In Taipei, the sky blurred into a neon-lit, rain-swept haze, and Ni Daohao stared at his phone. Another game level conquered, another temporary escape from the emptiness that lingered within him. His father’s familiar, somewhat old-fashioned voice echoed in his ears: “Daohao, your grandfather misses you. Just go see him!” It felt like a burden, another pull away from the heroic digital universe and back into the discomfort of reality.
He was a product of the city – immersed in trends, detached from reality, and convinced that the future lay in pixels and progress. The thought of returning to his grandfather’s almost-forgotten hometown felt outdated and unrealistic. But guilt grew stronger, combined with his father’s worry, finally pushing him onto a flight to Sichuan.
Stepping off the plane and out of the airport, guided by instructions, he took a bus to the county seat. Immediately, he felt swallowed by the crowd. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning wood, a stark contrast to Taipei’s sterile air. Everything felt surreal; he clutched his phone, his lifeline to the familiar world, feeling as if he’s fallen onto a forgotten planet.
Finding his grandfather’s village proved disorienting. He was then led by a talkative stranger who promised safe passage, only to imprison him in a dilapidated warehouse. Panic surged as he realized the cost of his naiveté. He managed to escape and found himself lost in a vast wilderness. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and fear pulsed through his veins.
Just as despair threatened to engulf him, he stumbled upon a troupe of traveling circus performers, their caravans nestled amongst the trees. They were a performance group for shuttlecock-kicking dance. Their movements were graceful and precise. They arranged themselves into elaborate dance formations, paired with intricate shuttlecock kicking routines, an ancient form of floral shuttlecock-kicking performance art. The troupe, noticing the lost Ni Daohao, warmly welcomed him, provided him with local delicacies and lodging, and gave him a sense of belonging he’s never felt before.
He met Xia Wei, a star performer within the troupe. Her infectious laughter and unwavering passion for shuttlecock-kicking dance deeply attracted him. Ni Daohao had learned to kick shuttlecock as a child, so learning the basics of shuttlecock-kicking dance wasn’t difficult. Although his movements were initially stiff and clumsy, he found his rhythm with her encouragement, established a deep connection with the force of gravity. He began to remember the joy of kicking shuttlecock with his grandfather, a skill he’s long forgotten.
Working with the performance troupe, Ni Daohao not only learned shuttlecock-kicking dance but also experienced the value of games beyond the digital world, the beauty of intuition, and the depth of meaning in traditional culture. He began to see the world from different perspectives, appreciating the warmth between people and the strength of the land.
Ultimately, guided by the troupe, he found his grandfather. The reunion was tearful, dormant memories rekindled, and a spiritual connection reaffirmed. He saw love and wisdom etched on his grandfather’s face, reflecting a deep affection for the land.
Leaving the village was bittersweet. He carried not only memories of his grandfather but also the lessons he learned from the troupe – the task of preserving traditional culture, the power of teamwork, and the value of belonging.
Returning to Taipei, the city lights seemed less dazzling, and the digital world less alluring. He wasn’t the same Ni Daohao who had left. He now understood that true progress wasn’t about conquering new frontiers but about nourishing the roots that sustained him. He opened a small studio of shuttlecock-kicking dance in Taipei, sharing the beauty he had experienced on his journey, hoping to inspire a new generation to reconnect with their cultural heritage.
He still played games, but now it was a reminder of the journey he had taken, a note of belonging blossoming within him. He had finally found his place, not in the fleeting glow of digital screens but in the enduring warmth of his ancestral village. He had come home.
NanaBee Original
