From the hustle and bustle of the city where I had been staying for so long, to the intimate, vast space. I left the “lodging” to return to my hometown, to a place that I had never felt excited about leaving. After traveling hundreds of kilometers, I arrived at the village entrance, a rice village by the small river…
I stopped my car on the side of the road under a banyan tree with lush foliage, standing strong all four seasons through the storms of the Central region. The whole village did not know when that banyan tree was born, but it grew up thanks to the care and cultivation of someone. I only heard that when the ancestor of my village came here to build the village, the banyan tree was already standing tall, with a green canopy like that. I approached the tree, my heart was filled with emotion, and then a flash of emotion suddenly arose, because I saw somewhere my own shadow, of my miserable, but mischievous and true childhood. All the children back then were carefree, carefree, clinging to each other, relying on each other to grow up, but now each of them has gone their separate ways, rarely being able to reunite.
The cool summer wind at the end of the day blew from the distant fields into the banyan tree, making my hair strand by strand flutter, and the hem of my old shirt, full of dust and sweat from the journey, fluttered and blew against my body. It had been a long time since I had returned to the banyan tree, alone to welcome the clean and fresh breezes from the fields.
I tried to stay longer in that special space. It was the end of the day, the sky was gradually turning dark, but the sunlight had not yet disappeared. The pink light was shining brightly behind the peaceful clouds. The countryside was deserted, on the roads running through the plains, there were silhouettes of people hurrying back to the village. Some were walking, some were riding motorbikes, some were carrying bicycles. The quiet, peaceful atmosphere of the fields embraced and filled my heart. The sound of sparrows chirping and playing on the rice fields, the sound of frogs starting to croak. Looking towards the end of the village, oh how beautiful the thin layer of powder made from the thin sunset gently dotted the back of the village. At this time, the village was very beautiful, the electric lights had begun to light up together.
I followed the high, undulating rice fields, then got closer to some fields. The rice had just bloomed, the fragrance was still very strong and pure, the young yellow rice flowers were about an inch long, stretching straight, waiting for the night to come, when the dew fell, they gently breathed in the night scent of heaven and earth, and then the day passed, grain after grain just growing. Looking out at the fields now still holding ears of rice, I went closer and picked a few ears of rice, innocently enjoying them. That sweetness made me nostalgic for the days gone by, for the time when day after day I only knew how to herd buffaloes and cut grass, every season at this time, I would chatter in the fields, take big handfuls of ears of rice from other families' fields to eat and play with.
Returning here, I realize more and more that I am truly a grain of rice. A grain of rice is small but contains so much essence. That grain of rice is the product of the boundless care of my father, mother, village, and homeland. I am always cherished and nurtured by those hands, so that I am always healthy and think about the bright, golden, grain-laden harvests.
Isn’t it true that the rice grain also felt so sad when it had to leave the fields, leave its homeland, leave its parents to go away? The dual memories of people and fields, of fields and people, gradually receded into the distant past. But the heart of the fields, the wishes of its parents, made the rice grain never allow itself to be forgotten, never let termites gnaw at it all. In a certain corner of the city, the rice grain still chose to seek out the “scent of mud”, to incubate itself in it, and then just germinate, following the flow of time to become green, to work in the fields, then bloom, and bear fruit.
Article: Tran Viet Hoang
Illustration: Hai Vuong
