A glimpse of the West…

Illustration (AI)

Every now and then you text me asking, “Have you written yet? Are you going to take the exam? Have you given up?”. You text me to urge me because you see the love of the people of the West is overflowing in every page you write. You ask, “Why don’t you write something about the West?”. I can see the eagerness in your heart. Because in your eyes, the West is the land of chivalry.

You said you loved the West through the writings of a female writer. So when you drifted to the South, you insisted on going back to your hometown to play. As a way for you to verify what the book said. I once joked with you that "inside me is the whole West". Leaving the countryside to go to the city, staying at the crowded intersections with the sound of car horns , but it seems like the blood of the West has never run out in me. You asked, in the West now there are still houses that never close their doors, still have the seasons when the wind rustles the water coconut leaves along the river, still have the generosity, do you come to visit and scoop up rice seeds from the barn to serve?... You asked many questions, some I answered immediately, some I was so busy missing my hometown that tears welled up in my eyes, I couldn't remember what you asked?

You often patted me on the shoulder and smiled when you received the jar of fish sauce, the broken crab claws or the little corn cake that your mother sent me by bus. Your words “exactly like what was written in the book” made me feel excited. Because I did not let my parents down, did not let down the land that raised me, at least in the long and wide streets I still kept a little bit of my rustic heart. I remember the small, smoky hamlet where one family cooked sweet soup for the whole hamlet to eat, where during the season of catching fish in the pond, the whole hamlet gathered to catch and dry fish, where there was a sweet sticky rice cake “brought home for the children” every time there was a death anniversary. I grew up from such small, simple things!

You asked me to sing vọng cổ. The thought that everyone in the West is full of amateur blood and knows all of your cải lương plays by heart makes me laugh. Not wanting to let your love for cải lương be destroyed, I dare not recite vọng cổ with a breathless, broken voice. You said that when you were little, every time Minh Cảnh finished a sentence (falling), you would slap your thighs red "sweet as sugar cane", then burst out laughing at the "Le Thuy season's sucking rain" incident or once you laughed when I asked you to sing vọng cổ for me, "take Minh Cảnh's breath properly", you glanced at me "hide your profession". Then you asked for a pinky promise to believe me when I promised to take you home to sit on a bamboo mat, listen to traditional music, drink "head-down" rice wine, eat grilled snakehead fish "cool as the Earth God's sky".

One day, feeling empty, I took my friend back to his hometown on a broken-down motorbike with all kinds of diseases. I scared him, maybe even pushed the motorbike all the way to Kien Giang . I could tell he was laughing even without looking back. “What are you afraid of? If anything happens, stop by someone’s house and ask to sleep there.” I don’t know which page in the book that was written or where he learned it from. But perhaps because of what he said, I no longer had to worry about the motorbike lying in the middle of the road. I stopped the motorbike and pointed to the “Nothing” intersection (a name I gave myself), where an old couple woke up at dawn to wrap banh tet and boil sweet potatoes to give to relatives returning to their hometown to avoid the epidemic. The husband set up a “gas station”, rummaged through the motorbike repair tools that had been forgotten for nearly ten years, and started working again. All for free. The old couple's "reappearance" was strongly discouraged by their children and grandchildren, but the children gave up and rolled up their sleeves to help the old couple set up the "Nothing" intersection. I asked the old couple if they weren't afraid of getting "caught". The old couple laughed heartily and said "no virus can beat me". The bustling convoys of vehicles stopped to receive banh tet, sweet potatoes, water bottles, tire pumps, etc., then slowly left, followed by the words "Nothing, have a good trip". On the way home, I don't remember how many intersections I stopped to show you...

As soon as you put down your backpack, you insisted on visiting Mrs. Hai Oc, over 85 years old, in Hon Heo - the person who has been taking the students on the island to school twice a day for 10 years, so that their parents can rest assured to stay at sea. You said you will never forget the old lady's toothless smile, so beautiful it makes you faint. I looked at you smiling, suddenly remembering that there is no shortage of people like Mrs. Hai Oc in this country, people who choose to help others for joy, for happiness.

Sitting and enjoying the wind blowing through the fields, you said, “When you get old, you’ll probably come back here to live a good life.” I didn’t dare laugh out loud at the times you spoke with a Western accent, but the woman selling banh lot didn’t agree. She looked at you and smiled, “Oh my gosh, that guy is planning to marry into the family here.” The woman selling banh lot almost wanted to pull the boat up to the shore to sit and talk with you. The endless stories seemed to bring the two strangers closer. When pedaling away, she told me, “When you come back, call me a day in advance, so I can stop selling and stay home to make banh xeo for you guys to enjoy.”

Ask you, is there anything broken when seeing the West “in the flesh” with your own eyes? You stand pensively watching the water hyacinths floating and blooming, the scenery is different but the rustic, generous, simple nature of the people of the West is still the same, never fading. It seems like every blade of grass, treetop, and road here is familiar to you. So much so that I think you are the real Westerner, not me.

At night in the countryside, the sound of frogs sows memories in your heart. The fool sneaks into the third row, snoring like a plow. Mom hangs a mosquito net and pushes him into the middle before the mosquitoes "tear" him apart. The people in the neighborhood don't know where he came from and doesn't even have a piece of paper to carry. The fool takes root in this land with the love of his neighbors, eating whatever he can. In the morning, the fool wanders around the village, and at night, he sleeps wherever he comes across. Aunt Ba at the crossroads tried to take care of him several times but also gave up because "his legs are walking legs, he can't stay in one place". You ask, while the fool is turning over and snoring like this, has he ever been chased away? I've never witnessed that scene, only seeing the whole neighborhood stop the fool, remove the straws and plastic bags tied around his body, then cut his hair, bathe him, and change him into new clothes. That's probably why the fool can't bear to leave this place.

You are preparing to return to the city. I suspect you have stuffed the whole of the West into your backpack to open and look at every now and then, when you remember. I see your eyes and lips welling up as you watch the country people send you off. The car slowly disappears in the dim smoke of dinner, heads turning and bumping into each other. Sitting behind the car, you lean close to my ear, this bag of gifts will probably take weeks to eat, but the affection in this land, you will spend your whole life remembering, loving.../.

Tran Thuong Tinh

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