Illustration: HIEN TRI
The train whistle, the engine rumbled, and the train had started moving. The young man sat up and took out his laptop to work. The old man didn't pay attention to his surroundings, his eyes were sleepy, he still lay there, his hands tightly holding the bag as if afraid it would break if hit. Occasionally he looked up at the space in front of him as if imagining something, then looked back at the bag in his hands.
- Find a place to put something in a bag to lie down comfortably.
Mr. Cong put down the book and looked at the old man who started the conversation. He was surprised for a moment but then answered.
- Can't put it anywhere, afraid it will break!
The young man joked happily.
- Antiques, antique vases, sir!
- It's just a clay pot, but...
The old man hesitated. He sat up, still holding the jar tightly, leaning against the ship's wall. The young man climbed down from the bed and sat next to the old man to start a conversation.
- It's hard to sleep on the train. Which station do you get off at?
The old man said absentmindedly in response.
- The train was empty, I thought...
- What do you think?
Seeing the young man enthusiastically joining in the conversation, the old man wanted to stay silent but couldn't.
- I thought there was a lot of jostling, two or three people crammed into one bed.
- There is no such thing in a market economy . Listening to you, it sounds like old times!
- What do you know about ancient times?
- No, I just heard my parents say that the subsidy period was very hard, that's all!
- Oh, I see!
Mr. Cong put down the book and sat up.
- Stories of the past are always beautiful and interesting, even though they were difficult and arduous. That's why many people live with nostalgia and then die with nostalgia.
- You speak very well, like a poet.
As if introducing himself, Mr. Cong immediately read a few sentences: "The sound of the army cheering from the river echoed in Dai Viet's sky/ The brave and wise king made the people's hearts boil, building waves and citadels/ The talented and intelligent king of the country made the thousand-year-old battlefield covered in enemy blood/ The mighty navy lured the tide to rise and fall/ The spears and swords of the generals on Bach Dang River were determined to defeat the Yuan army/ The heroic epic will forever be famous in Vietnamese history, the sacred spirit."
The boy clapped his hands and praised:
- Great, so proud! You are a poet?
Mr. Cong did not answer, but continued reading: “Ten graves gathered together - ten girls/ Shyly combing the mirror of the void, smooth flowing hair/ The path of love, privacy hidden from the battlefield/ Just the other day, the sound of singing and laughter calling each other drowned out the sound of falling bombs/ Suddenly, silently remembering the souls of youth this afternoon returning to the white clouds/ Dong Loc, the pure moons forever shining on life”.
The old man looked at Cong with admiration.
- He wrote about the ten female youth volunteers who sacrificed their lives at Dong Loc with great emotion. They were truly virgin moons!
After receiving the compliments, Mr. Cong officially introduced:
- Dear brother and nephew, my name is Cong, I used to be a war reporter, not a writer or poet. Today, meeting people who love poetry, I am very touched. This life is not easy...
The last few sentences were unfinished, but everyone understood what he wanted to say. After a few minutes of silence, the young man became serious again.
- Which station did the poet get off at?
Cong opened his eyes wide and raised his voice, then softened his voice immediately.
- I told you I'm not a poet... well, I got off at a small station, you wouldn't know even if I told you!
It seemed that Mr. Cong felt a sympathy from his new friends, so he opened up and talked. His voice was a little hoarse, sometimes lost in the rumbling of the train, but everyone understood. He would get off at a small station in Quang Nam , then take a bus back to the midlands, meet his comrades who were war correspondents who once fought here, at the foot of Mu U mountain, and together burn incense for those who had fallen. He was lucky to still be alive to return to the old battlefield every year, read poems to each other, and tell stories about the times he worked despite the rain of bombs. The shrapnel stuck somewhere in his head, making him a "crazy old man" in the eyes of others. After telling the story, he sighed again.
- I heard that village will change its name soon, what a pity for Mu U!
- The name Mu U is so cool, but I don't think it will be lost, it's still in the hearts of you and your teammates.
The old man looked at the young man with displeasure.
- It's not lost anymore, but what else!
Mr. Cong looked at the old man sympathetically. The old man did not answer immediately, hugging the cloth bag tighter.
- This earthenware jar contains a handful of soil, called the flesh and bones of my comrade, who sacrificed himself at the gateway to Saigon while following the army to liberate the South and was fortunately buried in a family's garden. The garden changed hands many times, and the new owner discovered a small buried stele with his name, hometown... Now that he has brought his comrade back, Mu U is no longer there!
Mr. Cong heard the story with tears in his eyes.
- You think wrong, hometown is the place where you were born and raised, no matter what name it has, it is still hometown!
The boy continued:
- It's just a name...
The old man seemed to not accept the children's reasoning.
- You don't have a hometown, do you? People are like trees, they are grateful to the land they grow from.
The old man's voice mingled with the chugging of the train and then the long, drawn-out whistle. The young man climbed into bed as he spoke his last few sentences.
- The origin is in the heart. A person who lives in the homeland but betrays it is not as good as a person who is far from home but still loves it.
It was annoying to hear a child lecturing someone, but he wasn't wrong. No one said anything more because everyone thought they were right and thought the other person was right too. Mr. Cong sighed like the wind, feeling his chest tighten and uncomfortable.
The train slowed down, it seemed like it was about to stop at some station, the wind blew against it, throwing the sounds towards the back of the train. In the wind he heard very clearly: "Old and confused, thinking he is smart, making up ideas". He looked up at the young man, he was working on the computer. He looked at Mr. Cong, he was reading a book. So he was talking to himself!?
The train stopped to pick up and drop off passengers. The young man took the opportunity to walk to the door. A streak of light, a dome of light, a bright area, a vast field of light appeared outside the window. Everyone left the room to look at the field of light and admire it. It turned out that the vast field of dragon fruit trees was hung with lights that looked like twinkling stars, a magical and romantic light, beautiful beyond description, only felt with the love of the country, the land, and the people.
The train moved again and the field of light disappeared and reappeared, how beautiful!
- My hometown is so beautiful!
The young man returned to bed. The old man still held tightly to the earthenware jar containing the remains of his comrades' flesh and bones. Mr. Cong muttered, but everyone heard clearly. “The beating of each person's heart is the longing of the country/ The country of talented, kind, and tolerant people/ The blood of humanity nourishes the nation's soul and heroic spirit/ Nguyen Du wrote Kieu as a lullaby beside the cradle/ Nguyen Trai wrote the Proclamation of Victory over the Wu, which has been passed down through the generations/ The verses of poetry have become patterns that have carved the image of the Fatherland for four thousand years.”
The train still rushes against the wind in the night carrying so many feelings... chugging... chugging... chugging...
Source: https://baoquangnam.vn/chuyen-tau-nguoc-gio-3157196.html
Comment (0)