Scent of the countryside

The little girl wanted to cry when she saw her lunch: just a small bowl of sweet potato mixed with a handful of rice. She pleaded with her mother, "Give me a spoonful of rice, don't mix it with the sweet potato, just plain rice. I'm afraid of the smell of the sun in that bowl of dried sweet potato!"

My mother quietly tilted the ladle and spoon over each slice of potato until it filled a spoonful.

A family of four or five with only a bowl of rice, without adding potatoes, how could they possibly have enough for a meal? For years, she remembered, regretted it, and then told herself: It was because she was weak and spoiled too much by her grandmother. But her younger brother, with hair scorched by the sun, barely over five years old, eagerly sat chewing, his eyes looking at her with great surprise.

Illustration: Dao Tuan

I remember the smell of sunshine on the hills. The green puddles hidden beneath the young rice plants, their milky scent. The smell of sunshine in freshly cut straw, in the straw that decomposed until the end of autumn. But the smell of sunshine in a bowl of dried sweet potatoes still frightens me. I dare not look back because each time I left the village to catch the blaring market train, tears welled up in my eyes. I dare not look back when the north wind swept through the valley, bending the wild grass, making it shrivel and shiver. Sitting by the train window, surrounded by piles of sacks, the sounds of coughing, cigarette smoke, the curses of the drunken forest workers, and the wailing of children, I couldn't shake the thought of the cold weather in the north wind-swept fields. My mother's cracked feet were submerged in deep mud. I dare not look back because the cry is choked in my throat. When will this village in the low valley be prosperous and joyful like the peaceful rural landscape in the poems I've read...?

Today, I laughed a lot with my travel companion when we came across the railway line just after crossing the hillside. Lush green rice paddies stretched as far as the eye could see, lined with rows of yellow and white butterfly flowers, and a wooden sign with two arrows pointing towards the station suddenly appeared.

I'm going home!

My house is on the other side of the hill. Every day, I used to gaze at the towering hill through the trees, but now it looks like just a small, overgrown oasis.

The hill rises above the endless rows of lush green acacia trees, its verdant color spilling over the undulating rice paddies.

Nestled amidst the greenery were imposing, well-built houses with wooden doors, concrete walls, and red and green tiled roofs. A large paved road led directly to the village, and concrete lanes ran into each alleyway. We were surprised to see a rather large gas station. A gas station for an entire village! How convenient for the businesses and daily lives of the villagers.

On the slope leading down to the train station and the bustling market, there are several houses built in the style of garden villas, with fences covered in climbing flowers, and along the roadside, clusters of purple flowers swaying in the breeze.

I couldn't find any trace of the barefoot children herding buffalo on the muddy, slippery road. I no longer remember where the wild grass, blown by the wind, drifted toward the now-rolling train. The kindergarten, the drying yard, the grocery store, the clinic, the commune office... These new buildings filled and erased the sad memories of the days I left my hometown for the city.

I wore a silk ao dai (traditional Vietnamese dress) along with my sisters to the inauguration ceremony of our family church. The colorful skirts fluttered in the sunlight. The road to the church wound around a small bridge between two banks of swaying cosmos flowers. We laughed so much, yet suddenly tears welled up. It was when I didn't see the sweet potato patch with its tender young leaves that I involuntarily remembered the scent of sunshine in the bowl of rice mixed with dried sweet potatoes from days gone by...

The gentle autumn moon shone down on the tiled courtyard. My sister and I sat in the spacious kitchen with a television screen and a wooden dining table laden with dishes. Pork and chicken from our own farm, fresh vegetables, and fish soup made with fish just caught from the lake. My sister was a skilled cook. Every dish was fragrant and delicious, with the authentic flavors of the countryside. I paused, placing my chopsticks on a bamboo tray lined with banana leaves. Hot, freshly roasted potatoes smothered me.

- Are you still afraid of the smell of dried potatoes?

I took small bites. The sweet potatoes, roasted over charcoal until golden brown, had a fragrant, nutty, and sweet flavor.

- She likes roasted potatoes, especially the foreign varieties roasted over charcoal from the sim tree. But she's still wary of dried potatoes mixed with rice.

My mother's eyes welled up with tears when she mentioned my grandmother. We were like children returning to the dry firewood and tender leaves, to the distant and nearby fields, the sound of flutes under the moonlight, and the pestle pounding rice in the quiet midday.

I stepped out into the yard. By the well, a pump had been installed, and the old bucket still hung on a branch of the tea plant. The chickens had voluntarily gone into their coop since dusk, their legs tucked between their legs, their eyes half-closed...

We have traveled so far, yet we long for the return journey. The dreams of vast horizons, the hurried daily discourses, suddenly fade away as the moonlight scatters its silver light and the scent of childhood gardens fills our eyes. How fortunate are those who have a place to return to!

Source: https://baothainguyen.vn/van-nghe-thai-nguyen/202508/mui-que-adb370c/