Original: Nguyen Ngoc Tu*, Mấy cụm khói rời, Đong tấm lòng, 2015, HCMC: Tre Publisher.
Copy right belong to author. This translation for cultural view exchange purpose.
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| Seven Mountain Area, Angiang, Vietnam (photo from Internet) |
Every morning, the small alley always wet. The wave from river swallow the small street, the water drop from those clothes laying on that inclined fence, the washing drain full of detergent bubbles and spoiled veggies. The tears and snivels of children begging for some nickels to buy snacks, next to them mothers sitting, drying their newly wash - still wetting long hair. Their skin mix in one shape with the darkness of shadow of the alley.
Nobody knows what change makes people uprooted the whole Khmer village from faraway Seven Mountains area, then grew them inside this urban city zone, together with the temple. People here used to call the place - Khmer alley. Each time pass by, the thought of after fifty years they're still out of place keep haunting me. Not for their curly hair or big eyes, or dark bold eye rims, or brown skin that not integrate with other ethnics; but the solitary that shows in the paces of their lives, the looks in their eyes and the ways that they sit. Urban city streams can't stop them from lower their paces within those woebegone old shacks, and nobody knows what are they thinking while their eyesight not a moment stay at any point.
The furthest view point seems endless, where the fields stand together with those Palmyra trees, those gaunt cows and the dried yellow grass. That's my imagine. In their motionless standing or sitting, they wandered through cow race festival where the couple (in their age of fifteen or seventeen) sneaked out and hanged out together for the first time. The low limestone hillock that the man traced after the trail to set animal traps. The Moon festival that held right in middle of temple's yard with the background of five-tones music.
The children climb on neem trees and drum and sing out loud the melodies. In land of memories, the feast atmosphere not yet exhausted, already fulfill again by several festival each year. Or maybe they think nothing, the pass is too faraway, while future have none to think about.
No field for planting or farming; coffee time among men in this alley last quite long, sometime for the whole day, if no need for mason, porter, ice-transfer. Hence, a day with over roasted corn - coffee smell and a bottle of rice alcohol appears to be endless. Slummed houses were built cross over the tiny alley, none of Palmyra tree can be found. Morning, shadow of the temples tried to cover the T-junction zone, where people gather, a few hours later, the shadow flew. Again, they are alone under the burning sun. Poverty without shades of grass and trees, scratching face.
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| Seven Mountain Area, An Giang, Vietnam ( photo from Internet) |
The bare foot on the way begging for food of three young monk, tip toe one the road with large pieces of wet and dry. Luc Ca**, raises his eyes after them, say those days the child rarely want to gather in temple. Some start working, some pick up wastes, some dawdle among the streets since their eyes open. Temple turns desolate, last Chol Chnam Thmay*** festival no one do Rom Vong dance. On the wall, the monk hang a photos of a long line of monk, holding alms bowl walking on the green field, faraway is Palmyra trees, and sunset. A secluded scene with no sign of human, as lonely as a yellow shades of cassock just come out from the slum dog, and the road ahead is all high wall and bold gate. The new coming citizen is not Hinayana Buddhist; since they keep manicuring when cassocks and alms bowls pass through.
Luc Ca said, more than half of Khmer people in this alley sold their houses, now just a small group of them keep living around the temple, like a cluster of people who lost their ways. Then where do the others go, he told some moved to deeper and smaller alley, too far for temple to reach them, however, some got back. The word " got back" from his mouth cool down the sunbeams. Got back, to make a fish-boned fence around that unstable thatched cottage, to breed a number of cows, to cook brown sugar from Palmyra's water, to wait for the August flood to cover the fields then start fishing, and wait for the continuously frontier rain that green the mountain grass. The scene seems grieved, but they are not as solitary as one hundred meters away from City Commission place. Poverty with veggie and chilies growing by sides, is not that hopeless.
People who stay, waiting for days come through with no passion. The motionless posture of Khmer woman just alike with Ede and Bana**** woman, motionless in front of tin roof house on West Land dusty roads. They were pick away from mountains and forest for some whatever hydroelectricity projects, the whole village were scammed into a relocation area, and the officer joyfully claims that this exchange is very fair. Old house for new house, oil burners for electric lamps, even.
Indeed, there is no other blue sky for the birds whose sky is already taken?
Notes:
* Nguyen Ngoc Tu, a Vietnamese writer whose writing famous for its natural expression and deep thoughts on the topic of rural life in Southwest Vietnam (Mekong Delta).
** Luc Ca, the old monk as local language.
**** Ethnic group of Vietnam, live in West Highland.
