As long as my mother is alive, the Lunar New Year will continue.

Memories, like a hibernating beast, were suddenly awakened by a craving. They lunged, pulling me away from the cold light, throwing me back to my mother's somber, charcoal-burning kitchen thirty years ago.

Illustration: BH

For me, Tet (Vietnamese New Year) has never begun with a red calendar page. Tet starts from the nose.

It's the pungent smell of rebirth. I remember those New Year's Eve afternoons in my hometown, the biting cold subdued by a powerful scent: the fragrance of dried coriander leaves.

It wasn't the refined fragrance of perfume in expensive glass bottles. It was the pungent, spicy, earthy smell of coriander that had bloomed, borne fruit, and whose stems had turned a deep purplish color. My mother—the "conductor" of the kitchen—threw a handful of those overripe coriander leaves into a pot of boiling water. As the steam rose, the whole space seemed to be cleansed.

I remember the feeling of sitting huddled in a crooked aluminum basin, my mother pouring ladlefuls of shimmering brown water over me. The scent of dried herbs filled my nostrils, seeping through every pore, washing away the dust, misfortune, and scratches of a long, arduous year. The smell was so pure that I felt reborn, stepping out of the water as a different person, fragrant and holy, ready to embrace new beginnings.

Among the countless scents of Tet (Vietnamese New Year), the scent of dried herbs evokes a profound sense of peace. It's strangely heartwarming. It's a rustic, countryside fragrance, yet powerful enough to draw spring in with love. It evokes the pure, fragrant wishes of mothers for their young children for a new year. It also stirs up poignant memories at the end of each year, memories of adulthood, of weathering life's storms; the scent of dried herbs stirs old, painful images in the heart.

And after the scent of old age, I remember the "burnt" smell of family reunion.

I'm talking about the acrid, eye-stinging smell of smoke, the smell of burnt firewood, rice husks, and charred peanut shells... During the nights spent watching over the pot of sticky rice cakes, the kitchen smoke didn't just rise into the sky; it "contaminated" everything. It clung to the rough, soot-covered walls, to my grandmother's tangled hair, to my father's worn cotton jacket. It was a strange kind of "perfume" that no renowned brand could ever create.

That smoky scent, mingled with the aroma of freshly cooked sticky rice and boiled banana leaves, created an absolutely safe and comforting flavor. I remember returning home from studying far away, stepping off the bus, the wind blowing against my face carrying the smell of smoke from burning fields or the evening kitchen fire, and tears would well up in my eyes. The smell of smoke was the smell of "coming home." The smell of smoke signaled that in that small house, the fire was still burning and someone was still waiting for me to have dinner.

I vividly remember the savory, rich aroma of the braised pork dish that my grandmother cooked over the fire all night. The delicious fish sauce, mixed with young coconut water, simmering over glowing charcoal, created an incredibly addictive fragrance. That scent permeated from the kitchen cupboard to the end of the alley, so that a child far from home, upon stepping off the bus, would feel a rumbling stomach and teary eyes: "I'm home!"

Nowadays, gas and induction cooktops are spotlessly clean. Pressure cookers can tenderize meat in 15 minutes. It's convenient and quick, but the warm, smoky aroma, the scent of patience and time that lingered in the food, has vanished. We have kitchens that are spotlessly clean, but cold and sterile.

Then there was the pungent smell of rubber from the new sandals, the stiff, starchy smell of the only set of clothes my mother bought me that year. For children during the subsidy era or in poor rural areas, it was the "smell of wealth," the smell of dreams come true. I remember sniffing those plastic sandals all night, afraid they would wear out, only daring to slip them on cautiously on the morning of the first day of Tet.

But the climax of that symphony of scents, the most poignant note that brought tears to my eyes, was the scent of my mother.

Have you ever truly "smelled" your mother during Tet (Vietnamese New Year)? It's the most complex blend of scents in the world. It includes: the pungent smell of sweat after hurried market days; the fishy smell, the rich aroma of braised pork, the sharp scent of sweet and sour pickled shallots; the lingering scent of incense smoke from the ancestral altar; and even the faint aroma of betel nuts and leaves... All of these things intertwine with your mother's faded cloth dress, nestled in her body warmth, creating that unique "Tet scent."

In the old days, I used to bury my head in my mother's arms, inhaling that strong, pungent smell and feeling strangely peaceful. The smell of silent sacrifice. My mother absorbed all the hardships, the smoke, the grease, in exchange for a clean and well-fed life for her husband and children.

I'm afraid. I'm truly afraid that one day, Tet will still come, the peach blossoms will still bloom, but I will no longer find that intoxicating scent. I'm afraid that new clothes, smelling strongly of industrial fabric softener, will replace my mother's smoke-stained clothes. I'm afraid that the smell of fresh paint will mask the old, worn-out lime wash. I'm afraid that convenience will "evaporate" the most vivid memories.

I rushed out onto the street and hailed a taxi to go back to my hometown.

Why go home? Just to run to the backyard, pick a handful of coriander leaves, light a small fire, even if only to boil a pot of tea. To let the smoke sting my eyes again. To hug my mother, to take a deep breath of that salty sweat mixed with the warm scent of incense. To feel that I still have a place to return to. To feel that Tet (Vietnamese New Year) is still "fragrant" and that I am still a child enveloped in that warm cocoon of memories.

As long as the scent remains, so does mother. And as long as mother is alive, so does Tet (Vietnamese New Year).

Essays by Luong Dinh Khoa

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/con-me-la-con-tet-277191.htm