Smell of the countryside

The little girl wanted to cry when she saw her lunch, which was only half a bowl of potatoes mixed with a pinch of rice. She begged her mother, "Give me a spoonful of rice, no dried potatoes, just whole grains of rice. I'm afraid of the smell of sunlight in the dried potatoes!"

Mom quietly tilted the spoon to fill the spoon with each slice of potato.

A family of four or five with only one pot of rice, without potatoes, how could they have enough food? After so many years, she missed it, regretted it, and then told herself: It was because she was sickly and had been spoiled by her grandmother. But her little brother, whose hair was burnt by the sun, and who was only five years old, still sat there eagerly chewing, looking at her with surprise.

Illustration: Dao Tuan

I remember the smell of sunshine on the hills. The green puddles hidden under the young rice fields smelling of milk. The smell of sunshine in the newly cut straw, in the straw that rotted until late autumn. But the smell of sunshine in the bowl of dried sweet potatoes still scared me. I didn’t dare look back because every time I left the village to catch the whistle-blowing market train, my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t dare look back when the north winds blew into the valley, making the grass bend down, shrink, and freeze. Sitting by the window of the train, the burdens of packaging piled up, the sound of coughing, the smell of cigarette smoke, the sounds of the forest workers cursing with a strong smell of alcohol, the sounds of children crying still couldn’t shake the thought that out there in the north windy fields, the weather was freezing cold. Mother soaked her cracked feet in the deep mud. I didn’t dare look back because the cries were stuck in my throat. Who knows when the village in this low valley will be as prosperous and joyful as the peaceful countryside in the poems I’ve read…

Today, I laughed a lot with my companion when we saw the railway just passing over the hillside. The young green rice fields were pleasing to the eyes, the banks were full of yellow and white butterfly flowers, and a wooden board with two arrows pointing to the station suddenly appeared.

I'm going home!

My house is over the hill. The hill that once towered over the trees now looks like a small, overgrown oasis.

The hill rose up beyond the horizon with rows and rows of green acacia trees, then spilled over to the undulating young rice fields.

Amidst the greenery, there are stately houses with wooden doors, red and blue tiled roofs, and concrete roads leading to the village and concrete roads leading to each alley. We were surprised to see a large gas station. A gas station for a village! Very convenient for the business and daily activities of the people.

On the slope leading down to the train station and the market area are several villa-style houses with gardens, fences full of climbing flowers, and purple flowers blooming along the roadside.

I could not find any trace of the barefoot children who had herded the buffaloes on the muddy road. I could no longer remember clearly where the grass fields that had been blown by the wind toward the rolling train were now. The kindergarten, the drying yard, the grocery store, the clinic, the committee office... The new buildings filled and erased the sad memories of the days I left my hometown for the city.

I wore a silk ao dai with my sisters to attend the inauguration ceremony of the family church. The colorful ao dai fluttered in the sunlight. The path to the church passed over a small bridge between two banks of grass with fluttering daisy flowers. I laughed so much that suddenly tears welled up. When I couldn't see the young potato patch, I suddenly remembered the smell of sunlight in the bowl of rice mixed with dried potato...

The gentle autumn moon poured over the brick courtyard. My sister and I sat in the large kitchen with a TV screen and a wooden dining table with a variety of dishes. Home-raised pork and chicken, young vegetables, fish soup just caught from the lake. My sister was a skillful cook. Every dish had the delicious aroma of the countryside. I stopped my chopsticks on a bamboo tray covered with banana leaves. The potatoes were just baked and piping hot.

- Are you still afraid of the smell of dried potatoes?

I took small bites. The sweet potatoes were roasted in charcoal until golden brown, with a sweet and aromatic taste.

- I like grilled potatoes, especially foreign potatoes grilled over blackberry charcoal. But I'm still afraid of dried potatoes mixed with rice.

Mother's eyes welled up with tears when she mentioned her grandmother. We were like children returning home with dry firewood and young leaves, with the sound of flutes at night and the sound of rice pounding at noon.

I walked out into the yard. The well had a pump installed, the old bucket still hung on a pomelo branch. The chickens had voluntarily gone to the coop since dusk, legs curled up, eyes half-closed and half-open...

We have come so far, and only wish for the time to return. The dreams of vast horizons, the hurried discourses of daily life suddenly fade away when the moonlight sprinkles silver and the scent of childhood gardens fills the eyes. Happy are those who have a place to return to!

Source: https://baothainguyen.vn/van-nghe-thai-nguyen/202508/mui-que-adb370c/