The children came out of the field.

We consider ourselves children who came from the fields. After more than 30 years living and working in the city, our footprints are imprinted on the most modern paved roads in the city. The other day, a friend reminded me of the smell of the rice paddies, the smell of fish sauce, the fragrant, slightly burnt smell of leftover rice, and I felt a pang of nostalgia for the fields and the rice paddies!

My friend, a true country boy, thought he had successfully shaken off the mud, but little did anyone know that the scent of the countryside, like the smell of ripening rice, was still deeply ingrained in his subconscious. He says he still has the skill to distinguish between fragrant rice, purebred cherry rice, and Thai hybrid rice by smell. In Saigon, his eyes light up when he talks about the aroma of freshly milled brown rice.

My father, a simple, honest man, grew up in the rice paddies. War tore him away from his homeland, forcing him to wander through the forests for days at a time, marching through the night, wading through rivers, and crossing foreign lands, all while yearning for the rice paddies of his native land. Years later, he decided to settle down in the village fields, like the mangrove, the nipa palm, the willow, and the other trees, their roots deeply embedded in the soil, casting shade over the embankments. He never wanted to leave his fields again.

But we are not like him, not like the old people. The old people spend the rest of their lives in the fields. We, on the other hand, want to spend our vibrant youth in the city. The vast rice paddies nurtured our childhood, nourishing our bodies with wholesome rice and bran, with vegetables and fish splashing in the swampy fields. Then, in those same fields, the smoke from burning straw rose, marking several farewells. One group of children after another grew up. One group left for a distant land after another. The kite-flying season was less filled with laughter, and the rustling of footsteps on the cracked fields during the dry season subsided.

We come and go, burying our lives in the heart of the city. Like rice stalks, ripe for harvest, fragrant and sweet. We, in the city, remain like rice stalks, bowing humbly before grand things, gently gliding past colorful and flashy things, quietly hiding ourselves from superficial temptations. A city dweller called me "both country and city." And rightly so; children who emerge from the fields, though their feet smooth and rosy, still carry the marks of hardship, calluses, and shallow and deep cracks in their skin. In the city, amidst the diverse accents of different lands, we still retain our simple, rustic accents.

The rustic charm, like the roots of straw, seems easily rotten under the pouring rain and scorching summer sun, but no, it is precisely what keeps our souls from fading amidst the hustle and bustle. It is like nourishment that sustains the tree of kindness, allowing it to grow ever stronger, and like boundless gratitude flowing endlessly like underground water.

That day, when we arranged to return home, our hometown greeted us with the name of a new city. There were no more fields amidst the modern urban landscape, with hundreds of towering buildings disappearing from view. A kite was probably stuck somewhere on a balcony.

We can only visit the fields in our minds. In the past, children emerged from the fields. Now, children have been uprooted from the fields.

No problem! Because the fragrant scent of rice still lingers deep in my heart and mind, in my sense of smell, which is already accustomed to the rustic aroma of the countryside...

Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhung-dua-tre-buoc-ra-tu-canh-dong-185260530180449507.htm