Her betel vine trellis

Linh Chau

(QBĐT) - Afternoons in the countryside always take on a gentle hue, as if the heavens and earth themselves want to quiet down a little to make way for peace. In the small courtyard, Grandma's betel vine trellis stretches out to welcome the soft sunlight, its lush green leaves swaying gently in the breeze.

The gentle, pungent scent of betel leaves wafts through the air, weaving a tapestry where each leaf and branch carries a piece of memory. I still remember those early mornings when my grandmother would stand by the betel vine trellis, her calloused hands gently stroking the leaves, her eyes filled with affection, as if pouring her heart into that green hue. The betel vine trellis was her lifelong companion, from her youthful days to her hunched back and graying hair. The betel leaves remained vibrant, like the love she held for her family, her grandchildren, and for this familiar garden full of memories.

Every time school ended, I would rush to my grandmother's side, captivated by her nimble hands picking fresh betel leaves. She would gently place a few leaves in my hand, then laugh when I curiously picked a small sprig and brought it to my nose to smell it. The betel leaf had a mild, spicy scent, but strangely, it seemed to carry within it the familiar warmth of my grandmother. She used to say that betel leaves weren't just for chewing; they were also a precious medicine that could cure illnesses, cool the body, and ward off evil spirits. Her voice then was slow and warm, like a gentle lullaby, gradually seeping into my mind. Each word, like a seed silently sown in my memory, became a beautiful, personal memory that I have cherished through the years.

Illustrative image. Source: Internet

Each betel season, she carefully picks the fresh green leaves, patiently dries them, and stores them in earthenware jars. While chewing betel, she often recounts stories of a bygone era: about her youth, about the bustling village markets, about her husband's first love intertwined with simple betel quid, and about memories that have faded with time. She says that betel is not just a leaf; it is emotion, culture, and the soul of the Vietnamese people. Each betel quid contains the rituals and customs of her ancestors, wrapped up and passed down. Therefore, her betel vine is not just a row of trees in the corner of her garden, but also a repository of sacred memories – an indelible part of her rural soul.

Once, I asked her, "Why do you grow so many betel leaves, Grandma?" She smiled and said, "Betel leaves are for my grandparents to chew, to offer to guests who come to visit, and to place on the altar during ancestral commemorations and holidays. Sometimes I even use betel leaves to treat illnesses." I had heard many stories about traditional medicine from her younger days. Back then, she was a healer who helped her neighbors with joy and dedication. She never refused anyone; she was always ready to help if anyone needed her.

Every afternoon, as the sun faded, the old women of the village would gather around her betel vine. I still remember each one clearly: Mrs. Tư, with her slightly wobbly gait due to her aching leg; Mrs. Sáu, with her snow-white hair but still sharp eyes; and Mrs. Năm, with her kind smile, who, despite having lost several teeth, still couldn't give up her habit of chewing betel. They were close friends, having accompanied each other through countless betel seasons and village markets, bound together from their youth to their graying hair. Each woman held a handful of betel, chewing with her toothless mouth, savoring the pungent taste that spread across her tongue. After finishing their betel chewing, they would burst into laughter, cheerfully recounting old stories from their days planting rice in the rain, their days toiling in the scorching sun, to their first days as daughters-in-law, still feeling awkward and clumsy. Each story seemed to have been told hundreds of times, yet each time I heard it, it warmed my heart, as if those memories were distilled from affectionate kinship.

Whenever they mentioned loved ones, the women's eyes would sparkle, as if a flood of old memories rushed back. Some teared up when recounting stories of their children living far away, or the grandchildren they last saw when they were tiny babies. Then, joyful stories followed, their laughter ringing out, filling the garden with cheerful sounds. We children sat quietly listening from afar, not fully understanding everything, only seeing the women chewing betel nut and smiling softly, their cheeks flushed as if youth were returning.

Now that I've grown up and moved far from the village, my grandmother's betel vine trellis remains lush and green, standing silently in the corner of the garden, enduring the seasons of rain and sunshine. When I return home and see the verdant trellis, my heart is filled with memories of my grandmother's aged hands, of the times she sat and told stories, and of the bitter yet deeply flavorful betel leaves she used to chew, imbued with the love she bestowed upon her family. That betel vine trellis is like a part of my homeland's soul, reminding me of the peaceful, simple years spent with her, and of the boundless love she continued to give us, just like that trellis itself, forever green in my memory.

Source: https://baoquangbinh.vn/van-hoa/202504/gian-trau-cua-ba-2225623/