Casual Conversation: The Scent of Grandma

The image I often saw was her chewing betel nut, occasionally spitting the juice into a tube. Sometimes, I would ask her to let me make a betel quid myself. First, I would tear the betel leaf into two equal pieces, apply a little lime, place a piece of areca nut, a piece of bark, a few strands of tobacco, then roll it up. Near the tip of the leaf, I would use a lime pick to poke a small hole and insert the stem. A small, pretty, bright green betel quid, like a trumpet, would fit neatly in my hand. I would offer it to her, respectfully inviting her to enjoy it. In the beginning, the betel quid was messy and misshapen, but gradually it became beautiful, neat, and appealing. She said, "Practice makes perfect." Once, I tried a small piece to taste, but the strong, pungent smell of the leaf and lime overwhelmed me, and I had to spit it out quickly. She burst out laughing, saying that those who weren't used to it couldn't eat it, and that some people who were used to it even got dizzy.

I couldn't chew betel nut, but I was addicted to its scent. The lingering fragrance clung to my grandmother's clothes, her scarf, and even her silvery white hair. The scent wafted through the yard, the house, and the kitchen. Even before seeing her hunched back, I sensed her presence through the warm, intoxicating aroma of betel nut. I remember those cold, rainy winter nights when I snuggled under the blankets, hugging her as we slept, the whole room warm and cozy. In the morning, the scent of betel nut still lingered on me. At school, my friends wondered, "What's that strange smell about you?"

My grandmother's scent was also the smell of "tiger balm"—that's what we call "golden star balm" in my hometown. She always carried a small bottle of balm in her pocket—an inseparable item. She'd apply it early in the morning to warm her throat and relieve coughs; rub it on her temples in the afternoon if she felt dizzy; and at night, she'd call her grandchildren over, massaging their arms and legs to loosen their muscles. Before bed, she'd apply it to the soles of her feet. She said there were many acupressure points on the soles of her feet, and massaging them would make her feel better and sleep soundly... Honestly, at first, I didn't like that pungent, strong smell at all. But gradually, I found it strangely endearing. If I didn't smell the balm lingering on any given day, I'd wonder why. She'd chuckle while chewing betel nut, saying it was because she'd just bathed, so the scent had gone away. Then, only the faint scent of betel nut would remain on her silvery-white hair drying in the sun. And then, just a little while longer, the house would be filled with the legendary, tangy aroma of the balm again.

Besides the scent of betel leaves and tiger balm, my grandmother also had the scent of fruits and vegetables from her garden. The garden was her life. Morning and evening, she wandered around the land and trees. In spring, when she pulled open the garden gate, the scent of lemon blossoms, pomelo blossoms, and the pungent smell of grass followed her footsteps. In summer, it was the scent of ripe custard apples and jackfruit; in autumn, the fragrance of early-season pomelos or golden persimmons, as sweet as sunshine; and in winter, the smell of the garden soil, ready to be sown with handfuls of seeds…

The scent of my grandmother—it's also the scent of time. Now she's gone forever, but in every corner of our familiar house, in every part of the small garden, in the kitchen, in the yard… I still catch glimpses of her small, nimble, and hardworking figure. And the scent of betel leaves, the scent of tiger balm, the scent of flowers, leaves, and plants all mixed together—it brings tears to my eyes!

Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-mui-huong-ba-ngoai-185250926211018802.htm