The eye

(PLVN) From the dirt road leading straight to the riverbank, the Cai Ban hamlet usually smells of straw smoke and receding water in the morning. Last night's flood left behind streaks of dark mud, dotted with cat and chicken footprints. On the river, a few merchant boats slowly push through the thin mist, the familiar sound of their engines sputtering. People in the hamlet often say to each other, "We may be poor here, but hearing the sound of the boats in the morning means we're still alive, and as long as the engines are running, there's still food to eat."

Hanh lived at the end of the village, her house jutting out over the canal, its eucalyptus pillars covered in moss. Since her parents' death, Hanh had become accustomed to the sound of water splashing under the floorboards every night, the smell of the damp July wind, and standing on the porch counting the raindrops alone. She finished seventh grade, her mind clinging like sun-drenched dust, floating and then dissipating. For a time, Hanh followed others to the town to work in a restaurant, cleaning, washing pots, and carrying trays until her shirt was soaked. Then she fell in love with a construction worker nearby, his eyes smiling gently like a moonless night in the village. That smile, in the Mekong Delta, might not be worth a glass of rice wine, but it was enough to make one's heart skip a beat.

The construction worker said, "Wait until I've saved enough, then I'll take you home." Hạnh believed him. Perhaps illiterate people are easily deceived, or perhaps the flood season softened people's hearts like the fields. When Hạnh announced she was pregnant, he left the construction site for another province, leaving behind a pair of worn-out plastic sandals and a promise as yellowed as an old calendar page. Hạnh didn't cry much. In Cái Bần village, for the poor, crying was just a waste of tears. She clutched her belly, continued working as a laborer, scavenging for every penny like collecting minnows in a ditch.

The baby girl was born on a sunny afternoon. Hạnh named her My, a name that sounded like a little dream. Tư, the nurse at the health station, said it was a nice name, as long as there was rice and milk for the baby. Hạnh nodded, looking at the tiny, red baby, her hands the size of half a chili pepper, her fingernails as clear as freshly settled silt. As night fell, the river flowed gently, Hạnh heard her baby's cries, wetting the oil lamp's light, and felt her heart pounding like oars stirring the water.

Hanh didn't know how to ride a motorbike. In the neighborhood, many women didn't ride motorbikes; they'd take a motorbike taxi or walk to the market. After giving birth, Hanh's body was like a shriveled pumpkin; even standing up or sitting down felt like a crackling sound. She worked as a cleaner for several well-off families along the road, sometimes going to town to mop the floors of pubs. The owners said Hanh was gentle and worked like a machine. Hanh just smiled and said, "As long as I have money to buy milk."

My grew up, her hair fine as cotton, her eyes as black as a drop of freshly brewed coffee. She crawled and played on the wooden floor, poking at the fish in the stream. Hạnh was afraid, so she tied a thin string to her leg. She remembered her mother's words: it was common for children in the riverside areas to die from drowning. Poverty in the fields meant hunger, but poverty on the river meant fear of water. Hạnh worried in the way a woman who had experienced loss would.

When My reached school age, she had to go to school on the other side of the field. Hạnh asked Tám, the motorbike taxi driver from the beginning of the village, to take her to and from school. Tám was of average height, with a stocky build, sun-tanned skin, and a smile that revealed his yellow teeth. He was used to transporting children from the village, driving as if he knew every pothole. "I love children very much," he said. Hạnh thanked him profusely. Every morning, his Dream motorbike would stop in front of the house, My would grab her schoolbag and climb on. Hạnh would stand and watch her daughter disappear behind the mangrove trees, listening to the sound of the engine fading into the distance, feeling a little lighter in her heart.

During those years, Hanh was constantly in dire straits. In the dry season, saltwater seeped deep into the fields, barrening the backyard. In the rainy season, water flooded under the house, and although there were plenty of fish, there was still a shortage of food. Hanh toiled from morning till night. Yet, in the evening, she would take her daughter out to the porch, untangle her hair, comb it fifteen times, and braid it. No matter how poor she was, Hanh still wanted My to grow up clean, straight, and not crooked like her mother.

My was a good student. Her teacher praised her beautiful handwriting and her math skills. Hạnh was so happy she almost cried. But her daughter grew up like a flower blown away by the wind. In middle and high school, My knew how to look in the mirror, how to apply pink lipstick, how to change her pristine white blouse for one with delicate ruffles. One day, Hạnh found a new blouse in her daughter's bag. "Where did you get it?" My said she saved her breakfast money. Hạnh mumbled, not pressing the matter. She was afraid that asking too deeply would uncover some dark secrets that were difficult to name.

My usually came home late. She said she was studying in a group or helping a friend run the shop. Hanh warned her, "Daughter, don't stay out late." My replied, "Yes, ma'am." That same year, Mr. Tam still drove his motorbike and stopped by the gate every morning. Hanh told him to drive slowly when the road was slippery. He nodded and started the engine.

One dark morning, My fainted in the bathroom. Hanh took her child to the health center and then to the hospital. A young doctor whispered: "The girl is pregnant." Hanh felt as if a stone had fallen into her heart. Everything was silent. My bit her lip until it bled. Only when Hanh promised not to hit her or chase her away did My, with trembling hands, write on a piece of paper: "Eight motorbike taxi drivers."

That afternoon, dark clouds gathered. Hạnh ran to the ferry dock to look for Uncle Tám. People said he had left, probably gone to Saigon. Everyone spoke vaguely, as if it were a story about someone's roof being washed away by the rain. Hạnh stood in the wind, the river water bitter and salty. A neighbor woman took Hạnh's hand: "Come on, worry about your child first." Hạnh's tears had long since dried.

My gave birth to a baby girl. She was tiny, like a young plum, with pale skin, and cried softly like a kitten. Hạnh held her granddaughter, the scent of the baby's skin piercing her heart. "What's her name?" Hạnh asked. "An. I just hope her life is peaceful." In this village, people name their children as if they were making a wish.

My works as a factory worker in the industrial zone. In the morning, she leaves her child with Hanh, and in the evening, she's exhausted like a dried-up banana leaf. Hanh stays home to take care of An, sewing for a living to earn extra money for food. Rent, milk, and medical expenses weigh heavily on her shoulders like a sack of old manure. People say selling online is easy. Hanh learned how to set up a page and call for customers. It was like relearning to read.

In the evening, while An was asleep, Hạnh set up her phone and sat upright. The incandescent light shone on her sun-tanned face. She started a livestream, her voice trembling: "Hello everyone, I'm selling baby clothes." In the beginning, no one watched. In the corner of the screen, only a tiny eye appeared, sometimes 0, sometimes 1. Hạnh was overjoyed when she saw the number 1, like she'd struck gold. "Anyone watching, please leave a heart emoji." The screen went silent. But Hạnh was patient. She never gave up.

An grew older, babbling and calling out "Grandma." One day, An had a fever, and Hạnh watched over the hammock while live streaming. Her voice became less shaky, and she tried harder to tell stories. Her eyes flickered, sometimes 1, sometimes 2, then back to zero. Hạnh still believed that somewhere, someone was listening to her. She believed as much as she believed in the smell of smoke from the kitchen fire at the end of the day.

The dry season was harsh. There were few cargo boats. My's shifts were reduced. Hanh increased her livestreaming, speaking until her voice was hoarse. She learned how to hang clothes on hooks, and how to measure with a ruler held close to the camera. Her eyes on the screen were her companions, sometimes one, sometimes two. Some nights were as silent as still water.

Her phone was broken, the screen blurry. Hanh saved up money to get it repaired. She thought, "If I try a little harder, maybe someone will take pity on me." Hanh practiced speaking more clearly. But whenever she remembered the past, her voice would falter.

The people of Cái Bần village felt sorry for Hạnh in the way that poor people do: they carried her water, served her pots of porridge, and bought her clothes. The women invited Hạnh to go to the market to sell her goods, but she refused. She said, "No one there will listen to me all the time." They laughed and said, "They'll listen to the phone."

On a rainy August night, Hạnh started a live stream. The wind howled, and rain lashed against the porch. Her eyes lit up. Hạnh was happy, telling the story of An calling out "Grandma!" After telling the story, she smiled, a faint smile. Late at night, Hạnh's eyes stung. Then she noticed something strange. Her eyes seemed brighter, as if they had pupils. From there, a red streak seeped out, sliding down the screen. Hạnh jumped up, her hands trembling as she tried to turn it off. In an instant, it felt as if someone was staring straight at her from the other side.

Hanh struggled to breathe. Her chest felt constricted. An stirred, groaning. Hanh turned her head, calling out to her niece, the sound stuck in her throat. Her eyes turned a deep red, then went dark. The numbers dropped to zero. Thunder rumbled. A flash of lightning cast Hanh's swaying shadow on the wall. She collapsed like an old leaf.

The next morning, An woke up and cried hoarsely in the empty house. Neighbors called out to her, but she didn't answer. Entering the house, she found Hạnh lying at the table, her phone still on. The image was frozen: her shirt hanging loosely against a white, rainy backdrop. Hạnh's hands were as cold as dried-up water.

The funeral was simple, the cries were simple. My cradled An before the altar. The villagers prepared a pot of porridge and lit incense. A familiar boat stopped to inquire about the situation before leaving. An old woman placed a bundle of dried banana leaves as incense sticks: "When she was little, she used to come by to ask for corn." The villagers of the Mekong Delta remember each other through these small stories.

My looked at her mother's photo, taken with her phone, slightly blurry. She remembered the nights her mother talked to herself in the screen. The eyes that showed the viewer turned out to be her last friend. A mute friend.

After the funeral, My cleaned the house. In the cupboard was an old school notebook. Hanh's handwriting was crooked and uneven. It contained recipes, customer phone numbers, and nothing more. One page read: "Someone looked for a long time today but didn't buy anything. It's okay, as long as they listened to what I had to say." My flipped through the pages, her eyes stinging with tears.

My gathered her belongings and went to the district market to sell them off. An sat on a basket, hugging a lollipop. In the evening, My stood on the porch. A gentle breeze blew across the river. She opened her old phone and saw a notification: "The live stream has ended unexpectedly. Do you wish to continue?" My heard what sounded like a hoarse cough in her ear. She pressed "no".

My stopped livestreaming. She cleaned the kindergarten and sewed pillows to sell in the evenings. She also attended supplementary classes. An was looked after by Mrs. Sau next door. Life wasn't great, but it was less cold. Every evening, My lit incense and told her mother little stories. After telling them, she would laugh to herself.

One rainy evening, An pointed to the river. My remembered the times she and her mother retrieved things from the rising water. In her memory, Hanh would always be the hunched woman with her hair tied low, her eyes gentle yet stubborn, sacrificing her strength for an emotionless gaze. My promised herself she would teach An to read and write properly.

One day, My asked the phone seller, "What does the eye icon on a live stream mean?" The seller replied, "It means the number of viewers." My chuckled, "Maybe it's a counter." The seller looked puzzled.

On the way home, My sat behind Mr. Kỉnh, the new motorbike taxi driver, holding her child. He drove slowly, talking about fruits and vegetables, and didn't ask about people. Stopping in front of the house, he said, "Call me if it rains heavily." My thanked him. In the neighborhood, everyone has a cut; decent people know how to see without touching.

The flood season has returned. The water hyacinths are blooming yellow. My cooks a pot of sour soup, carries a bowl, and places it on her mother's altar. "Mother, eat your meal." The words are as gentle as the wind, yet so warm.

That night, My took a small box from under the bed. Inside was an old photo of her from third grade, standing next to Tam the motorbike taxi driver's Dream motorcycle. The photo was yellowed. My cut out the man's part, keeping only the little girl with the innocent smile. She clipped the photo to her mother's notebook page, the page with the line: "As long as people listen to what I have to say."

My turned off the lights. In the distance, the sound of boat engines echoed in the night. Somewhere, Hạnh felt lighter, no longer having to keep her eyes glued to the screen. Hạnh lived in other things: meals, the sound of her grandchildren calling, the smell of fresh mud.

Tomorrow morning, My will take An to school. Merchant boats will pass by again. Vendors will call out their wares. Life doesn't need grand gestures, just holding hands and guiding each other across puddles. The eyes that once closed are now open, real and warm, looking at each other, calling each other's names, and helping each other cross the muddy river.

Source: https://baophapluat.vn/con-mat.html