My father, Ji Xianlin

Few would have known that the "Master of Chinese Culture" Ji Xianlin (1911-2009) had a son, were it not for two bizarre burglaries involving huge collections of calligraphy, paintings, books and antiques, worth millions of dollars, from his residence in Peking University, shortly before and after his death in 2009.

Little has been said about the private life of the late scholar, best remembered for his studies of ancient Indian aboriginal languages, primeval Buddhist languages and Sanskrit literature, despite frequent media exposure.

It was during the investigation of the thefts that Ji Cheng came to the public's notice as the son of the respected Indologist, linguist, paleographer and writer. Ji said then that he had reconciled with his father, after 13 years of separation.

A year after the master's death, his 75-year-old son is once again in the public eye with his recently published memoir, My Father Ji Xianlin and I.

Many have criticized him for his subversive portrayal of his father as "a lonesome and miserly man of letters", who showed no concern for his family.

For years, the elder Ji impressed the public with not just his academic achievements, but also his personal charisma. For instance, Qian Wenzhong, Fudan professor and one of the master's last students, describes him as "an earthly, sincere and modest man full of love for, and responsibility toward society."

In a phone interview with China Daily, Ji says: "I decided to tell my story, in order to provide a complete picture of his life."

Ji says his father hardly ever expressed or showed any affection or intimacy, never kissing or hugging him, or holding his hands. He attributes his apathy to his loveless arranged marriage to his mother, the illiterate Peng Dehua, in 1929.

Ji Xianlin has recorded his disappointment with his family in his Tsinghua Diaries, although he later praised the loyalty and virtues of his wife: "I am not meant to be together with that family; I hate it when I see it.

"How am I supposed to enjoy any happiness, with a family like that?"

He left for Gottingen University in Germany in 1935, when his son was only three months old, and stayed on for 11 years. On his return to China in 1946, he became a professor of Oriental languages at Peking University.

But it wasn't until the summer of 1947 that he flew to Jinan, Shandong province, to visit his family - for the first time in more than a decade.

Days before his father's arrival, Ji Cheng was trained to say "Dad," an appellation known to other kids from birth but new to the then 12-year-old. Upon welcoming his father outside the door and uttering the word, he received a light tap on his head. That was all. The two seldom talked although they spent the whole summer together.

At 17, Ji Cheng was admitted to what is now Beijing Foreign Studies University. Despite father and son residing in the same city, visits and conversations remained few and far between.

"After graduation, my workplace was just opposite his apartment. When I used to see the light of his lamp through the window, I could imagine how quiet his room was and how lonely he was," Ji says.

"I could never understand why he would rather curl up in his narrow, gloomy, and dusty apartment, eat in the canteen, and do all his washing himself, instead of asking for the help of his wife and children."

At the son's proposal, Peng moved to Beijing in 1962, after about 30 years of separation, to reunite with her husband, but he refused to live in the same room with her - right until her death in 1994.

"I used to resent my father, because my mother suffered from the marriage; but I began to sympathize with him, when I realized that he was also a victim," Ji says.

"He observed the Confucian tenets of benevolence all his life. He kept his marriage, albeit reluctantly, but was a regret where the family is concerned."

His 13 years of separation from his father, according to Ji, started after a spat days before his mother died. His father accused him of being partial to his mother.

When the two met again in December 2008, eight months before Ji Xianlin's death, all resentment melted away. Ji Cheng carried with him traditional Jinan snacks to his father's ward bed, kowtowed to him, and asked for forgiveness.

"You have done nothing wrong; I have missed you each day over the years," he remembers his father as saying - his first words to his son in 13 years.

"The years we were apart had strengthened the bond between us. I felt an unprecedented warmth toward him during those eight months.

"We were finally like father and son."

Ironically, Ji Cheng's own personal life mirrors many of the twists and turns of his relationship with his father. He suffers the same detachment from his son, a 48-year-old IT engineer from his failed first marriage.

But he finds much solace in Hongde, his 2-year-old son with his second wife, once the nanny of the family.

"Hongde has just sent me a glass of water," he says proudly over the phone, amid the little boy's repeated calls of "Dad."

"He is fond of his grandfather - he will take his grandfather's photo off the bookshelf and kiss him on his cheek."

For Ji, being the offspring of a famous man did not guarantee happiness or contentment.

"Quite on the contrary, it's a burden," he says, referring to the burglary cases, as well as the heritage dispute with Peking University.

But he has decided to deal with it like his father.

"My father used to say 'It's no big deal; face it with a smile'. And he (always) told the truth."

China Daily

(China Daily 06/19/2010 page11)