Countryside Fragrance - Quang Binh Electronic Newspaper

(QBĐT) - I still remember the feeling of waking up in the middle of the countryside, next to a gentle and windy river branch. The first rays of sunlight shone through the window, waking me up to the sound of waves lapping at the shore. I happily immersed myself in the brilliant dawn sky of my hometown. The air was filled with the scent of alluvial soil, the pungent smell of mud, the smell of fresh fish and shrimp, the smell of wild grass along the shore. Those were the times I followed my mother to the fish pond by the river, sleeping in a small hut amidst the vast wind of the fields.

And the scents from the land, from the river, have somehow crept into my memory. The pleasant, gentle scents, reminding me of many familiar figures. Perhaps scents are something that easily disappears but are also something that remains in my memory for the last time. Because deep impressions, memories of people we have met, places we have been to often start from a distinct scent, difficult to mix with each other. We can easily return to the past, when we recognize somewhere a familiar scent, guiding our mind.

Like the time I wandered in a suburb, before my eyes were the fields of ripe rice, the banks of the ponds swaying with duckweed. And permeating the entire suburb was the scent of the pristine fields, the fragrant scent of ripe rice that held me back. On the roadside, patches of dry grass and straw were faintly visible, basking in the early sunlight. Mud was left on the edges of green lotus leaves, and flowers were blooming shyly beside butterflies. Everything seemed to rise up together with an incredibly familiar smell of the countryside, far different from the smell of asphalt and city vehicles that had retreated behind. That moment made me miss the scent of my motherland, as familiar as the scent of sweet milk that soothed my growing soul. And I felt like I was standing under the sky of my homeland, all the initial strangeness gradually disappeared. Only a gentle peace remained like a cool stream of water flowing through my heart.

Sometimes my feet want to return and run among the fields, gently stepping on the smooth mud. Running to the winding village dike, standing on the riverbank, I deeply inhale the nostalgic smell of the fields. I want to wrap up the scent of the harvest season in the pearl of heaven, the scent of blue smoke fluttering on the reeds, the scent of ripe fruit in the riverside garden, to lighten all the urban dreams. In the distance, a desire to return and lie down under the old bamboo grove flashes, to be a shepherd boy passionately turning the pages of a new book, the scent of clean paper and ink mixed with the scent of grass and trees.

“Sometimes I suddenly remember a strange laugh. A sad folk song with grapefruit and blackberry flowers. A dry mud stain on a stone surface. No one to say goodbye to. I also remember a train whistle.” Those simple verses by poet Tran Vang Sao, in “A poem of a patriot” suddenly resonate in my mind. The deep nostalgia needs no explanation, it comes from small things. It is as if there is a miracle that makes people no longer feel lonely, and their hearts become more passionate about life and people, opening the doors of the soul for the light of the source to shine.

In me, there is nothing richer than the memory of windy rivers, fragrant fields, and the figure of my mother working hard all year round. Nothing urges me to return like my mother's eyes red with the sunset every time she sees me off. Nothing makes me feel more empowered than waking up early in the morning in my mother's house, amidst the pure scent of wood smoke and the sound of birds singing outside the open window. I grew up amidst the fresh air of the countryside, and realized that for months and years the scent of the countryside was woven into every fold of my mother's shirt, her hair, and the brim of her conical hat. My mother's sweat fell down to help each seed sprout, the seeds deep in the warm soil, including the seeds of conscience, the seeds of kindness in each beloved child.

And so, the scent of the countryside in my heart is always imbued with the scent of my mother's sweat, the scent of the hard work that shaped me, wafting into the folk song of mustard flowers, eggplants, areca leaves and straw stalks. Even though I anchor myself in the midst of high-rise buildings and deep-shadowed cities, my soul is still a rustic soul, speaking with a hometown accent that I miss and miss. And deep in every inch of my heart is the scent of fields, straw, and the scent of alluvial soil flowing down.

Tran Van Thien

Source: https://www.baoquangbinh.vn/van-hoa/202503/huong-dong-noi-2225239/