That Thing Harder Than an Iron Rice Bowl

Lao Wang, Wang Shouyi – a plain name for a down-to-earth man – had been a clerk in the sub-district's "Comprehensive Governance Office" for what felt like an eternity, nearly twenty years. The office window faced the central garden: flowers in spring, cicadas in summer, fallen leaves in autumn, and the longing for heating in winter. Life, well, it was like the seasons outside his window, one after another; bustling on the surface, but not much real difference underneath.

If there was anything new in recent years, it was the frenzy around civil service and public sector exams, which grew more intense with each passing year. The young folks in Lao Wang's office, whether permanent staff or temporary, couldn't utter ten sentences without eight of them revolving around "making it ashore" (passing the exam), "past papers," or "interview techniques." Even the plump chef in the canteen would ask anyone he met, "Do you have any connections? My boy, with his second-tier university degree, wants to apply for a community post. Is it hard?"

Listening to all this, Lao Wang always felt an indescribable something in his heart. He himself had stumbled into this unit back in the day. It wasn't so competitive then; he'd somehow become one of those "eating the emperor's grain" (on the government payroll). But after eating this imperial grain for so long, it was just… so-so. When the 8:30 AM sunlight streamed through the window panes, fine dust motes danced in the light beams. Lao Wang would brew a strong cup of tea, the tea leaves sinking and floating, much like himself. He wondered, these civil service exams, what were they all for? Stability? Respectability? And then what?

He had seen too many "and then whats." Xiao Li in the next department, a master's graduate from a prestigious university, had joined full of ambition, vowing to achieve great things. Three years later, Xiao Li's hair had visibly thinned, and his eyes, once sparkling, had taken on that look peculiar to work units—how to put it? A bit clouded, a bit weary with a seen-it-all exhaustion. His daily work consisted of endless reports, endless meetings, and endless inspections. That "great achievement" had probably gotten lost in some pile of documents, never to be found.

Lao Wang felt that these civil service exams were like a thousand soldiers and ten thousand horses crossing a single-plank bridge. Once across, it seemed like reaching the other shore. But what was on the other shore? Just another piece of land requiring hard toil, perhaps even more soul-crushing. Yet, if one didn't cross that bridge, what else was there? In this world, it seemed that apart from this bridge, all other paths were overgrown with thorns or were simply dead ends.

"Wang-ge, what are you lost in thought about?" Xiao Sun, the new university graduate village official, approached with a thermos cup. Xiao Sun had just graduated, his eyes still shining, and was preparing for next year's provincial exam. "Nothing much. Just wondering, for a person living, besides getting a tenured post, finding a job, is there… anything else?" Lao Wang sipped his tea, scalding his mouth and making him wince.

Xiao Sun paused, then smiled. "Wang-ge, that's too profound. Let's get past this current hurdle first. Otherwise, we won't even have the 'qualification' to ponder such things."

Qualification. Lao Wang's heart skipped a beat. Yes, qualification. When you didn't have food to eat, pondering poetry and distant lands was pretentious. But when you were full, even stuffed, and still only thinking about how to make the next meal more secure, wasn't that also a bit… He couldn't find the right word.

Recently, Lao Wang had become obsessed with something – growing a flower on his office windowsill. He got a broken earthenware pot, secretly dug some soil from the central garden, and planted an unknown weed. The weed looked wilted. Lao Wang watered it every day, hoping it would survive. The section chief saw it and said, "Lao Wang, you've got too many ideas. It's affecting the office environment. Get rid of it."

Lao Wang didn't say anything. He moved the pot to the outer ledge of the windowsill, an inconspicuous corner. He thought, this weed, it doesn't take exams, doesn't seek a job; it just grows quietly. As long as it has a bit of soil, a bit of water, a bit of sunlight, it strives to live. Did this count as "something"?

A few days ago, he went to the hospital to visit an old neighbor, Zhang Daye. Zhang Daye used to be a carpenter with excellent skills. Even after retiring, he couldn't stay idle and always helped neighbors with repairs, not for money, just for the joy of it. Zhang Daye was ill, lying in bed, emaciated. When Lao Wang visited, he was the one comforting Lao Wang: "A person, in a lifetime, if they can do a few things that feel right to them, it's worth it. In my life, I've made so much furniture, I can't remember how much, but I put my heart into every piece. At this point, my heart is at peace."

Lao Wang left the hospital, his mind in turmoil. What were these "things that felt right" that Zhang Daye spoke of? Not rising in rank or getting rich, not respectability or glamour. It seemed to be a kind of… a kind of steadfastness, a kind of clear conscience.

He thought of the apathetic onlookers in Lu Xun's writings, those sleeping soundly in the "iron house." Could these civil service exams be another form of "iron house"? Once inside, you were safe, but you might just sleep through it all, never to wake up. And those who tried to find "something else" were like fools trying to cut a window in an iron house, exhausting themselves while others laughed at them.

"Wang-ge, the director is calling for you. He said the promotional materials for 'Creating a National Civilized City' need more revisions. The slogans need to be catchier, more impactful!" Xiao Sun called from the doorway.

Lao Wang sighed, "Ai," and pushed the pot with its tiny new sprout a little further out, afraid some leader might see it and cause unnecessary trouble. He stood up, brushed non-existent dust from his trousers, and slowly walked towards the director's office. He had already revised those promotional materials eight times, and each time he felt they were insincere, hollow, and devoid of substance. But he still had to revise them. This was his "job," his "rice bowl."

Only, as he walked towards that familiar yet oppressive office door, a thought suddenly popped into Lao Wang's head: Perhaps, the thing harder than the civil service exams wasn't finding some earth-shattering great cause, nor was it pursuing some illusory distant dream. It might just be, in the midst of daily, mundane trivialities, in the gaps between the "materials" and "meetings" he had to endure, to strive, secretly, like that unknown little plant on the windowsill, to water and tend to that bit of "rightness," that spark of "truth" in one's heart that refused to be extinguished.

This thing, no one would give you tenure for it, no one would pay you for it, and perhaps no one would even understand. It was inconspicuous, relying entirely on a stubborn streak and a touch of foolishness. It was much harder than the civil service exams, because for those exams, at least there was a clear "shore," a tangible "iron rice bowl." But for this thing, its shore existed only in one's own heart. If the winds and waves grew too strong, they might just capsize this little notion of yours.

Lao Wang pushed open the director's office door, a customary, deferential smile plastered on his face. But beneath that smile, in some corner, a delicate shoot seemed to have quietly sprouted. Facing the unseen wind, it trembled slightly, stubbornly. He thought, well, let's live and see. This iron house, perhaps these foolish notions could indeed pry open a crack in it? Who knew. He himself didn't know.