Echoing the village gong

The gongs rang out in rhythm, the sound was strong, evenly distributed in all directions, spreading to the Cat Ear Mountain and then echoing back. People in my hometown, whether fishing in the Cau River, picking corn in the fields or looking for bamboo shoots on the Soldiers Hill, could all hear it. Whenever the village had a public event or needed to gather people, the village chief used the gong to summon people instead of going to each house to announce. This familiar sound has been attached to my village for nearly half a century.

The gong hung under the shady tree in the middle of the village, it looked dull and heavy. The nature of a block of metal is not light, of course, but it is heavy because it contains countless stories of time and history in its rough, rusty shell. Every time the "giant" sound resounded throughout the mountains and forests, at the same time, so many stories were opened in the consciousness of each person.

Illustration: Dao Tuan

Since I was a child, my grandfather told me that the gong was originally a bomb dropped by the invaders on the edge of the forest. Thankfully, it did not explode. The engineering soldiers skillfully removed the explosives safely, leaving the bomb casing intact. Everyone carried it back together and hung it under the shade of an ancient tree.

Since then, my villagers have changed the way they call it from “bomb shell” to “village gong” because it has a different, more meaningful mission. I looked up at him with innocent eyes and asked: “Why don’t you sell the bomb shell to the scrap iron man to get money?”, he affectionately said: “It needs to be kept as a souvenir, when you grow up you will understand”. Whenever we had a chance to pass by, we would stand in groups to admire, touch and invite each other to strike the gong. The innocent children enthusiastically went to find small pieces of firewood and then passed them around to strike, the clanging sound echoed loudly, but was only enough to startle the chickens chirping for food around.

Later, I realized that the bomb shell was a remnant of the war. If the bomb shell was not a noisy gong, it would forever be a wordless silence, lost somewhere far away.

Occasionally I heard my grandfather's stories from long ago about a period when the homeland used to produce economic labor under the cooperative model, the sound of the gong was a familiar, intimate sound, signaling everyone to go to work on time. After the bustling, urging gong, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed throughout the streets.

The gong's sound gradually faded over the years, the sound signaling the time to go to work at the cooperative only remained in the memories of the elderly.

During my few days off in the countryside, I took the opportunity to visit the village and gardens. In the drizzling rain, I passed by the ancient Than Mat tree, the sad gong still there. This season, Than Mat flowers bloom endlessly, spreading a sweet fragrance to a corner of my beloved small village.

This morning, when the gong rang out, I was so moved. It seemed that the sound had awakened my deepest thoughts. On the village road, people were carrying hoes and shovels to do public works, digging canals to bring water to the spring fields. My father said that nowadays the means of communication are faster and more effective, but the gong still holds its own story, and the villagers preserve it as their ancestors cherished it.

After the gong sounded, the flock of birds on the treetops were startled and quickly flapped their wings and flew into the air, their tiny wings circling around and then returning to the peaceful foliage, chirping. Hearing the gong sounded, I remembered my grandmother, remembered the afternoons of my childhood when I heard the gong and quickly picked vegetables, prepared a clean meal so that my parents could come home in time for dinner and go to meetings. Oh, the village gong, the sounds of memories echoed in me.

Source: https://baothainguyen.vn/van-nghe-thai-nguyen/202508/vong-tieng-keng-lang-6242591/