The pride of the monk Wangohan would not easily let him
admit defeat. Because of this, the monk chose to forge ahead
with an unfamiliar web framework despite master Suku’s
warnings to the contrary.
“Now your shame will be twice as great,” taunted the monk
Landhwa. “Once for the ruin that will befall you, and once
again because the master herself advised against your
course.”
Wangohan thus returned to his cubicle thoroughly
disheartened. There he found affixed to his monitor a small
yellow note, unsigned and in an unfamiliar hand, advising
him to have his code reviewed by the nun Zjing before
resuming his efforts.
“A poor counsel is this,” thought Wangohan, “for I require
courage, and Zjing cannot stand upon a stepstool lest her
fear of heights overcome her.” Yet the note did not seem to
be of Landhwa’s doing, and since Wangohan knew of none other
that bore him malice, he emailed his predicament to the
telecommuting nun.
“I know nothing of this framework,” the nun wrote back.
“Yet send me your code anyway.”
Wangohan did as he was asked. In less than a minute his
phone rang.
“Your framework is not right,” said Zjing. “Or else, your
code is not right.”
This embarrassed and angered the monk. “How can you be so
certain?” he demanded.
“I will tell you,” said the nun.
Zjing began the story of how she had been born in a distant
province, the second youngest of six dutiful daughters. Her
father, she said, was a lowly abacus-maker, poor but shrewd
and calculating; her mother had a stall in the marketplace
where she sold random numbers. In vivid detail Zjing
described her earliest days in school, right down to the
smooth texture of the well worn teak floors and the acrid
yet not unpleasant scent of the stray black dog that
followed her home in the rain one day.
“Enough!” shouted the exasperated Wangohan when a full hour
had passed, for the nun’s narrative showed no sign of
drawing to a close. “That is no way to answer a simple
question!”
