I Want This, I Want That

We had no running water at home until I was in my last year at primary school.

Until then, it was my job, and my brother’s (he was three years older), to carry water from the well across the yard to the big earthenware jar in the kitchen.

On the day the water was connected, my mother was in high spirits from morning to night and did nothing but wash things.

It was around then, too, that our bare light bulbs gave way to fluorescent tubes. My three younger sisters and I rolled about on the futons laid out under the mosquito net, shrieking, “The light’s white! It’s so bright!”

At the time of the imperial wedding, when I found out that television had arrived even at my friend’s house, I whispered timidly in my mother’s ear, “Please buy us a television.”

“What’s that you said?” said my mother. “Eh? Is it a clip round the ear you’re after?” And she made as if to cuff me on the head.

Our own television arrived three years later, in time for the Tokyo Olympics.

It was black-and-white, of course, but in those days you could always tell which houses had a colour set.

Their aerials were brightly coloured. Only later did I learn that the colour served no purpose at all; it was there simply to stir up envy among the neighbours.

When an important visitor called, the five of us children would hide behind the sliding doors, not daring to move, and the moment the guest left we would shoot out like hares and fall upon the few sweets that had been served.

Once I even tried to prise a half-eaten sweet out of my little sister’s mouth with my fingers, and got bitten for my trouble.

We were always hungry. I remember wishing I could hurry up and grow up, just so that I could have a raw egg on my rice, the way only my father did.

I want this, I want that. We were forever wanting something.

And it was the same for everyone in Japan, children and adults alike. That wanting is what built the Japan we have today.

Now that it has become a distant memory, where are we headed from here?