[E-magazine]: Seasonal Lullaby

In my hometown, a portion of the agricultural land has been converted to make way for factories or important transportation projects. The remaining land is still used for rice cultivation, albeit on a smaller scale, but enough for me to return and hear the lullaby of the season, even with a touch of wistful regret.

“The afternoon takes me back to the time of the threshing floor and the rice paddies / listening to the river sing a lullaby as the season approaches / the curved sickles call to each other in the chaff (*) waiting / the rice stalks turn red, a question mark etched into the blue sky”... I often return to the village when the harvest season begins. When the lychee orchards are full of fruit, their fragrance gently wafting. The setting sun leisurely drapes a light blue veil over the wild grass along the riverbank. From afar, the rice fields look like a vibrant painting. A painting skillfully created by nature's artist with the golden hue of ripe rice, blended with the pale purple twilight, creating a space that is both real and surreal, utterly magnificent.

As harvest season arrives, scenes from a bygone era slowly reappear. People often say that harvest season is the most beautiful time for rice. Not only because of its vibrant colors, but also because it's when the laborers can enjoy the fruits of their labor after months of hard work under the sun. This afternoon, on the quiet riverbank, gazing at the deep golden color of the rice stalks bending like shy maidens, I remember just yesterday, when the rice fields were still lush green. The rice stalks have now turned a deep golden color. Each grain of rice is like a sparkling jewel under the sunlight. When the wind blows, the rice fields undulate like soft waves... under the golden sunlight, the fragrant scent of rice permeates the fields, carrying the breath of the earth and sky, stirring the heart... The whole space is immersed in the feeling of the harvest harmonizing with nature: "Beyond the riverbank, a sweet song is sung / lychees ripen, urging cicadas to linger / May sun in my homeland, the fields ablaze / frogs call, grasshoppers wait for the moon"...

In my memory, harvest season was a time of bustling activity. When the flamboyant trees blazed brightly in the schoolyard and the cicadas sang in unison like a chorus, it was time for us to have summer vacation.

My mother woke up very early in the morning, the fire already blazing in the small kitchen. She prepared breakfast for the whole family. Meanwhile, I had already prepared my sickle, rope, and carrying pole, my legs neatly wrapped in leggings, ready to go to the fields.

The village roads were bustling with the cheerful laughter and chatter of the kind and simple farmers, reflecting their joy at the bountiful harvest. They shared cups of green tea during their breaks under the banyan tree in the middle of the field.

Summer isn't always sunny; sometimes there are sudden downpours. There might be no sign of rain in the morning, but by midday, dark clouds gather, and then it suddenly pours down. Sweat mixes with the rainwater. It's then that you realize how hard farmers work to produce rice. My hometown is a low-lying, flooded area, with lots of sunshine and heavy rains year-round. Some years, the rice is still milky when it rains. My grandmother sighs because the fields in the lower areas are completely submerged and ruined. And the poem I wrote when I left home to study, which I never read to her, still haunts my mind: "June, the month of dragon's blood / my grandmother always said / this afternoon, seeing the water pouring down / I worry about the harvest season in my hometown..."

Filled with longing, I rush home every summer vacation. I wake up early and run to the fields, all the way to the riverbank where the long dike curves like a silk ribbon. I open my chest and take a deep breath, as if wanting to swallow all the fresh air. I remember the harvest seasons of the past. I remember the moonlit nights, after the afternoon harvest, the rice spread evenly on the lime or brick courtyard. Long, round stone shafts with ropes tied at both ends were used to pull the shafts. Two people behind held bamboo "pulling rods" to push the shafts. Beautiful country romances sometimes began on those moonlit nights: "Eyes searching for each other, intoxicated by the scent of rice / the 'pulling rod' whispers promises / the shafts spin, overflowing with fragrant golden grains..."

In the clear blue sky, flocks of white egrets, like paper boats, soared and glided. Occasionally, they swooped down and perched on the straw mounds that had been erected the previous afternoon. The sound of the wind mingled with the songs of the skylarks, creating a symphony full of the flavor of the countryside. On some breezy afternoons on the dike, after gleaning the rice, the buffalo herding children would lie around, teasing each other and singing loudly the nursery rhyme I wrote for them during summer activities: "White egrets by the dike / gazing at the ripening rice fields / the sunset is almost over / they don't want to go home yet, egrets..."

Then, like birds, those children left the village and flew far away. They left behind the bamboo groves, the rice paddies, and the river of their childhood to roam on new paths, carrying their own desires and ambitions. But then, every season, they, like me, return. They return to rediscover beautiful memories, sometimes just to silently ask: "Do you still remember the haystack of that year? Your brown dress, your round, full breasts, how many grains of straw were there? Which straw did I use to tie your hands?"

This afternoon, I found myself lost in the fields, lost in the distant past... My hometown now has a portion of its agricultural land converted to make way for factories or important transportation projects. The remaining land is still used for rice cultivation, though less, but enough for me to return and hear the lullaby of the season, albeit with a touch of wistful regret: “She absentmindedly holds a pearl in her hand / The lonely field, the heron and egret sadly drift away / Fish, shrimp, crabs, grasshoppers never return / The person is gone, where can I send my memories?”...

And in the memories of the season, the green and red-winged grasshoppers remain the same, innocently emerging from the seven-colored rainbow after the rain.

(*) A part of the sickle

Content by: Le Phuong Lien

Photo: Internet source

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazin-khuc-ru-mua-250211.htm