A glimpse of the Mekong Delta…

Every now and then you'd message me asking, "Have you written it yet? Are you planning to take the exam? Have you given up?" You'd urge me on because you felt the warmth and sincerity of the people of the Mekong Delta overflowing in every page I wrote.

(AI)

Every now and then you'd message me asking, "Have you started writing yet? Are you planning to take the exam? Have you given up?" You'd urge me on because you felt the warmth and sincerity of the people of the Mekong Delta overflowing in every page I wrote. You'd ask, "Why don't you write something about the Mekong Delta?" I could see the eagerness in your heart. Because in your eyes, the Mekong Delta is a land of righteousness and integrity.

You told me you fell in love with the Mekong Delta through the writings of a female author. When you drifted south, you insisted on returning to your hometown, as if to verify what the books said. I once joked with you, "I have the whole Mekong Delta inside me." Leaving my hometown for the city, settling in the crowded intersections filled with honking cars , it seems the blood of the Mekong Delta has never faded. You asked if the Mekong Delta still has houses where people sleep with their doors never closed, if the wind still rustles through the coconut leaves along the riverbanks, if the generosity of the people there still remains—like when you come to visit and scoop up rice seeds from the granary to share with them?... You asked many questions; some I answered instantly, others I was so preoccupied with missing home that tears welled up in my eyes, and I couldn't remember what you had asked.

You often patted my shoulder and laughed when I received jars of fish sauce, bundles of crabs with broken claws, or a few corn cakes that my mother sent up by bus. Your comment, "exactly like in the book," stirred my emotions. Because I hadn't let my parents down, hadn't let the land that raised me down; at least amidst the vast city, I still retained a little bit of the sweet, rustic spirit of my hometown. I remember the small village with its flickering smoke, where one family's sweet soup was shared by the whole neighborhood, where during the season of catching fish in the pond, the whole neighborhood gathered to make dried fish, where there were sweet sticky rice cakes "brought home for the children" during every ancestral commemoration. I grew up from these small, simple things!

You asked me to sing vọng cổ (traditional Vietnamese folk singing). The thought that everyone in the Mekong Delta has a deep-seated passion for tài tử (traditional Vietnamese folk music) and knows your cải lương (Vietnamese traditional opera) plays by heart made me laugh. I couldn't bear to see your love for cải lương ruined, so I didn't dare sing the vọng cổ with my breathy, slurped voice. You told me that when you were little, every time you heard Minh Cảnh finish a line (the lower register), you'd slap your thighs, saying it was "sweet as sugarcane," then burst out laughing at the "endless rain in Lệ Thủy" incident. Another time, you laughed when I asked you to sing vọng cổ for me, saying, "I'll catch Minh Cảnh's breath properly," and you glanced at me, saying, "You're hiding your skills, aren't you?" Then you insisted on a pinky promise when I promised to take you home to sit on a woven mat, listen to tài tử music, drink rice wine until you were drunk, and eat grilled snakehead fish, enjoying the cool weather.

One day, feeling empty inside, I took my friend back to his hometown on our rickety old motorbike, riddled with problems. I joked, "We might end up pushing it all the way back to Kien Giang !" I could tell he was smiling even without him turning around. "What are you afraid of? If anything happens, we can just pull over and ask someone for a place to sleep." I don't know which page in a book that said, or where he learned it. But perhaps because of his words, I no longer worried about the motorbike being stranded in the middle of the road. I stopped and pointed out the "Nothing" intersection (a name I made up), where an elderly couple had woken up at dawn to wrap sticky rice cakes and boil sweet potatoes to give to relatives returning to their hometowns to escape the pandemic. The husband had set up a "gas station," dug out his forgotten motorbike repair tools from nearly a decade ago, and resumed his trade. Everything was free. The old couple's "comeback" was met with strong opposition from their children and grandchildren, but the kids eventually gave up, rolled up their sleeves, and joined in, helping the old couple set up the "Nothing" intersection. When asked if they weren't afraid of getting "infected," the old couple chuckled, "No virus can catch me." Bustling convoys of vehicles stopped to receive sticky rice cakes, sweet potatoes, bottles of water, tire inflation, and other supplies, then slowly departed, followed by the words, "Nothing, have a safe journey home." All along the way home, I can't remember how many such intersections I pointed out to my friend...

As soon as you put down your backpack, you insisted on visiting Mrs. Hai Oc, over 85 years old, on Hon Heo Island – a woman who for 10 years has been transporting and providing meals for students on the island to school twice a day, so their parents can focus on fishing. You said you could never forget the old woman's toothless smile, so beautiful it was breathtaking. Looking at you smile, I suddenly realized that there are plenty of people like Mrs. Hai Oc in this place, people who choose helping others as their joy and happiness.

Sitting there enjoying the breeze from the fields, you said, "When I get old, I'll probably come back here to live comfortably." I didn't dare laugh out loud at your Southern accent, but the woman selling rice noodles wouldn't let it slide. She looked at you and smiled, "Oh my goodness, you're planning to become a son-in-law here, aren't you?" The woman selling rice noodles almost wanted to pull her boat ashore to sit and chat with you. The rambling conversations brought the two strangers closer together. As she pedaled away, she added, "When you're coming back, give me a call beforehand so I can take a break from selling and make some rice pancakes for you guys to enjoy."

I asked you, "Doesn't it feel a little strange seeing the Mekong Delta in person?" You stood there, lost in thought, watching the water hyacinths drift and bloom. The scenery was different, but the rustic, generous, and simple spirit of the people of the Mekong Delta remained unchanged, never fading. It seemed as if every blade of grass, every tree, every road here was familiar to you. So much so that I thought you were the real Mekong Delta resident, not me.

At night in the countryside, the croaking of frogs stirs up memories in your heart. The simpleton, Khờ, would snore like a tractor in the veranda. His mother would push him into the middle of the mosquito net before the mosquitoes could "tear him apart." The villagers didn't know where Khờ had drifted from, without even a piece of paper to show for it. Khờ took root in this land through the kindness of his neighbors, eating whatever was available. In the mornings, he would wander all over the village, sleeping wherever he could find a place to rest. Aunt Ba, across the crossroads, tried to take him in several times, but eventually gave up because "his feet are for traveling; he can't stay in one place." You asked if Khờ had ever been chased away while tossing and turning in his sleep and snoring like that. I've never witnessed that, only that every now and then the whole village would stop Khờ, untie the straws and plastic bags tied to him, cut his hair, bathe him, and change his clothes. Perhaps that's why Khờ couldn't bear to leave this place.

You're preparing to return to the city. I suspect you've packed everything from the Mekong Delta into your backpack, so you can occasionally open it up and look at it whenever you remember. I see tears welling up in your eyes as you watch the villagers see you off. The car slowly disappears into the hazy smoke of the evening meal, fleeting glances brushing against each other. Sitting behind me, you whisper in my ear, "This bag of gifts will probably last me several weeks, but the kindness and hospitality of this place will last a lifetime."

Tran Thuong Tinh

Source: https://baolongan.vn/mot-thoang-mien-tay--a196619.html