Memories of a paper fan

(Baonghean) - Yesterday, the power company cut off the electricity, and my daughter and I tossed and turned, unable to sleep in this room still filled with the stifling heat radiating from the west wall.

Even after using up all the magazines and cardboard to fan her, her forehead was still drenched in sweat. Suddenly remembering the paper fan I'd bought last winter to fan the charcoal for my great-grandmother, I got up and rummaged through all the drawers in the house. Finally, I found it hidden among some handy raincoats and an old helmet. The purplish-brown paper fan, still sealed with its rolled-up paper, had lain silently in the corner of the drawer for a whole year. The smell of paper, glue, and especially the sour, pungent smell of bamboo soaked in water—a scent unmistakable characteristic of paper fans—had become a familiar scent throughout my childhood.

Suddenly, memories from my childhood flooded back. Back then, our family was poor and didn't have electric fans like we do now. So, when the sun shone through the bamboo screen in front of the house at noon, my mother would buy a few paper fans. After buying them, she would painstakingly glue another layer of newspaper onto them. Although they weren't as pretty or lightweight as before, they were incredibly durable. After the hot season, any fan that still had its bamboo frame and outer layer of newspaper intact and wasn't too torn would be stored on top of the cupboard for use the following year. These paper fans became indispensable household items, readily available by the bedside, on top of the cupboard, or tucked away in front of the kitchen door so that at any time, every family member could quickly use a fan to cool down from the sweltering heat.

Photo: Internet

Amidst the hustle and bustle of life, we still have the habit of preserving images from the distant past, yet filled with enduring love and nostalgia. Perhaps it's not just a habit, but rather that everything naturally unfolds this way – what people often call "destiny"—for me, these are incredibly simple things, yet they hold a profound connection. I vividly remember my mother back then, dressed in silk trousers and a dark blouse, her long hair neatly pinned back with a three-leaf hairpin that had turned a glossy sheen, sitting on the porch, one hand holding a paper fan, the other gently stroking the dark, tanned cheek of my tiny younger sister. At that moment, I felt an extraordinary sense of peace.

Or perhaps it's the image of Father and my sisters and me lying together on the porch every summer night, Father fanning us with a paper fan, and as he fanned, myths, legends, and folk songs filled our young minds. Every now and then, he would tuck the fan away, using the handle to scratch our backs or legs. The gentle rustling of the paper fan, the cool breeze, and Father's warm, soothing voice lulled us to sleep without us even realizing it. When the moon reached the highest point of the bamboo grove, the sky filled with swirling clouds, and the moonlight became clear and pure, Father stopped fanning and recited a few lines from the Tale of Kieu – a pleasure he inherited from our grandmother – before drifting off to sleep peacefully alongside us.

Later, when our family's finances improved, my father bought small hand fans, then large, heavy American-made fans, and my mother stopped wearing silk trousers and dark blouses. Yet, simple, rustic paper fans remained in our house. They quietly sat sometimes on top of the cupboard, sometimes on the headboard of the bed, or even by the kitchen door, waiting to offer their refreshing breezes...

Phuong Ngoc