Leisure talk: Love for the Vietnamese traditional dress

You said the Ao Ba Ba was associated with my grandmother's image. When she went out, she wore the Ao Ba Ba. She chose the shirt depending on the place. The newest one was reserved for weddings and death anniversaries. The worn one was for going to the market, to conveniently carry a pot of porridge to visit Mr. Nam when he fell and lost his only tooth. The patched one was for going to the fence to cut broom grass to dry and bundle up to sweep the yard.

When at home or on hot days, Grandma wore a pocket shirt. Two small pockets contained her entire world . A bottle of balm oil that she applied from early morning until bedtime, and before she could even see her figure, the scent of the oil quickly announced it. A tarnished silver coin saved for scraping. A toothpick broken from an incense stick on the altar. A bundle of savings rolled into a ball and put in a plastic bag, sometimes tied with a flimsy elastic band. Grandma fastened the bag carefully with a safety pin across it, feeling secure and carrying it with her.

I know you when your grandmother has passed away. But in your stories, your grandmother is still present. When you see a woman selling banh u banh tet passing by, you swallow your saliva. When you go to a funeral, your grandmother always packs you some banh u la tro with fatty coconut filling, or a sweet banana banh tet that melts in your mouth. Now you can't find that sweet taste anywhere. When you get your salary at the end of the month, you remember when you were in school, your grandmother would occasionally dig into her shirt pocket and give you a wad of money rolled up like a cigarette, saved from the crab or fish she found in the field regardless of the sun or rain, from the bunch of bananas and bunch of vegetables she saved up.

The day your grandmother left, you packed up the clothes you brought for her, and saw in the closet that the Ao Ba Ba you bought during Tet, asking her to wear it to celebrate the new year, was still there, but she regretted it and kept it. When she followed her into the ground, the shirt had never once smelled of her sweat. You kept the patched shirt that she used to wear, and put it in a bag and wrapped it carefully. Every now and then, when you missed your grandmother, you took it out and sniffed it, like when you used to hug the shirt to sleep every time she was away. You whispered to her that you knew you lived with your grandmother. You didn't have a father, your mother married far away, and you grew up alone with your grandmother. Your grandmother was both your grandmother and your mother and father.

You feel tearful, people crave this or that dish, but you crave the Ao Ba Ba, how strange. Every now and then, missing it, you run into some Southern restaurants, watching the waitresses wearing Ao Ba Ba walking back and forth, and somehow find it strange. Sometimes, when you go back to the river delta, you stop by a Southern folk music restaurant, looking at the colorful Ao Ba Ba, the clear, sweet singing voice, which has nothing to do with the faded Ao Ba Ba and the white bun of hair tied up on your head.

You asked me if I ever took a detour to a faraway place to buy a bunch of vegetables, while a piece of meat dangled on the cart that I had just bought from the market. It wasn’t because that place sold fresh vegetables or anything rare. But the other day, while rushing past, you saw a woman wearing a traditional Vietnamese dress, sitting and picking vegetables next to a shoulder pole. You told yourself to come back next time, to trace back to the nostalgic memories through the old traditional Vietnamese dress…

Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-thuong-ao-ba-ba-185250802182353088.htm