road, and it’s greenery all around. In the horizon, forested hills slope down to valleys dense with vegetation. In the bright blue sky, white clouds float. The 38-degree Celsius heat is somewhat tempered by an incessant wind. We turn from the tarred road to a path winding up a slope through tall trees. It is crowded and you’ve to jostle a bit.

Mao’s ancestral home appears ahead, higher up on the slope. It is built on a plot sliced out from a hill that rises steeply behind. To me it looked like a prosperous landlord’s home in Kerala’s countryside – except that it was made of mud brick. Standing in the front courtyard, I’m amazed by how familiar the house looks to me. It’s simply no exotica. I feel I’ve seen this house a thousand times.

Mao’s home has 13 rooms, a big veranda in front and a smaller one circling the house. Part of the structure is thatched with earthen tiles and the rest with grass. The original house was destroyed by the Koumintang in 1929. The present one is a replica built in 1951 after the Peoples’ Republic was founded and turned into a Mao museum. It doesn’t look and feel like a replica.

Going by what we see today, Mao’s home was a simple, sparse - even spartan – farm house, with abundant living space. Perhaps it was the size and space that were the marks of wealth; they constituted the luxury. The rectangular inner courtyard is very similar to the nadumuttam found in the old nalukettu style of Kerala architecture. The furniture displayed in the various rooms is made of smoothly polished wood and made for utility than comfort. Domestic animals - pigs, horses, cows, poultry - had their enclosures within the house. I noticed that just as in a Kerala tharavad or ancestral home, the grain store occupied an important place in Mao’s home too.

The front lawn dipped to a small stream which fed a pond filled with water lilies. On the other side was what was perhaps a farm-store but now the tourist facilitation point. All around there were flowering plants, creepers and trees. Beyond were fields, extending all the way to where the eyes could reach. The view from the house was nothing but lyrical – a vision of pastoral beauty, like a Constable painting. Even the crowds couldn’t take away its tranquillity.

There was nothing, nothing at all, in that unpretentious farm house to indicate that a merciless dictator took birth there. Standing on the veranda surrounded by a milling crowd, I asked: so, where do dictators come from? It was a pointless question. Because history does not provide answers, nor is it answerable.

Nearby is a huge 102,800 sq. metre plaza dominated by a 32- feet bronze statue of Mao. Even under the relentless noon heat the square thronged with visitors, many of whom paid obeisance to Mao by going down on their knees, or bowing deep. There are hundreds of bouquets and other offerings placed at the statue’s base. Mao is lucky indeed. Memories are short. Generations die. History books have been wiped clean. Jennifer asks me to make a wish in front of Mao’s statue because it’ll be fulfilled. I’m surprised because she’d told me she’s an unbeliever. Then I realize she’s doing her duty as a tourist guide. I didn’t tell her that the only wish I had was: May another Mao never happen again.

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Paul Zacharia is a well-known Indian writer and columnist.