In the northern part of Liaoning Province is a medium-sized city called Tieling. Almost every morning or evening at the corner of Gongren Street, you can see an old man slowly pushing a tofu cart. The cart’s battery-powered speaker emits a crisp female voice: “Selling tofu, authentic brine tofu! Tofu for sale.”
That voice is mine. And that old man is my father. My father is mute. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I finally dared to put my voice on my father’s tofu cart, replacing the brass bell he had shaken for decades.
My growing resentment
When I was 2 or 3 years old, I already understood how humiliating it was to have a mute father, so I hated him from a young age. When I saw other children sent by their mothers to buy tofu, only to grab it and run without paying while my father stretched his neck but couldn’t shout, I didn’t chase after them to punch them as my older brother did. I watched sorrowfully, silent, not hating the children, but hating my father for being mute.
When my mother passed away, she left no large portrait, only a two-inch black-and-white photo taken before she got married. When I gave my father the cold treatment, he would turn the square mirror over to look at that photo, staring at it quietly until he had to return to his work.
The most infuriating thing was when other children called me “mute’s third kid” (I was the third in the family). When I couldn’t out-argue them, I would run home, draw a circle on the ground before my tofu-grinding father, and spit in the middle. Although I didn’t understand what it meant, I knew it was the most venomous way to curse a mute because other children did it to me.
The first time I cursed my father this way, he stopped his work, looked at me for a long time, and tears flowed like a river. It was rare to see him cry, but he wept silently in the tofu workshop all night that day. Because of his tears, I seemed to find an outlet for my humiliation. From then on, I often went to curse him and then walked away, leaving him to stare blankly for a while. Eventually, he stopped crying. He would curl his thin body even smaller, leaning against the grinding rod or stone, appearing even more pathetic and contemptible to me.
Plan for a better life
I was determined to study hard, attend college, and leave this village where everyone knew my father was mute. That was my greatest wish at the time. I didn’t notice how my brothers got married one by one, didn’t notice the new grinding rods in the tofu workshop, didn’t notice how many winters and summers had passed with the worn brass bell ringing through every village… I only focused on treating myself hatefully and harshly… and madly studying.
Finally, I was accepted into college. My father wore the blue jacket my aunt sewed for him for the first time in 1979. Sitting under the lamp in the early autumn of 1992, with a joyful and solemn expression, he handed me a pile of tofu-scented money, babbling incessantly. I listened blankly to his eagerness and pride, watching blankly as he happily informed our relatives and neighbors. When I saw him lead my second uncle and brothers to slaughter the fat pig he had carefully raised for two years to celebrate my college acceptance with the whole village, something touched my hardened heartstrings, and I cried.
During the meal, I gave my father some pork in front of everyone and, with tears streaming down my face, said: “Dad, Dad, please eat the meat.” My father couldn’t hear, but he understood. His eyes lit up like never before as he gulped down sorghum wine mixed with tears and the meat I had given him. My father was truly drunk; his face was so red, his back so straight, his sign language so elegant! For 18 years, yes, 18 years, he had never seen me say “Dad” to him!
My father continued to work hard making tofu, using the faintly tofu-scented money to support me through college. In 1996, I graduated and was assigned to work in Tieling, 20 kilometers from my rural hometown. After settling in, I went to bring my father, who had been living alone, to the city to enjoy his daughter’s belated affection. But on my way back to the village in a taxi, there was an accident.
A twist of fate
I learned everything about what happened afterward from my sister-in-law. Someone among the passersby recognized me as the third daughter of the old Tu family. My elder brothers and their wives arrived, crying in panic as they saw me covered in blood and unconscious. My father, arriving last, pushed through the crowd, picked me up — everyone had assumed I was surely dead — flagged down a passing truck, used his leg to support my body, and fished out a handful of small change from selling tofu, stuffing it into the driver’s hand, and then frantically making the sign of the cross, begging the driver to rush me to the hospital. My sister-in-law said that my usually timid father showed immense strength and determination at that moment.
After carefully cleaning my wounds, the doctor advised transferring me to another hospital and hinted to my brothers that I was beyond saving. At that time, my blood pressure was almost nonexistent, and my head, looking like a squashed gourd, was severely injured. My father tore up the funeral clothes my elder brother had bought in despair, pointed to his own eyes, gave a thumbs-up, gestured to his temple, and then pointed at me with a thumbs-up, indicating: “Don’t cry, I haven’t cried. She’s only in her twenties; she will survive. We can save her!”
The doctor still expressed serious doubt and explained to my brothers: “Even if we try, it will cost a lot of money, and there’s no guarantee she will survive.” My father knelt on the ground, quickly stood up, pointed at me, and earnestly gestured: “Please, save my daughter. She’s promising; she’s extraordinary. I will earn the money for the medical bills. I can raise pigs, farm, and make tofu. I have money; I have four thousand yuan right now.” The doctor shook his head, indicating that four thousand yuan was far from enough. My father pointed to my brothers and their wives and clenched his fist, indicating: “We will all work hard together; we can do it.”
Seeing the doctor hesitant, he pointed to the ceiling, stamped his foot, put his hands together in prayer, and closed his eyes, signaling: “I can sell my house. I can sleep on the ground. Even if it costs everything, I want my daughter to live.” He then pointed to the doctor’s heart, spreading his hands flat, indicating: “Doctor, please trust us. We won’t default. We will find a way to pay.” My elder brother, crying, translated my father’s sign language for the doctor. The doctor, accustomed to life and death, was moved to tears by my father’s intense and precise gestures.
The doctor said: “Even if she undergoes surgery, she might not survive. If she doesn’t make it off the operating table…” My father decisively patted his pocket and gestured to his chest, meaning: “Do your best. Even if it fails, we will pay; I have no complaints.” My father’s great love not only sustained my life, but also gave the doctors the confidence and determination to save me. I was wheeled into surgery.
A father’s unshakable love
My father waited outside the operating room, pacing anxiously in the corridor until he wore out the soles of his shoes! He didn’t shed a tear, but developed a mouthful of sores from the stress in those dozen hours. He continuously and frantically made gestures of praying to Buddha and begging God, pleading for the heavens to grant his daughter life.
The heavens were moved! I survived. But for half a month, I remained in a coma, unaware of my father’s love. Facing the “vegetative state” I was in, everyone lost hope except my father, who steadfastly waited by my bed for me to wake up.
His rough hands carefully massaged me. He continuously babbled to me with his mute voice, calling: “Daughter, wake up. Daughter, Daddy is waiting for you to drink the fresh soy milk!” To ensure the doctors and nurses treated me well, he seized the opportunity when my brother was replacing him to cook a large tray of steaming soft tofu, delivering it to almost every medical staff member in the surgical department. Though the hospital had rules against accepting patient gifts, they gently accepted his simple and sincere gesture. My father was satisfied and more confident, gesturing to them: “You are all good people. I trust you can save my daughter!”
During this time, my father visited every village where he sold tofu to raise medical fees. His lifetime of honesty and kindness earned him enough support to help his daughter cross the threshold of life and death. The villagers generously contributed money, and my father meticulously recorded each donation: Zhang Sanzhu, 20 yuan; Li Gang, 100 yuan; Wang Dasao, 65 yuan…
Half a month later, one morning, I finally opened my eyes. I saw a thin, deformed old man, his mouth wide open in surprise and joy as he saw me awake, babbling and shouting, his white hair quickly dampened with excited sweat. My father, who had black hair half a month ago, had aged 20 years in that short time!
As my shaved hair slowly grew back, my father gently touched my head, smiling kindly. For him, this touch had once been an extravagant pleasure. When my hair was long enough to tie into a small ponytail six months later, I took my father’s hand and asked him to brush my hair. He had become clumsy, brushing strand by strand, unable to achieve a satisfactory result. I wore the messy ponytail on my head, sitting on the small cart converted from his tofu cart, going out to the street.
Once, my father stopped, made a gesture of holding me and throwing, and then rubbing his fingers, indicating money, suggesting he wanted to sell me like tofu! I pretended to cry with my face covered, and peeking through my fingers, I saw my father squatting on the ground, laughing so hard soundlessly. This game continued until I could stand up and walk again.
Now, except for occasional headaches, I appear to be very healthy. My father takes great pride in this! Together, we worked hard to pay off our debts, and my father moved to the city to live with me. But he couldn’t stay idle after a lifetime of hard work, so I rented a small shed nearby for him to use as a tofu workshop. The tofu my father makes is fragrant, tender, and large; everyone loves it. I installed a battery-powered speaker on his tofu cart. Although my father can’t hear my clear sales pitch, he knows it’s there. Whenever he pressed the button, he would lift his head, his face full of happiness and contentment, showing no resentment for my past discrimination against him.
While the world is filled with the symphony of love — where we listen, express, feel, and are deeply moved — I’ve learned that the most incredible music is silence. It conveys my most profound appreciation of love more than any words could express.
Translated by Katy Liu and edited by Tatiana Denning
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