Urban Tet

(To Quoc) - I was born and raised in Saigon. When I was young, I read many poems and prose describing the countryside and heard many people around me talk about their villages and their homesickness. Since then, I assumed that any place with rice fields, bamboo hedges, areca trees, coconut trees, rivers, thatched roofs, winding dikes… could be called my hometown.

And every time summer vacation or Tet comes, hearing my classmates talking about going back to their hometowns, I feel sad and absent-minded, thinking that I don't have a hometown.

That thought followed me throughout my childhood. It was not until I grew up and left Saigon that I realized I had a hometown. My hometown had no rice fields, mulberry fields, no rivers, no bamboo hedges, no coconut banks, no sand dunes, no ocean waves… My hometown was just a small hamlet in an alley on the outskirts of the city, a tree-lined road – the road that carried my childhood through a time of dreams; The morning and evening cries carrying the rhythm of hard work; The noisy, bustling sounds of the city. Thirty years, 30 Tet holidays away from home, I deeply understand the homesickness of a person far from home.

However, perhaps the end of December, when the days and months gradually run out for the old year to pass and the new year to come, is when I miss home and "hometown" the most.

My nostalgia for Tet often begins with the smell of paint. My neighborhood back then was a poor urban working-class neighborhood, with houses mostly made of old wooden planks. In the days before Tet, the whole neighborhood competed to repaint their houses to prepare for the new year. The whole neighborhood was filled with the smell of oil paint mixed with gasoline, a typical smell of Tet.

I remember very well on the 23rd of December, my mother held a ceremony to send the Kitchen God to heaven with only a package of "mouse shit" (théo léo lèo). My sisters and I sat anxiously watching. As soon as the Kitchen God disappeared behind the gate, my mother brought down the plate of "théo léo" and divided it equally for each of us, giving us two tiny pieces of "mouse shit" along with a black sesame "mouse shit" and a red cotton ball. That was all, but it was a boundless sky of happiness in my childhood.

Then there is the nostalgia for the market. The Tet market in my "hometown" is usually open all day and all night, with traders, vendors, vehicles, filling the path. On both sides of the road leading to the market, watermelons are piled up, "just enough to use" (custard apples, coconuts, papayas, mangoes) are stacked one basket on top of another... In the market, the area selling fabrics, clothes, shoes, home decorations, lucky money envelopes, plastic flowers, tissue paper... is bright red in one corner of the market. People jostle to shop for Tet, but everyone is smiling, their faces radiant even though they are in a hurry. It seems that spring always makes people more generous. People easily forgive each other for the grudges and resentments of the old year, ready to put on their best appearance to welcome the new year.

For Saigonese, going to the Tet market means going to the flower market. There are flower markets everywhere, but the biggest one in Saigon is Nguyen Hue flower market. For Saigonese, not going to the flower market means not going to the Tet market. This is not only a place to buy and sell flowers, but also a place that fascinates children with the bustling sound of the bells on the ice cream seller's hand, the colors of cotton candy, the funny animals that quickly transform in the skillful hands of the clay figurine maker...

After thirty years of returning, Nguyen Hue flower market is no longer there. I feel so regretful. Since the flower market became a flower street. Every year when Tet comes, I often choose a small corner for myself in the colorful space, quietly sit and watch the children playing, rewinding a corner of my childhood memories. I always feel a bit of old Saigon lingering in the cool spring breeze in the heart of the city.

I remember the moment my family prepared for Tet. The most "powerful woman" in the house was my mother, who every year showed off her talent with two family heirloom dishes: braised pork and stewed bitter melon. Every year my mother said, "Eat bitter melon at the end of the year to get over the bitterness." But I don't know if the bitterness will pass, but every year my mother never skipped this dish. I don't like bitter tastes, so I don't like it very much. But my mother's braised pork was truly "divine". The meat juice was thick, clear, the color of cockroach wings, the meat was golden yellow, the lean part was intact but the fat was so fatty that it melted in your mouth, fatty, served with a piece of crispy, sour pickled cabbage.

Especially the family reunion dinner on the 30th of Tet - the meal to welcome ancestors back to celebrate Tet with their children and grandchildren. For my extended family, from that moment: Tet begins. Only my mother, the 30 years I have not returned home means 30 years in her heart there has been no Tet.

Just when I returned, filling in the blanks for a true family reunion during Tet, the children in the family grew up one by one, some studying abroad, some settling abroad, some working far from home, some stationed on an island… My mother gradually got used to the absence of this person or that person during the three days of Tet.

Knowing that, on New Year's Eve, we often open FaceTime (an application that allows users to communicate for free and is integrated into Apple devices) and connect to the big screen in the middle of the house so that Mom can hear her children and grandchildren living far away wishing them a happy new year, see them, talk to them, and give them lucky money. Mom writes each person's name on the envelope, keeps it carefully, and when the opportunity arises, they will come back to receive it.

Mom said that in this modern era, we also have to "follow the times". Seeing and talking to "them" made Mom so happy, as if everyone was there for Tet. Mom said she was happy, but after celebrating New Year's Eve, everyone went to the temple, Mom had a sore leg at home, crawled under the mosquito net, lay down hugging her pillow... and cried silently.

Outside, the temple bells rang, rang in the New Year's Eve.

Source: https://toquoc.vn/tet-thi-thanh-20250126110258268.htm