Harvest season in my ancestral countryside

QTO - Rarely has the harvest season in my ancestral village coincided with April 30th like this year. The red of the flags fluttering in front of the house blends with the golden hue of the ripening rice fields, creating a vibrant atmosphere of national celebration that seems to spread across the fields, along every path and alley, and with every step of the people heading to the rice paddies. Returning to my ancestral village during such days, my heart is filled with emotion, as if I am stepping into a harvest season that is both familiar and strange.

My ancestral home, a low-lying, flood-prone area, remains the same: deep fields, heavy with water. Only the harvest season changes with the years, and memories seem to remain perfectly preserved in people's hearts.

In the past, harvest season in my hometown was a time of hardship. From dawn, when dew still clung to the rice stalks, villagers would call out to each other as they headed to the fields. Sharpened sickles were raised to cut the rice, the sunlight reflecting off them, creating tiny, sparkling rays amidst the dry, harsh sun of Central Vietnam. The rustling sound of the sickles cutting the rice, the calls of people, all blended together into a unique sound, a sound that one only truly misses when far away. The harvesters bent down, silently and persistently. Their backs were stained dark with sweat. The bundles of rice, after being cut, were propped up, their tops touching like silent golden cones in the field. It was beautiful, but also the beauty of hardship and difficulty. Rice was carried on shoulders, wading through the rice paddies to dry places. The carts, heavily laden with straw, swayed precariously on the dirt roads, as if carrying an entire season of sun and wind.

There are rice paddies along the riverbanks, where the rice is carried home by boats. The boats, laden with rice stalks, drift slowly across the calm water. Each time the oars are pushed, the rice stalks touch the surface of the river, as if yearning to return to the water for rebirth. That scene, so gentle, so profound, and so deeply imprinted in my heart as an unnamed memory. In my memory, the harvest season in my grandparents' village was always associated with hardship. But strangely, it was also full of joy. Joy because of a bountiful harvest, joy because of meals in the fields with wild vegetable soup and deliciously salty braised fish. Joy also came from following the harvesters, picking up leftover rice stalks, or playing mischievously on piles of freshly harvested straw.

As evening falls, the entire rice field seems to slow down. People gather to thresh the rice. Grains scatter and fall like rain. The sound resonates steadily, like the daily rhythm of the countryside. At that moment, the rice grain is not just food; it represents sweat, sun and wind, and countless days of tireless, nameless labor.

Harvest season in the past. (Illustrative image - Source: Internet)

Then time passed, bringing with it subtle yet profound changes.

Harvesting is now faster and more efficient. Gone are the days of people bending over to harvest rice. The sound of sickles has given way to the rumbling of combine harvesters. With just one rotation, the rice is cut, threshed, and neatly bagged. Wide roads in the fields allow trucks to access the paddies directly. As soon as the rice is harvested, buyers arrive and weigh it on the spot. Farmers no longer have to carry heavy bundles of rice, nor do they endure exhausting nights threshing. Sweat still comes, but it's much less. On their sun-tanned faces, smiles are more relaxed, reflecting the joy of a less arduous harvest. However, amidst this newness and modernity, there are still things that bring a pang of sadness. These are the columns of smoke from burning straw drifting slowly across the fields at dusk. The white smoke is thin and ethereal, like mist carrying a whole realm of memories slowly returning.

I stood watching, and suddenly my heart calmed down. That smoke wasn't just smoke; it was the scent of straw, of my homeland, of harvests gone by. Today's harvest is faster, neater, and more efficient. But the harvests of the past were slow, arduous, yet deeply meaningful. They connected people, and people, to the fields, with invisible yet strong bonds.

Change is inevitable. No one wants to return to those hard times. But the memories of a harvest season of the past, where every grain of rice and every straw was steeped in memories, sweat, and human kindness, will always remain within me, so that each time I return, my heart is filled with unspoken longing.

Duong Linh

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/van-hoa/202605/mua-gat-mien-que-noi-a2c1e07/