You said the Ao Ba Ba is associated with the image of my grandmother. When she went out, she wore the Ao Ba Ba. She chose the shirt depending on the place. The newest one was reserved for weddings and death anniversaries. The worn-out one was used to go to the market, to conveniently carry a tray of porridge to visit Mr. Nam who fell and lost his only tooth. The patched one was used to go to the fence to cut broom grass to dry and bundle to sweep the yard.
When at home or on hot days, Grandma wears a pocket shirt. Two small pockets contain her entire world . A bottle of balm from early morning until bedtime, before she even sees her, the scent of the balm quickly announces itself. A tarnished silver coin saved for scraping. A toothpick broken from an incense stick on the altar. A bundle of savings rolled into a ball and put in a plastic bag, sometimes tied with a flimsy elastic. Grandma fastens the pocket with a safety pin across it, keeping her belongings close to her.
I know you when your grandmother has passed away. But in your stories, your grandmother is still present. When you see a woman selling banh u banh tet passing by, you swallow your saliva. When you go to a funeral, your grandmother always packs you some banh u la tro with fatty coconut filling, or a sweet banana banh tet that melts your tongue. Now you can't find that sweet taste anywhere. At the end of the month when you get your salary, you remember when you were in school, your grandmother would occasionally dig into her shirt pocket and slip you a wad of money rolled into a cigarette, saved from the crabs and fish she groped for in the fields regardless of the sun or rain, from the bunches of bananas and bundles of vegetables she saved up.
The day your grandmother left, you packed up the clothes you brought for her, and saw in the closet that the Ao Ba Ba you bought during Tet, asking her to wear it to celebrate the New Year, was still there, but she regretted it and kept it. When she followed her and was buried three feet deep in the ground, the shirt had never once smelled of her sweat. You kept the patched shirt that she used to wear, and put it in a bag and wrapped it carefully. Every now and then, when you missed your grandmother, you took it out and sniffed it, like when you used to hug the shirt to sleep every time your grandmother was away. You whispered to her that you knew you were alone with your grandmother. You didn’t have a father, your mother married far away, and you grew up alone with your grandmother. Your grandmother was both your grandmother and your mother and father.
You feel tearful, people crave this and that dish, but you crave the Ao Ba Ba, how strange. Every now and then, missing it so much, you run into some Southern restaurants, watching the waitresses wearing Ao Ba Ba walking back and forth, and somehow feel strange. Sometimes, when you go back to the river, you stop by a Southern folk music restaurant, looking at the colorful Ao Ba Ba, the clear and sweet singing voice, which has nothing to do with the faded Ao Ba and the white bun of hair tied on your head.
You asked me if I ever took a detour to a faraway place to buy a bunch of vegetables, while a piece of meat dangled on the cart that I had just bought from the market. It wasn’t because that place sold fresh vegetables or any rare items. But the other day, while rushing past, you saw a woman wearing a traditional Vietnamese dress, sitting and picking vegetables next to a shoulder pole. You told yourself to come back next time, to trace back to the nostalgic memories through the old traditional Vietnamese dress…
Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-thuong-ao-ba-ba-185250802182353088.htm
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