From the fifth grade onwards, I had a special privilege: I could go back to my hometown whenever I liked. My mother encouraged her children to be independent from a very young age, so it was normal for an 11-year-old girl to travel nearly 70 kilometers from Vinh to Do Luong to be with her mother.
The best part about going back to the countryside is when you happen to encounter harvest season. Ox carts laden with rice arrive right in front of the house. Spotting me from afar, my uncle's ox cart stopped, waiting for me to run up and jump on. Sitting on the pile of rice, I looked around at the other ox carts, each with a few children perched on top. We looked at each other, sometimes without even talking, just giggling, and it was a strangely joyful feeling. That feeling, of course, is impossible to experience as a city child.
My uncle's rice threshing machine was right by the gate to the house, the sound of the pedals and threshing echoing through the village roads and alleys. My aunt, a new daughter-in-law, was very good at pleasing the children. She secretly gave us a few handfuls of plump, round glutinous rice to treat our "city guests." After everything was done, she lingered to roast the rice. The aroma of freshly harvested glutinous rice filled the house with a warm, fragrant scent. What we loved most was sitting by the fire waiting for the rice to roast; each child would receive a small handful from my aunt, which we would let cool before putting it in our pockets. Just a handful of roasted glutinous rice, but each of us felt incredibly fortunate, happily chewing and eating the rice while chatting about all sorts of things. The sweet, fragrant, and crunchy taste of the freshly harvested rice stayed with us throughout our childhood and into the years to come.
Children following adults to the fields during harvest or wandering around the threshing area felt like they were at a festival. Although the adults occasionally scolded them, not wanting to trip them up or cause rashes from the rice dust, my cousin, only a few years older than me, would often bring back soft, smooth clay from the fields. He was skillful, meticulously molding it into the shapes of cars, dogs, mice… We would dry it together, play with it, and he would usually give it all to me when he returned to the city. My grandmother never forgot to send the driver a few dozen kilograms of fresh rice for my mother and me to eat. Year after year, it was the same old story, but when I returned to the city, I was still eager to tell my mother about the harvest, and she was still eager to listen while enjoying a bowl of fragrant, freshly cooked rice.
I remember the golden rice fields viewed from Bao Nham hill (Yen Thanh). During a trip back to my hometown in 7th grade, I impulsively decided to visit Bao Nham hill – a beautiful sight my close friend from the rice-growing region was very proud of and had told me about many times. From the foot of the hill, I followed a path simulating the life of Jesus Christ to the summit. Unexpectedly, I was overwhelmed by the wind blowing from the pine trees, carrying the fragrant scent of freshly harvested rice. The golden rice paddies leaned against each other, waiting to be harvested. The rustling sound of the ripening rice was like a joyful song echoing everywhere. And the golden sunlight spread like honey across the rice fields, creating a truly beautiful picture. That was also the first time I had seen such a vast expanse of golden rice from above, with an indescribable feeling. I sat there for a long time just admiring the ripe rice, until I had to rush back down to catch a bus to my grandparents' house as the sun was setting.
The little girl from years ago has grown up, and is no longer young. Time passes, and so does everything. But for some reason, whenever I walk through a field of ripening rice, it feels so pristine. It's still the same golden color of the rice, the sweet, mellow scent of ripe rice, the pungent smell of the mud and soil that many people have trampled on. The golden sunlight, like honey, shines upon it, as clear as ever.
You made plans with me, mentioning this place or that spot this summer. "We absolutely must go, because we've been stuck here for two years due to the pandemic." And I made a promise to myself: this summer, I will definitely return with my child to the rice fields of our homeland, to listen to the fragrant rice stalks rustling and singing their timeless song. And I will tell my child about the ripening rice fields we happened to pass through, still etched in my memory…
Illustrative photos: Hai Vuong – Huy Thu – Le Thang
