New rice

(Baonghean) - Tonight, I called my mother, and she said that harvest season is underway. We've already harvested all the rice in the fields in front of our house, and there are only a few acres of swampy land left to finish the season. My mother's voice sounded exhausted after a week of racing against time with the harvest. The sun was blazing hot; going to work meant worrying about getting sick, but not going meant constantly worrying about the ripe rice wilting in the fields.

If it rains heavily, the rice plants will be flattened, making harvesting difficult and adding extra effort. Not to mention the recent hailstorms; even without heavy rain, the entire crop can be lost. My mother's worries brought me back to the harvests of long ago. When I was eighteen or twenty, still so close to the smell of straw and rice stalks clinging to my hair. When the piles of rice stacked high in the corner of the yard could tell stories of dreams of abundance, of the hard work and sweat that soaked my parents' clothes. When the whole homeland was draped in a flowing golden silk ribbon in the summer sun. When sparrows called to their flocks, fluttering back to pick up fallen grains…

Farmers tend to their rice like newborn babies, but when the time comes, the rice ripens very quickly. Just yesterday the rice was forming ears, and today it's heavy with grain. A few days pass, perhaps due to weddings, funerals, or backaches preventing them from visiting the fields, and one morning they wake up to find the horizon ablaze with ripe rice. Initially, the rice ripens in small clumps, making the field look like a dress of yellow blossoms. Mother begins sharpening her sickles. Father trims the trees near the drying yard to ensure the harvested rice gets enough sun. They prepare ox carts for the distant fields and several pairs of carrying poles for the fields near the house. Taking advantage of the cool afternoon shade, Father takes the children to build embankments to block the ditches and catch fish. The spoils that my father and I gather will be preserved by Mother to make food for the busy harvest season when there's no time to go to the market. By the time all these preparations are complete, the rice is a golden yellow, glistening across the fields. The village has officially entered the harvest season…

Illustration photo: Internet

At dawn, as the roosters crowed, the whole family woke up. Without needing a word, everyone busied themselves with their tasks. Mother lit the fire to fry rice for breakfast, father cleaned the livestock pens, and I quickly boiled a pot of herbal tea to take to the fields to quench my thirst. The sounds of people calling out to each other to harvest, asking to borrow ox carts, hiring each other to carry rice, and joking and laughing filled the village. Soon, only the rustling of sickles, the thudding footsteps of those carrying rice, and the hurried breaths of those exhausted from the sun could be heard. The intense summer sun couldn't diminish the joy of holding heavy, plump grains of rice in their hands. After so many days of watching the sky, the earth, and the clouds, they finally saw the fruits of their labor. There's no need to wait until they hold a bowl of fragrant white rice, the aroma of freshly harvested rice, to know the joy. In truth, the farmer's heart is filled with joy from the moment the sweat falls. It truly is a case of "a grain of gold yielding nine drops of sweat."

I remember the smell of rice, the smell of straw, the bustling days in my hometown. I remember the strings of grasshoppers my mother caught in the rice fields, roasted to perfection, a delicious, rich treat for my youngest brother. I also remember the money my mother earned selling unripe rice to pay for my sisters and me's school fees during those lean years. So many years have passed, life has changed so much, yet only the farmers remain, toiling under the sun and rain, carefully nurturing each grain of rice. I left my hometown for the city a long time ago, but every year I encounter a rice harvest season in my memory. Like that afternoon when I held a bowl of freshly cooked rice my mother sent from home, suddenly choking up, unable to swallow those grains of love…

Vu Thi Huyen Trang

(Hanoi)