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The College Papers: Orange Juice and Basil (Short Story)

by JohnDishon on January 07, 2008

---

The following is the first installment of The College Papers. This is a collection of all the short stories/poems I wrote during college. Most of these I wrote outside of class; actually, I only completed 2 short stories my entire college career, and I did all my work. Pretty sad that 2 was all I was assigned, right? Anyway, most of these have not been revised/edited at all, the following story included (the following story was not one of the two assigned stories I wrote). So while this is not part of The Dickens Challenge, it follows a similar spirit, in that these stories are rough and presented to you without regard to quality. So over the following weeks as I add to The College Papers, I hope you stop by and read what I wrote so long ago (okay, a couple years ago. I graduated May 2007). I’ll let you be the judge of whether I’m a diamond in the rough or just another lump of coal. Also, if anyone wants to publish his/her own college works, or works from a previous time, go for it.

Orange Juice and Basil

By John Dishon

Mr. Wang was sick and know one could help him. He was in his late sixties, so it had come as no surprise to him when he began to feel ill. His body was getting weak. All the doctors had agreed on that. But Mr. Wang couldn’t get a consistent answer from them.

The first doctor he went to was Dr. Lu, the one he went to for everything. Dr. Lu knew Mr. Wang’s body best, or so he thought. Dr. Lu ordered the normal round of tests like any competent doctor would. The prognosis was that Mr. Wang may have a slight case of heart disease, and various other organs were in varying states of decline. Nothing really out of the ordinary for an old man. Heart disease was even pretty common these days, Dr. Lu said.

But Mr. Wang had taken care of himself. He ate right, and he exercised occasionally. Why should he have heart disease? And what exactly was a slight case? Mr. Wang wasn’t even sure what heart disease was. And for some reason, Mr. Wang was not content to consign his fate so readily, from the diagnosis of one doctor. So he went to see a second.

The second doctor, Dr. Zhang, told him that he did not have heart disease. “Are you sure?” Mr. Wang said.

“All the tests have come up negative, Mr. Wang,” Dr. Zhang said. “I think you’re just getting old. I can’t find anything wrong with you that I can treat. Just make sure you get plenty of exercise and eat right. Are you getting enough sleep every night?”

Yes, he was getting enough sleep at night, but his body felt weak. Something must obviously be wrong with him. Dr. Zhang said that he was just getting old. To Mr. Wang, this was the worst diagnosis possible, because it meant that there was no cure for it. “What about cancer?” Mr. Wang said. “I’d like you to run some tests to make sure I don’t have cancer.” So Dr. Zhang had the tests run. Mr. Wang was scanned. He was x-rayed. Nothing. The first doctor said he was sick. The second doctor said he was just an old man. Well, let’s see what the third doctor says.

The third doctor specialized in traditional Chinese medicine. Mr. Wang had wearied of the western doctors, and even though he didn’t put much stock in Chinese medicine (he was a retired professor, of the learned variety), he had grown desperate and so he sought the help of an eastern doctor. Dr. Hu told Mr. Wang all sorts of things, but Mr. Wang couldn’t make much out of it. Something about him being a hot person and needing to balance it with cold food, and so on. Each of the organs was of a different nature, and so had to be treated differently. In the end, though Mr. Wang still didn’t know what was wrong with him, though he did have a lot more to think about in terms of the complexities of the human body, at least he did have some medicine that the doctor had prescribed for him. He had a cure. It was a bottle of powder, composed of various herbs and remedies, to numerous and obscure for Mr. Wang to keep track of, but he ate it according to the doctor’s instructions.

What was wrong with Mr. Wang, as he knew it, from the observances of his own body’s working, was that he was getting weak, every part of him. His muscles were weak, so that taking a walk to the market and back home not only made his joints hurt, but he also felt his lungs laboring, and his heart straining under such a small task as a casual walk. His eyes weren’t as sharp as they used to be. He was getting old, that much he knew, but also he felt that what was happening to him was beyond the usual degradations of aging. Mr. Wang felt that he was withering away, slowing, but most noticeably. Needless to say, the Chinese medicine he was prescribed caused no visible progress in his body. He still felt weak. When he read the paper he had to squint just as hard to make out the words as before. Taking a walk was still just as taxing. He had no stamina, and even his worrying about things was making him sweat.
***

His friend Gu Long came to visit him. They had been professors together, and they had kept in touch after they had both retired. Now they sat at the table, having a beer, Mr. Wang pouring his heart out to his friend about the miserable condition his body was in. His wife was in the other room preparing tea that neither of them would drink. Gu Long had brought the beer. Mr. Wang knew of his friend’s fondness for drink, which went way beyond the socially acceptable norm (which, for Chinese, was actually pretty high).

Gu Long sat and drank his beer and listened to Mr. Wang tell his story, about how three different doctors had proven ineffective. “It sounds to me like you are just getting old,” Gu Long said, taking a swig from his beer. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m no young man anymore either.”

“No, this is something different,” Mr. Wang said. “Something is happening to me.”

“Life is happening to you. Here, have another beer.”

Mr. Wang took a drink. “Do you know of any good doctors I could see?”

Gu Long set his beer down and looked at Mr. Wang. “I know who you need to see. If you really want to do something about your current state.”

Mr. Wang leaned forward, like they were discussing the details of a crime. “Who?”

“The monks.”

“The monks? What are you talking about?”

“The Buddhist monks. My brother-in-law became one, you know.” Mr. Wang did know that. It had been big news at the time, but he failed to see what Gu Long’s brother-in-law had to do with his health.

“Why should I see some Buddhist monks?” Mr. Wang said.

“Well, my brother-in-law told me that they have extraordinary healing powers.”

Mr. Wang sat back in his chair, thinking. “Really? Are you sure? What kind of healing powers?”

Gu Long shrugged. “He didn’t tell me the details, but he assured me that they could heal people. He told me of sick people coming to them and going away months later almost as good as new.”

There was silence for several minutes. Mr. Wang had not believed in the Chinese medicine doctors, but he had given them a chance. His own doctor could not even help him. Truly, he was in a state of desperation.

“Do you know where I can find them?” he asked.
***

And that’s how Mr. Wang ended up standing before an impossibly huge flight of stairs, out in the middle of the forest, up in the mountains. He had relied on public and private transportation as much as he could. A villager had taken him to the stairs on his horse, so that Mr. Wang was only slightly winded as he looked up at the concrete steps that extended farther up then he could even see. Supposedly there was a Buddhist monastery at the top of those steps. How any kind of building could have been constructed in such a place was beyond him, but even more impossible in Mr. Wang’s mind was how he was going to make it up there. Riding someone’s horse along the trail to get here was one thing, but he couldn’t very well use someone else’s legs to carry him up the steps. There must have been a thousand of them.

Mr. Wang was out of breath just thinking about walking up those steps. So he took a few moments and sat down on the bottom step, resting until he had the strength to start his climb. He was disgusted with himself for thinking that it was such a grand task ahead of him. In his younger days he would have bound up those steps two or three at a time, but now, grey hair covering his head, he regretted having to crawl up even ten of them.

But, finally, reluctantly, Mr. Wang began his climb. He went slow so he could conserve his strength, but even then he had to stop every few minutes to rest before going up. Most of the difficulty was in his head, though, and, casting all thoughts away, he managed another fifty steps before he had to stop and take a breath.

If he wasn’t so determined, maybe Mr. Wang would have stopped to look around at where he was. Ascending those steps was climbing a mountain, and had he bothered to take in the view he would have been amazed. The green stretched as far as you could see, looking down on the trees, the sun appearing to be level as it shone over the treetops, and it was almost as if you could look down at the sun. But Mr. Wang was not concerned with the scenery. He was concentrating on getting up the steps and trying to conserve enough energy to serve that purpose. Finally, he could see the top.

As he climbed up the last step, Mr. Wang looked on at the immense temple at the end of the walkway leading from the steps. It had the normal look about it; he had seen many Buddhist temples before so he was not really impressed with this one. It was big, sure, but the only real distinction between it and hundreds of other Buddhist temples was the location.

There was no one in sight save for a solitary monk, calmly sweeping the walkway. Mr. Wang noticed the quiet now for the first time, and his nose caught the scent of incense permeating from within the temple. He paused at the top of the steps to catch his breath, then made his way over to the monk, who had not paid him any attention up to this point.

The monk was short, about Mr. Wang’s own height, his bald head shining in the sun. The orange robes he wore glimmered also, giving him a most serene and dignified look, even as he handled his broom, sweeping the walkway. Mr. Wang felt intimidated for some reason. Maybe it was the quiet confidence the monk projected that made him feel that way, but Mr. Wang was at a loss at first at what to say to the monk.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Wang said. The monk stopped sweeping and looked up at him.

“Yes?”

“Umm, well I was wondering if I could talk with the person in charge. I’m sorry, I don’t know what his title would be.”

The monk smiled. “I’ll take you to him. Follow me.” And then he turned and walked towards the temple. Mr. Wang followed, relieved that it had been so easy and not sure why it shouldn’t be. The monk told him to wait in the main room[?] while he went to get the man Mr. Wang had asked to talk to. After several minutes, a man came out, this one obviously much older, and motioned for Mr. Wang to follow him.

He was led to a small room, and when Mr. Wang sat he was served tea by the monk who had been sweeping outside. Then the monk left he was left with the older monk, sitting on the floor across from him.

“You can call me Zhuo Yi,” the man said.

“Thank you. My name is Wang Jiefang. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

“Not at all,” Zhuo said. “What can I do for you?”

Mr. Wang didn’t know where to start. The monk seemed friendly, but still he was afraid of offending him. These kinds of places always put that kind of eggshell feeling in Mr. Wang.

“I’m not sure where to start,” Mr. Wang said. “I have a friend who told me that the monks can heal people. I’m ill, you see, and I can’t find a doctor that can help me.” Zhuo Yi said nothing as he looked at the floor, though his eyes were farther out, occupied with something else, entertaining some thought that was outside of himself. Finally, he looked at Mr. Wang.

“What is wrong with you, Mr. Wang?”

“I don’t know, exactly. That’s what the doctors can’t figure out. It’s just that I am very weak, every part of my body. My eyes are weaker now and I’ve never had to wear glasses. My lungs and my heart are weak. Just going for a walk leaves me winded. My joints hurt. It just feels like my body is disintegrating, that I am melting away.”

The monk thought or a moment. “Do you want to live forever Mr. Wang?”

“What?”

Zhuo Yi took a sip of tea. “You seem to have a problem with aging.”

“No, it isn’t that,” Mr. Wang said. “I know I am getting old, but¾”

“The body does not sustain itself forever,” Zhuo Yi said. “Your systems sound to me like the normal course of a man’s life. It is true that my bones are not as limber as they once were,” and he gave a little smile before drinking the rest of his tea.

Mr. Wang didn’t know what to think. He had come all the way up here, climbed all those steps, those hard, unforgiving, concrete steps, all thousand-million of them, just so he could sit in this little room and have a monk the same age as him, a monk who looked completely healthy, robust even; he had come here just so this man could drink his tea and tell him that it was all just a part of life, the normal course of things. Rivers flow constantly, harmony, and all that stuff. What should he have expected from a Buddhist?

“So you can’t help me?” Mr. Wang said. His voice was high, pleading, pathetic. The monk seemed to feel the same way; his smile was a little crooked as he looked at Mr. Wang.

“You cannot escape death, Mr. Wang,” he said. “We will all come to that end some day. Did you think that there would be a peach tree here that might save your life?”*

Silence for a moment. The sun was bright through the open door, the breeze soft and nurturing as it brushed Mr. Wang’s bare arms and face. He drained his tea cup. “I had heard that you could cure people, that’s all. Was it not true, what I heard?”

“Mr. Wang, no man can has a cure for old age. If you do not want to get old, then die young; that is the only way to avoid it.”

Mr. Wang’s eyes had a sad look to them, some kind of sadness that was several other confused emotions bundled together. He sat there looking out the open doorway into the greenery beyond. He and the monk sat there for several minutes. The monk studied Mr. Wang’s dejected visage the entire time, until finally he said, “There is one thing. But it is only a delay.”

Mr. Wang looked back at the monk. “What is it?”

“There is one thing I know of. Several of the monks here have practiced it before, as a way of spiritual growth.” He sighed. “But I supposed it will work in your case as well.”

“What is it?”

Zhuo Yi looked into Mr. Wang’s eyes. His face was stern hard, humorless iron. “Orange juice and basil.”

If you had seen Mr. Wang’s face, you would not have known if her were stumped or if he needed to take a crap. “Huh?”

“For forty days,” Zhuo Yi said. “Drink orange juice and eat basil for forty days. Nothing else. Just orange juice and basil.”

No sound. “But why?”

“After forty days the body will rejuvenate itself. Every cell in your body will become fresh.” Mr. Wang just looked at him blankly. “It is only temporary, of course,” he said. “It will not save you from aging, but it will give you a little more time. Not much of a cure if you ask me.”

“Orange juice and basil?” Mr. Wang said. “That’s it? I just eat basil and drink orange juice every day for forty days and then my body will be rejuvenated?”

The monk nodded. “Forty days. Everything, your heart, your lungs, your bones¾it will all feel almost like new. For a while.”

“And it really works?”

“You may drink nothing but orange juice. You can eat nothing but basil. For forty days. Yes, it will work.”

“You’re sure?”

The monk looked at Mr. Wang. “Do you think I would cheat you?”

Mr. Wang put up his hands. “Oh no, not at all. It’s just a little difficult to believe, that’s all. But if you’re sure it will work, I’ll try it.”

“It will work. Some of the monks do this as a part of their meditation. I don’t know what effect it will have on you. I am not altogether sure if the meditation does not help the process. But I think it will work nevertheless.”

“I will try it at once,” Mr. Wang said, and he stood up to leave. “I don’t know how to thank you for this.” The monk smiled.
***

The concrete steps looked menacing, daunting, as Mr. Wang looked down them. But he was happy anyway, because he was sure that he had found the cure he was after. Orange juice and basil. How simple. He should have come to the Buddhists sooner, he thought as he began his descent down the side of the mountain, down those hundred-million steps he had ahead of him. His elation did nothing to lesson the strain on his body, though, and Mr. Wang had to stop several times before he was even halfway down the steps.

When he was about halfway down, he sat down to rest for a few minutes. The breeze was still cool as the sun burned on him, slowing broiling away as is its function on every summer day. The breeze kept the heat off though, and Mr. Wang felt good, despite his raging lungs and his thumping heart, which was slowly coming down from its steady burn. A monk was passing him, heading up the steps.

“Are you okay?” the monk said, stopping for a moment.

“Yes,” Mr. Wang said. “I’m just a little weak. I’m taking a rest.”

“Hmm. A little orange juice and basil will clear that up,” the monk said, and he resumed his ascent. Mr. Wang watched him for a while before starting up again, all the time wondering just how orange juice and basil was supposed to accomplish anything.

\
Despite his skepticism, Mr. Wang decided to try the old monk’s remedy. Orange juice and basil. For forty days. He could do that. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it was worth it. Maybe it was just because they were monks, but Mr. Wang believed that he had finally a cure that would work. He had a solution.

And so he was ready to begin his treatment. First he had went shopping. He bought several jugs of orange juice and then he had gone to the market and cleaned off a whole table of basil. The seller behind the table gave him a funny look and asked him why he was buying so much. “It’s part of my prescription,” Mr. Wang said, and the lady took his money all the same. He had bought as much as he could so that he wouldn’t have to shop as often. He wanted to stay inside and relax for the next forty days as much as possible. And so he had his first meal.

A glass of orange juice and a plate of basil leaves. He had put a lot of leaves on his plate, because he was afraid of being hungry later. But he soon regretted it, because he found that basil doesn’t taste all that great by itself. It wasn’t bad; he liked vegetables after all, but the same taste bite after bite was grating, and he was happy to drink his orange juice after each bite, to mask the flavor.

He had the same meal twice that first day. It was all right. Of course he didn’t feel any better, still the same. But it would take time, he knew that. You couldn’t expect any treatment to work right away. Mr. Wang comforted himself with these kinds of thoughts as he sat down for his breakfast on the second day, that plate of basil leaves making him feeling more like an animal than a man. His wife thought he was crazy.

“How do you expect some leaves and orange juice to make your body better?” she said. She was eating a bowl of rice gruel, which Mr. Wang tried not to look at.

“This is what the head monk told me,” he said. “He said they used it in their meditations. It’s bound to work. These are holy men.”

“Hmpf. It’s no wonder they are so thin.”

“You’ll see,” Mr. Wang said. “In forty days I will have renewed energy.” He grinned at her. “Just get yourself ready.”

The third day Mr. Wang tried something different. He had his wife get him some oranges, and he squeezed his own juice. His idea was that all natural juice would be even better or his body. Maybe it would even speed up the process a little bit, better than the watered down orange juice from concentrate that came in the jugs. It was considerably more work than just pouring himself a glass, but he performed his task cheerfully and the basil leaves were even pleasant this time.

The first week passed in similar fashion. His wife still didn’t believe that anything would come of it, but Mr. Wang pressed on. The downside was that he was always a little bit hungry. But at the beginning of the second week, day eight, he had a plan for curing that.

His wife watched as he brought a pot of water to boil, the basil leaves bubbling away inside. He would make himself some soup, so he could drink the basil-flavored water with the leaves themselves. It was still just orange juice and basil. Adding water was not cheating because orange juice was mostly water, and the basil leaves, like all foods, contained water too. Mr. Wang was merely tricking his stomach.

“Do you think that’s actually going to make it taste better?” his wife asked. She looked young for her age, so of course she should be skeptical, Mr. Wang thought.

“You eat your soup and I will eat mine,” he said. “At the end of forty days none of this will matter.”

The soup was a little better. He felt more full than before, but the hunger still came on like always, only a small bit less severe. But Mr. Wang was happy with his innovation. He had switched back to drinking orange juice from the jug, from concentrate. Squeezing his own oranges was just too much work. He had not noticed any change in his body. He had taken a walk every day, and every day he felt the same fatigue, only this time compounded by the further weakening of his stomach. He seemed to have even less energy. This must be the precursor to the treatment kicking in, though, and Mr. Wang was not perturbed. He continued his regimen as directed.

The taste was getting to him, though. He couldn’t escape it. Basil every meal, and nothing but, was taxing him. There must be someway to improve the flavor, or at least change it some. So this time, the twelfth day, Mr. Wang decided to make his soup in conjunction with the orange juice.

His wife could not stifle her laughter, but Mr. Wang just scowled and told her to shut up and eat her own food and leave him alone. It did look ridiculous though. He had to admit that. But it was different. Not exactly what Mr. Wang would describe as delicious, but it was different so he was happy. But after two days of doing it that way he switched back to just eating the basil plain.

By day twenty-five, Mr. Wang’s wife was concerned. “Look at you,” she said. “You’re getting worse. You’re thinner than you were before. How much weight have you lost?”

“About ten pounds.”

“Some treatment. It’s making you weaker. You have to stop this diet. It’s not healthy.”

“The monk said it would work,” Mr. Wang said. “I’m going to see this through. Sometimes we have to suffer a little in order to be cured. You’ll see. I’ll have all new cells in just a couple weeks more.”

But Mr. Wang was getting weaker. In addition to the constant hunger he felt, he was malnourished. He couldn’t even take his walk anymore, because it tired him out too much. His eyes hadn’t got any worse, but his muscles just didn’t have the energy they used to have. He got dizzy easy now, probably from the lack of proper nutrients. He was determined though. He had faith that the monk’s prescription would work. He would stick to it, no matter what his wife or anyone said.

Mr. Wang’s wife invited Gu Long to come over and talk some sense into her husband. She considered Gu Long partly to blame because it had been his idea that Mr. Wang talk to the monks. Gu Long could see as well as anybody that Mr. Wang looked worse, not better.

“I don’t know, maybe you shouldn’t have taken their advice. They’re just monks after all.”

Mr. Wang would not be swayed. “They are holy men. I trust their judgment.”

“Ah, come on. They stay up in the mountains all day praying and burning incense.” Gu Long was not a religious man. “How good can their judgment be?”

“You are the one who recommended them.”

“All I said was what my brother-in-law told me. He said they could cure people. He never said anything about orange juice and basil.”

“So you don’t think it will work?”

“Well, look at you,” Gu Long said. “You look a mess. Do you think it’s working?”

“It hasn’t been forty days yet. The monk said that it would take forty days for it to work.”

Gu Long laughed. “Just like that? After day forty, poof! You’re a new man? Is that right?”

“I’m just doing what the monk told me to do. It will work. I know it will.”

Mr. Wang was not seeing any results though. Somehow he managed to eat that last leaf of basil on day forty. He looked bad. He was weak. He had lost almost fifteen pounds. He was hungry. His wife glared at him all the time, but he knew it was just because she was worried. Mr. Wang had not lost hope, though. He expected to start feeling like a new man soon enough. He went to bed early on that last day because he felt bad and he was looking forward to feeling better in the morning. But when he woke he did not feel better.

He felt the same, only hungrier. He was allowed to eat whatever he wanted now, he guessed. The monk had not been particular about what he was suppose to do after the forty days. He had said only to drink nothing but orange juice and eat nothing but basil for forty days. Well, he had done that. Where was the new energy, the new cells? He did not feel rejuvenated. He felt like he had laid in a mud puddle for a month with horse carts trampling over him every day. He looked awful. He felt awful. What kind of cure was this? Needless to say, his faith in the monk’s treatment was shaken. But maybe Gu Long was right. Maybe it would take some time after the forty days. So he went down to breakfast with his wife and ate rice gruel and eggs with her, relishing the mere quantity of food that he was now able to eat. He would wait and see what happened; that’s all he could do.

A week later Mr. Wang still didn’t feel any better. Well, a little. His diet was better now, so he had a little more energy. But he didn’t feel rejuvenated by any means. He was angry now. He felt betrayed and set up. The monk had been playing with him. He must have thought that it was some big joke. Orange juice and basil for forty days¾and nothing else! What a load of crap. How could he have been so stupid to believe an idiotic idea like that. His wife had been right.

She was not laughing at him now, though. She was a good wife; she cared about him. She had no desire to laugh at him or tell him that she had been right all along. But it didn’t matter, because Mr. Wang was mad now and he was not going to take it. To be swindled, made fun of by a monk! He would not take it. He was going to go and give that monk a piece of his mind, to set him straight. Maybe he would be the first in history to punch out the head monk of a monastery.
***

It was a long journey, just like it had been the previous time, but Mr. Wang was angry and he did not feel the hesitation he had felt before. This time he had a mission, to tell that monk off and see where it went from there. He was up for anything. The steps didn’t even seem that many, he was so fired up.

At the top, when he made it, the head monk was sitting on the steps leading into the temple. He was sitting cross-legged, his eyes half closed. He looked to be meditating. The same monk s before was sweeping the walkway, which looked perfectly clean. Mr. Wang looked around for a moment, then headed over to the old monk, not even looking at the one sweeping.

“You prescribed me a bogus treatment!”

The monk did not move.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself? Look at me. Do I look rejuvenated to you? Well, do I?”

The monk opened his eyes and looked up at Mr. Wang, who was standing too close. But he was not concerned with being polite right now. He had come up here with half a mind to give this old monk five across the eyes. The monk did not look afraid. He seemed calm, exactly the opposite of the way Mr. Wang looked, his chest heaving in some kind of ominous way, as of a prelude to an explosion.

“Speak up, monk!” Mr. Wang said. “What do you mean about telling me that stupid story about orange juice and basil. It didn’t work!”

“You drank nothing but orange juice?” the monk said.

“Yes, just like you said. Orange juice everyday.”

“And you ate nothing but basil?”

“I lost fifteen pounds because of it.”

The monk was silent. He looked at Mr. Wang, appraising him, the same way you would look over a pig before accepting to buy it.

“It seems to me that it has worked.”

“What?” Mr. Wang’s eyebrows were as close to his hairline as they ever had been. “You can’t be serious. You’re some kind of jokester, aren’t you?”

“No,” the monk said. “It looks like the treatment has worked. You don’t feel energized?”

“Of course not!” Mr. Wang said. “I feel weaker than ever! You have made me worse, monk!”

The monk smiled. That kind of smile that makes you want to lash out violently, and immediately. “You’re cheeks have a rosy glow to them.”

“That’s because I’ve been yelling.”

“Your heart is working hard. I can see it from your chest.”

“My chest swells from fatigue and over-exertion,” Mr. Wang said. “I am angry and I have just come up those steps. Of course my heart is working hard.”

The monk looked towards the steps. “You made pretty good time up those steps, didn’t you? How many times did you have to stop?”

Mr. Wang thought about this. He had made it up quicker. He had stopped maybe half as many times as before. But he was livid. His anger had spurned him on. He told the monk this.

“Yes,” the monk said. “You have the anger of a youthful man.”

They looked at each other. Mr. Wang’s chest had ceased heaving and was now swelling less and less, towards a more normal level. He was not short of breath. The monk just looked at him, that grin still on his face, saying I’m proud of myself. He looked into Mr. Wang’s eyes, smiling.

“Yes, Mr. Wang, it looks as though the orange juice and basil has worked like a charm.”

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