What is Mu?” My teacher asked.
“Mu is Mu,” I replied as fast and forcibly as I could.
My teacher whisked the mosquito whisk off the low table
which separated us, and whacked me on the head with such
force that the bamboo shaft broke.
The tip of the whisk with its long white fibers and red feathers
flew up like some startled bird seeking to flee his wrath.
My vision clouded, I saw the word Mu floating, undulating, growing like a splash of black ink before my eyes. Its blackness filled my mind. It was sweet as honey and like a drunken bee I sunk and dissolved. I passed away.
“Sorry, I saw a fly on your head,” he said.
My laughter filled the room. “Yes, yes I was the fly, the fly
flew, it’s dead, its Mu!” He began laughing too.
The white paper walls vibrated, the sunlight on the paper
danced a subtle jig. The grass mat dazzled with unexpected
yellow hues. The whole room chanted, Mu!