There is a mysterious and curiously unkempt town house, just off Raven Road, in the sleepy epicentre of Shoreham-by-Sea. I affectionately call this dwelling the House of the Laughing Buddha, and it sticks out in the memory for a reason.
The entrance is guarded by two weather-worn masonic eagles, erected on plinths, on the pebbled drive of the Adam’s family-style residence. Cue crows flying out from the trees, and creepy haunted house Hammond organ music ringing out in the background.
The house hosts, in both the ground floor and first floor bay windows, giant Buddha’s the size of which wouldn’t be out of place in a Thai temple. Facing east, for prosperity, luck, and good fortune – the sentimentality tickles the sceptical funny bone of my soul. The Buddha is, surely, just another universal brand, albeit a lifestyle icon different to any other.
The Buddha is an iconic fixture in millions of planetary lives, I muse, staring out from a beaten-up sofa into the grey gloomy drizzle of the afternoon. Reflecting on the Buddha statue, given as a birthday present to my partner by my mother-in-law, I wonder at how the statue has found a permanent spot in the evolving and changing family lives around her.
Beaten-up by years of constant service, she inhabits and takes in the salubrious view over the guinea pig hutch, on the window ledge of the conservatory-cum-gaming room. No shrine, no sacred glitz, no glamourous devotion. Just a piece of the furniture, part of the breathing family fabric, overlooking the past, present, and future of a house lived in constant motion.
The Golden Buddha, fashioned in an unknown composite metal, is not laughing, but exudes a peaceful demeanour, despite the domestic warfare taking place around her. X-box on the blink. Lost car keys. Raging teenage hormones. She remains dignified, impartial, and non-judgemental to the letter of the universal law.
Eyes closed, ears blocked, lips pursed. See no evil, hear no evil, say no evil. This Golden Buddha has been the ever-silent witness to the turmoil and ravages of time, quietly meditating peacefully on the wooden window shelf.
The Golden Buddha arrived in a time of family tragedy, bedlam, and chaos in our lives. It was fifteen years ago, when I was going through a very public mental breakdown, which over the oceans of time revealed itself to be a breakthrough of curious ways and means. My journey into the heart of darkness was bookended by the Buddha who remained the impartial gatekeeper, waiting at home for my eventual safe return from the state institutions.
The Golden Buddha did not flinch as the stork brought the bundles of joy – our tiny new children – through the front door. Nor did she baulk at the tough times of low dough, housing crises, and life dramas that followed.
So, for the cynical and sceptical I say this – ‘a Buddha’s for life, not just for Christmas.’
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