Through the ages, the oil lamp, blackened with soot, remains in the memory of each person, even as they reach an age of forgetfulness. Its flickering flame seems to burn on, illuminating and guiding us back to those arduous years.
Before electricity reached the village, poor families used one or two oil lamps, usually the cheap, egg-shaped ones because they consumed less fuel. Well-off families had five or seven lamps, and larger ones were indispensable. During the day, there was so much work that in the evenings, all activities—threshing rice, preparing seeds, pounding bananas for pigs, eating dinner—were done under the flickering light of oil lamps.
At dusk, before lighting the lamps, the light bulbs had to be cleaned of soot to ensure brighter light; at the same time, the oil had to be added and the wick checked. This work was done by the children of the house, in a spirit of "small children doing small tasks." On rainy days, or when they forgot to buy kerosene, they had to borrow some from the neighbors. Just like when they ran out of rice, they would borrow a basin of kerosene; the neighbors were very generous, readily lending a small bottle of kerosene, a flint, or some cooking oil... without expecting anything in return. That's what "neighborly solidarity" and "helping each other in times of need" meant.
Illustration: HOANG DANG
In the years following the country's reunification, my father was the team leader of the agricultural production team of the cooperative. During the day, he would clock in, and at night, he would light a lamp to do the paperwork so that when harvest time came, he would know how to measure out the rice for the cooperative members. My siblings and I would also take advantage of the light from my father's lamp to study, also to save on oil. At night, when the team meeting bell rang, I would jump for joy because I could happily follow my father to the warehouse yard for the meeting. My father carried a lamp with a carrying handle. He let me carry the lamp first, and I felt so happy. From all directions, many flickering lights, like glowing embers, appeared from afar, getting closer and closer. When we arrived at the meeting place, dozens of lamps were placed in front of each group of people; those nights, for us children, were a dazzling festival of light.
Now, every time I go back to my hometown, when I'm out at night, I occasionally see oil lamps at street food stalls selling things like fertilized duck eggs, boiled snails, grilled corn, grilled dried fish, etc. People from the countryside are used to seeing things; from afar, they can identify the location of a stall just by seeing the lamp lit. The night bus passes through the town, and even though I'm only a few kilometers from home, seeing the oil lamps from afar makes my stomach churn with anticipation and a longing to get home.
Even though the stall selling fertilized duck eggs was under a brightly lit street lamp, the owner still used an egg-shaped lamp. I deliberately questioned her about it, and the owner explained: "It's been like this since my mother sold them. Without the egg-shaped lamp, it feels incomplete; it would mean fewer customers. Later, people selling corn and snails also used oil lamps, but before, displaying egg-shaped lamps meant only the fertilized duck eggs were sold; there was no mistaking it for anything else."
In those years, to save money, every household stockpiled dried cotton bolls to use as pillow stuffing, and some to make lamp wicks or matchstick wicks. Making lamp wicks seemed difficult; too small wouldn't work, and too large wouldn't either. Making a wick that burned slowly, used little oil, and produced minimal soot required skill; not everyone could do it.
During the peak of the harvest season, if work wasn't finished by day, they had to work at night by lamplight. The lamp was placed on a high stool so that the light would spread wider and further. Once everything was done, the oil lamp was moved to the porch for the late meal. The lamp was placed in a corner of the table, prioritizing the light for the children. The sisters also studied at their desks with the same lamp.
Some rural families now have more spacious houses, and their ancestral altars are fitted with colorful electric lights, but they still use oil lamps on the 15th or 1st of the lunar month, on anniversaries, and especially during Tet (Lunar New Year). Seeing these oil lamps, the children and grandchildren who come from the city stare in amazement as if they're in some strange new world , happily watching the adults clean the bulbs, remove the wicks, thread the cords, and light the lamps... They may not yet understand the hardships of those days, but someday they will understand and sympathize with the arduous lives of their grandparents and parents. In that space, the oil lamp's light evokes stories of the past, stories they once heard, experienced, and reminisced about. Stories of joys and sorrows from the literacy classes, stories of lighting lamps to see off those leaving, stories of waiting for those returning, stories of studying by the light of oil lamps...
The power went out, and the children grimaced in the heat. I, meanwhile, found myself reminiscing about the past, thinking how I wished I had an oil lamp lit in the middle of the house right now; its dim light would be enough for me to discern the interplay of light and darkness, though I didn't want the days of oil lamps to return.
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