The Red Booklet and the Green Booklet

Old Wang at the Civil Affairs Bureau's Marriage Registration Office was nearing retirement. He had sat in this palm-sized place for nearly thirty years. The red booklets and green booklets that passed through his hands, if stacked up, would probably reach half a person's height. The red booklets signified celebration, their gilt characters slightly dazzling in the sun; the green booklets were a bit duller in color, like the water of a late autumn pond – no ripples on the surface, but things were pressed underneath.

Recently, a new regulation came in, saying that for marriage or divorce, looking at the hukou booklet (household registration booklet) was no longer required.

This news was brought by Xiao Li, the new arrival in the office. Xiao Li was young, wore glasses, and had an air of efficiency in his speech and actions. He said, "Master Wang, it'll be simpler from now on. Just swipe the ID card, the information is networked, all set. Carrying that thick hukou booklet back and forth is a hassle."

Old Wang let out a "hmm," saying no more. He walked to the window, looking out at the dusty gray sky. The autumn wind swirled up a few plane tree leaves, which spun around before falling and sticking to the damp ground. He felt a sense of emptiness inside.

It wasn't that the booklet was absolutely necessary. That booklet, with its hard cover and pages of handwritten or printed words inside, recorded a family's history and connections. In the past, when people came to register their marriage, they would take out their hukou booklet as if holding some treasure, flipping it open carefully. It had the names of parents, brothers, and sisters. Taking it out felt as if eight generations of ancestors had come to bear witness. Those getting divorced also had to produce the hukou booklet, to personally strike out the relationship on that page. That feeling was like pulling something up by the roots.

Now, it wasn't needed anymore.

"Beep—" the ID card reader flashed a green light.

Old Wang came back to his senses. Standing before the counter was a young couple, apparently here for their red booklets. The young man was a bit nervous, his palms sweaty; the young woman kept her head down, lips pursed in a smile.

Xiao Li moved quickly, took the ID cards, swiped them, typed away on the computer for a bit, and printed out the forms. "Sign here."

The two youngsters huddled together, heads close, using the same pen to sign their names. Old Wang watched, feeling like something was missing. Missing was that touch of solemnity, that bit of hassle from rummaging through chests and cupboards for the hukou booklet. In the past, some newlyweds would forget their hukou booklet, breaking into a sweat with anxiety, either rushing home to get it or having family bring it over. Back and forth, half a day would pass. In that half-day, there was anxiety, anticipation, complaint, and also understanding. Now, it was too fast, like picking up food at a fast-food joint. Convenient, yes, but the flavor felt a bit weaker.

Old Wang took out the red booklets and stamped them with the official seal. The seal had been used for many years, its edges slightly dulled, but the embossed peony pattern was still just as full. He handed the two booklets over, saying, "Happy marriage, live well together."

The young woman took the booklet, her face flushed, and said, "Thank you." The young man nodded along. They held the red booklets, turning them over and over, as if they had just received some rare treasure.

Old Wang watched their retreating backs and sighed inwardly. This red booklet was still the same red booklet. The photos inside still showed two smiling faces. But the procedure behind it had become lighter. Whether this lightness was good or bad, he couldn't say.

In the afternoon, there were fewer people. A middle-aged man and woman came in. They didn't speak, keeping some distance between them, like strangers. The man's hair was graying, and he wore an old jacket. The woman had wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, her gaze weary.

Xiao Li glanced at them and asked Old Wang in a low voice, "Getting divorced?"

Old Wang nodded.

Again, it was swiping ID cards, signing names. That pen, which had just signed the names of a newlywed couple in the morning, was now in the hands of this man and woman. When they signed, their hands didn't tremble; they were very calm. As if they weren't ending a marriage, just signing for an unimportant document.

Old Wang took out two green booklets and stamped them with the seal. As he handed them over, he habitually thought of saying something, like "Take care of yourselves from now on," but the words died on his lips. What was there to say? They probably knew better than anyone in their hearts.

The man took the booklet, stuffed it into his pocket, turned, and left. The woman held her booklet, stood for a moment, her fingers rubbing the words "Divorce Certificate" on the cover, then she too slowly walked out.

The office fell silent. Xiao Li was organizing files, humming a pop song.

Old Wang walked to the window again. The sky had grown darker, looking like it might rain. He remembered when he got married, he had also taken the hukou booklet and gone with his wife. It was snowing lightly that day, the road was slippery, and the two of them supported each other, walking several li. When they arrived at the registration office, their hands were numb with cold, and when they took out the hukou booklet, the pages were slightly damp. But their hearts were warm.

Now, snowy days were fewer, the roads were better, and the procedures were simpler. But was that warmth still there?

He suddenly felt that the hukou booklet was more than just a document. It was like an anchor, heavy, firmly fixing a relationship, a family, to a certain place, a certain point in time. Now, the anchor seemed a bit lighter. Would the boat drift away more easily?

He didn't know. Times were changing; many things were getting faster, simpler. Maybe he was just getting old, unable to keep up.

The wind outside blew harder, making the windowpanes hum. Old Wang rubbed his hands together and returned to his seat. On his desk lay a stack of blank red and green booklets, waiting to be stamped tomorrow and handed out to different people.

Red ones, green ones, they were all just paper. But the people connected beyond the paper, the feelings, the lives lived – those were real, substantial, heavy. Whether that hukou booklet was there or not, life had to go on. He just wondered, without the weight of that procedure, would the weight in people's hearts also become a little lighter?

He picked up a red booklet, then a green one, weighing them in his hand. The weight felt about the same.