The smell of smoke...

(Baonghean) - The first time I could name the overwhelming longing within me was when I sat with my eyes tightly closed, leaning my head against the side of the train as it sped across the fields of the midland region during harvest season. The smoke filled my nostrils with the scent of straw and rice stalks in the evening, the smell of the harvest, of childhood memories. Ah, it turns out that the longing that had been gnawing at me for so many years was when I sat in a restaurant ordering a bowl of white rice and a plate of braised fish. Or when I was jostling at a busy intersection during dinner time, my stomach rumbling with hunger, the smell of exhaust fumes overwhelming me. Or when I woke up from a midday nap and found my storehouse of memories restless and uneasy, remembering something indistinct. Now I've finally given this longing a name. I remember the smoke!

You're from the city, used to eating out or, even if you cook a decent meal at home, it's usually with a gas stove, electric stove, or, in the old days, a charcoal stove full of toxic smoke. So when you came back to my hometown for summer vacation and smelled the fragrant smoke from burning fields, the aroma of roasted potatoes and cassava from the buffalo herders, you were thrilled. You insisted that this was the specialty of the countryside, that the city had everything except this one thing. I told you about my childhood days, walking home from school at noon, hungry, we'd argue all the way, trying to guess what kind of leaves were burning, and then guessing what dish was coming from the smell of the smoke. You didn't believe me? Well, eucalyptus wood smoke has a pungent smell, bamboo wood smoke has the smell of the forest, straw smoke has the aroma of unripe rice... This smells like fried fish, braised pork, or stir-fried pumpkin leaves with garlic. We'd argue wildly, forgetting our gnawing hunger, and the journey from school to home seemed a little shorter because of it. After hearing that, you laughed and said, "From now on, our game will be guessing the smoke." So you were always the one sitting behind me on the motorbike, leaning your head against my back, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent of smoke emanating from every alley and road in the countryside we passed through. And when we returned to the city, you compared your longing for the smoke to someone craving vegetables for a long time, feeling a gnawing hunger in their stomach, or like lovers separated by distance...

Illustrative image

My grandmother is now hunched over, her hair gray, her memory failing. The stories she tells of the past are tinged with the scent of fairy tales. When I was a thirteen-year-old girl, with my hair tied in a ponytail and my skin dark, I would stand by the door every afternoon waiting. Strangers passing by would ask who I was waiting for, only to receive a frantic shake of my head, then I would bury my face in her chest and cry bitterly all afternoon. In the sadness of a child longing for loved ones far away, there seemed to be a hint of sun-drenched smoke. The smoke drifted in her eyes, hazy and distant, filling me with a profound sadness. Then, years passed, the sun-drenched smoke drifting over my grandmother's silver hair, over the hem of my white school dress, over the train station where my parents were reunited. This time, returning home, I heard my grandmother say that lately she always sees sun-drenched smoke drifting before her eyes. Hearing that, my heart ached, knowing that one day, not far off, she would no longer be able to see anything, not even the color of the sun-drenched smoke. As for me, I am no longer the little girl in the white school dress I once was; life has become as worn and tattered as the creases of her dress. It's a rare occasion to return and sit by my grandmother's house, watching the sunlight drift across the small, precarious courtyard. You once asked what the sunlight smells like? I said it smells like memories.

You know, I remember the scent of the incense smoke my grandmother used to light for my grandfather on the first and fifteenth days of the lunar month. Amidst the lingering smoke, I could hear her murmuring to him from some distant realm. It was as if I were living in another world, a place where he and other loved ones I had never met were present. The incense smoke was both warm and comforting, yet also bitter and poignant. I would often lie on my bamboo bed, gazing at my grandmother in her dark brown dress, standing gently amidst the smoke like a fairy, her face incredibly benevolent. Then I would drift off to sleep, always a peaceful slumber. At that time, the garden was bathed in moonlight and gentle breeze, a few banana leaves rustling softly in the corner...

Now, whenever I'm away from home, I feel like a rootless soul. I can't find the smoke from the kitchen fires, nor can I see the sunlight. My cramped rented room usually doesn't have an altar, so the scent of incense has gradually faded from my memory. I go back home about ten times a year, and when asked, I say I'm going back for this or that reason, but in reality, I go back because I miss the smoke. I'm afraid that if I live in the city for too long, I might forget the smoke, and that would be a great loss for the rest of my life.

Vu Thi Huyen Trang