1. Building a house is difficult, but tearing it down is quick.
Just last week, a group of four or five people came to Mr. and Mrs. Nam's house. They dismantled the wooden and iron doors. They were more careful with the ones they removed that were still intact. I think they'll sell them; those old window frames will have a second life. They're old, so they'll probably be cheap. My heart wandered, wishing I had a house big enough to buy those old, faded blue window frames. As if to preserve a scent, to keep the deep, husky voices and the clear, cheerful laughter. The window frames had absorbed all the sounds of children babbling, calling out, "Grandma Nam, give me a bag of yogurt!", the sound of Thy coming to buy a bag of detergent and complaining about her husband working so much overtime lately, the sound of Mr. Nam's usual catchphrase, "Grandma, let me do it later..."
Illustration: Van Nguyen
Then bulldozers and machinery arrived, making a lot of noise for days, and creating a cloud of dust for days. Trucks shoveled away all the rubble and concrete debris. Not a trace remained on the rectangular plot of land. Mid-season rain poured down, as if asking if the earth wanted to sprout any seeds. I remember back then, Mr. Nam always liked to sow corn seeds in pots, seeds he got from the poultry feed shop. They sprouted, but Mrs. Nam never had a spring "as sure as corn," as Mr. Nam said when he took the seeds to sow them. His corn plants, lacking sun, rain, and wind, huddled beside shelves full of goods, growing tall for a while before withering. They didn't flower, they didn't bear fruit. Growing corn, for Mr. Nam, was like a Zen koan...
Mr. and Mrs. Nam were like family to our neighborhood and apartment building, a nameless memory when someone leaves for good. For over twenty years since I moved into my third-floor apartment, the gentle creaking of the iron gate and the rustling of the bamboo broom woke me up in the morning. Then I would hear Mr. Nam set out two tables and four or five wooden chairs in the yard. Mrs. Nam would boil water for tea and make two cups of coffee at the start of the day, one for Mr. Nam and one for the Earth God. That was also her cup of coffee after the Earth God had "finished drinking."
In the old days, mornings would always bring in a few older gentlemen, pull up chairs, order a cup of coffee, and begin conversations about the American presidential election, the floods in the North, and the black holes in the universe. Occasionally, they would lower their voices, mentioning that X and Yen on the fourth floor were probably fighting the night before. Just as they finished speaking, Yen rushed in: "Grandma Nam, please keep an eye on the car for me! I need to run upstairs to get the backpack for the little one!" She ran, cursing her husband for forgetting such a simple thing...
Mr. and Mrs. Nam's main occupation was selling groceries; the morning coffee was just for fun, since Mrs. Nam had to make it for Mr. Nam and Mr. Dia anyway. But even so, the aroma of her coffee captivated many people in the apartment building. I lived on a high floor, and Mr. Nam's distinctive deep voice in his morning conversations was the sound of a peaceful day. Their grocery store seemed to have everything, even the hair rollers Mrs. Nam wore. Instant noodles, sugar, milk, yogurt, snacks, chewing gum, condoms, shampoo, shower gel... It was truly a magical world , a paradise for children and their fathers alike, because Mrs. Nam even sold beer and cigarettes.
But that's not all; Mrs. Nam also had an abundance of compassion. She always offered warm advice and quiet listening whenever anyone came to buy something and needed to confide in her. She even let people buy on credit and lent them money. During the Covid-19 pandemic, her grocery store saved many people from starvation when their apartment building was under lockdown. In this way, Mr. and Mrs. Nam on my street corner have become a symbol of urban kindness, quietly beside us, without fanfare or ostentation. But if they were gone, the void they would leave would be immense.
2. Because life is full of slow but steady changes.
Seven years ago, Mr. Nam was diagnosed with chronic kidney failure. That marked seven years of battling dialysis, time seemingly slipping away. On late afternoons, neighbors often saw him walking for exercise, one arm bandaged. He had probably just finished dialysis. As he walked, he deliberately shook his arms vigorously to improve blood circulation. This shaking, intended to make him look stronger, only made his gait appear more unsteady.
Since the pandemic, Mrs. Nam has stopped selling coffee in the mornings. She and her husband have to take turns going to the hospital, carrying the love and responsibility of a lifetime of faithful devotion. Initially, the dialysis schedule was infrequent, customers still came to the shop, and there was still laughter; then it became more frequent, then more regular. The grocery store was often closed, and even when the wind blew dry leaves into the front yard, Mrs. Nam didn't bother to sweep them. Mr. Nam's deep, booming voice each morning became less frequent, more intermittent. That familiar sound gradually faded and then stopped completely. Everyone knew he would eventually pass away. One day, when the brass band blared early in the morning, people from the apartment building ran down to see Mr. Nam off, their hearts heavy with worry as they thought of Mrs. Nam. They had lived a life of harmony, so when he fell ill, she seemed to sway along with him, for many years to come.
Mr. Nam is ill, which is certainly costly, but the grocery store is getting emptier every day. The story of Mr. and Mrs. Nam is not just about the ailments of old age and the decline of a family, or the failure of their business. Rather, it lies within a larger context: the shift in shopping habits as e-commerce sweeps through every corner of urban life like a tidal wave.
In recent years, not only in Ho Chi Minh City but also across the country, goods from e-commerce platforms have boomed. Vietnam's online retail market surpassed $25 billion in 2024, a significant increase compared to previous years. Platforms like Shopee, Lazada, TikTok Shop... don't just sell goods. They sell convenience, the desire for fulfillment, and fast, doorstep delivery. In a country where smartphones and 4G/5G networks are ubiquitous, buying a snack, a carton of milk, or ordering a ton of rice is just a few taps away.
As shopping became simpler, the habit of frequenting the familiar grocery store gradually eroded. Mr. and Mrs. Nam stopped selling coffee in the mornings, and their role as the "information hub" of the neighborhood was replaced. Mrs. Nam could no longer keep up with the neighborhood leader in disseminating policy information, as residents had a shared Zalo group since the pandemic. Warnings about scams, daily life updates, and other information were all relayed to each other via phone.
I know that Mrs. Nam lived her life with genuine kindness towards everyone, especially the residents of the apartment building. Once, I saw Ms. Chieu sitting and crying, and Mrs. Nam quietly pulled a chair over, mending a loose thread on the sunshade curtain, occasionally patting Ms. Chieu's trembling shoulders. I found her as beautiful as any kind-hearted country woman, yet imbued with the profound compassion and solidarity typical of Saigon. Mrs. Nam reminded me that there are women everywhere who know how to care for one another.
Other data also shows this trend: approximately 70% of e-commerce transactions in Vietnam in 2024 will take place via mobile phones – meaning most shopping transactions have moved away from Mrs. Nam's blue wooden door, where countless gifts and sweets are hung, and a small brass bell rings when the shopkeeper is busy inside.
Mr. and Mrs. Nam stepped back a short distance, then two, then three… Whether they wanted it or not, that grocery store was setting in the twilight of their own lives. Clearly, a wind had blown through, shaking things that seemed immutable.
3. Finally, they disappeared completely. After Mr. Nam's funeral, Mrs. Nam sold the house and moved elsewhere with her children.
Very quickly, people in the apartment building pointed to the vacant plot of land, saying that the new owner would build a healing tea shop there.
A tea shop that heals, so trendy, so elegant. A place where people come to slow down, drink tea, and take some aesthetic photos. The idea is beautiful, and I'm happy for the new atmosphere, for the intention to preserve a little tranquility amidst the noisy city. I just wonder, while a tea shop can heal the eyes, can it offer a shoulder to lean on? I've visited a few such places: young people come, silently open their laptops or phones, the music is meditative, but they are immersed in loneliness even if they are with friends.
When convenience erodes direct contact, some intangible values fall beyond measurable boundaries: trust, familiarity, intimacy. In many small neighborhoods, grocery stores are more than just places for exchanging goods. There are no receipts, only hastily written debt ledgers. There, people live by a system of trust that no application can fully program.
I don't mean to condemn development, I just want to remember Mr. and Mrs. Nam: remember the aroma of coffee, the sound of the bamboo broom, the times she called each child by their affectionate nickname. Remember how a lifetime can make a street corner warmer…
I hope that one day, when the tea shop is fully established, I will walk in, sit at a corner table, order a cup of tea, and tell someone about Mr. and Mrs. Nam, about the old, yellowed ledger of debts, about the bells on the blue window frame, about the packets of instant noodles during the pandemic, about the times Grandma secretly gave gifts to the children…
Mr. and Mrs. Nam are no longer here; they seem to have taken a part of the town's soul with them. But in the warmth of spring, while waiting for the rumored tea shop to open, I saw a few corn stalks sprouting on the rectangular plot of land…
Source: https://thanhnien.vn/da-moc-len-mot-tiem-tra-chua-lanh-185260130194400503.htm
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