But I was called by my grandfather into his study. He greeted me with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. “Now we can get back to Chinese script and Tang poetry,” he said.
The Tet
Tet is the first festival of the year and the most important of all festivals. All Vietnamese like to return to their village for Tet. As the year draws to an end, they could feel in their bones the appeal of the ancestral land. The tinkle of New Year poles, the ancestral home with smoke rising from its chimney, a soft drizzle falling over tall areca nut trees, all must be there to give to the Tet festival its full flavor. Since 1947, war, then partition, then war again and exile have prevented me from going back to Kim Bai. Thus, an essential ingredient of Tet has been missing for me.
Women and children were usually the first to return. The men, kept in town by their work, followed later. My mother, being the eldest daughter-in-law with special responsibilities in the family, usually left Hanoi with us children three or four days before the year ended. Two rickshaws were needed for her and my younger siblings. My elder brother and I on our bicycles formed the escort. The winter landscape was bleak. Lifeless fields lay bare under grey skies. From time to time, we only saw a white egret take off on its solitary flight. My fingers on the handlebars were numb from the cold wind. But travellers on the highway were all in good spirits. They were returning home, like us, to “send off the Old and welcome the New,” or going to the market to buy provisions to celebrate Tet. When an air alert was on and everyone had to clear the highway and take shelter under a large tree-so as not to be seen by Allied planes-there was conversation and laughter as if between old acquaintances. At the village of Xom, our caravan stopped for the family’s favorite cake. I held the steaming hot cake in my hands for a long time before opening its wrapping of leaves and savoring the delicate taste of flour and molasses blended together. Going out of Xom, my brother and I raced ahead on our bicycles. There was no more need to escort the rickshaws. We were already in home territory. On entering Kim Bai, we could hear around us the welcoming tinkle of New Year poles. These were long trunks of bamboo with earthenware representations of animals suspended on top; swayed by the wind, these banged against one another to produce light ringing sounds, like those of small bells in a temple. The poles were planted in every garden to frighten off evil spirits. According to popular superstition, Lord Buddha had warned the spirits that all places with those poles were put under his protection and that they must keep away from them.
It was said that Tet was the time for people to rest and enjoy themselves, but for the eldest daughter-in-law, it was certainly not a restful time. My mother had to look after everything, from the preparation of offerings to the provision of food for a household of thirty people. Although the servants and other women in the family lent a hand, the main burden fell on her shoulders. With grandmother, she had to get up before everyone else, at five o’clock when it was still dark and bitterly cold. The two went to bed after everyone else, having seen to it that everything had been tidied up. I remember one Tet when my mother dropped on her foot a heavy brass tray used for serving food that she was carrying. The foot became so swollen that I suspected a bone may have been cracked. Despite great pain, she continued to be up and about, fulfilling her duties without uttering a single complaint.
For Tet, the Vietnamese traditionally had two kinds of cakes, one round, the other square. In the olden times, the round cake was thought to take the shape of the sky and the square one that of the earth. Both were made of glutinous rice. In the round cake, the rice was just plain boiled, then pounded into a smooth pastry. In the square cake, it had a filling of beans and meat. By far, the most popular of the two was the square one, called chung. Our family cooked both types of cake, but to me, the high point in the preparations leading to Tet was the wrapping of the chung cake. By then, most of the family had come back. Only two more days separated us from the New Year. Women and girls sat on wooden platforms in the transversal house, forming a circle. Between them were baskets of rice and beans, plates of pork meat and heaps of rush leaves to wrap the cakes. My mother, my aunts, my teenaged sisters, all were there working. The men and children gathered around them. Tet was a time of family reunion, not the extended family as on my great-grandfather’s anniversary, but just our immediate family. Even my great-uncle and his children were not present. There were no guests, no friends, only ourselves. Everyone participated in the conversation, laughter rang out like firecrackers. At times, grandmother came and sat on the edge of the platforms to listen to our jokes or to tell us one of her philosophical tales.
A family like ours needed several dozens of chung cake. The wrapping session could take the best part of an afternoon. Two kinds of chung cake were prepared, with salt or with sugar. Our family had a special liking for the sweet ones. I have never, tasted any better sweet chung cakes than those made by my mother. She had a way of combining the beans, meat, fat and sugar into a delicious filling. When the cake was cooked, the filling became dark red, while the glutinous rice on the outside took on the green of the rush leaves. The result was as good to the eyes as it was to the palate. Since leaving Vietnam, my mother has continued to make sweet chung cakes at the New Year to remind us of past festivals spent in our homeland. The only thing missing is the green, as fresh rush leaves cannot be obtained in Paris. For children, the wrapping session grew in interest towards the end, when miniature cakes were made with the leftovers of rice and filling. A common sight during Tet was children playing with those minuscule chung cakes, often suspended by a red thread from their wrists. The cakes wrapped in rush leaves were boiled in big cauldrons. The cooking took many hours, ending late at night. We sat in front of a row of cooking fires, enjoying their warm glow, talking and eating sweet potatoes roasted in the embers. To the happiness of reunion was added the excitement and promise of an imminent festival, for the year was fast drawing to a close.
The chung cake could be eaten cold or steamed hot. Another way, which I particularly liked, was for it to be fried crisply and served at breakfast. Tet was the time for all kinds of good food. In fact, food was an important part of all festivals in a country where, all year round, the people worked hard and lived frugally. At festival time, they rested and had something better to eat than the usual diet of vegetables and rice. Everyone, whether rich or poor, looked forward to some special fare at Tet, the premier festival of the year. “Even though not well-off, one should live well during the three days of Tet,” was the counsel given in a proverb. Each region, each family had its own traditional dishes. The ones served in our family were chosen because they were good to eat, of course, but also for the special meaning that Tet gave to them. For dinner on the last day of the year, we had only one dish, a river fish called am cooked in rice gruel. In Vietnamese, the word am also means dark. Our tradition required this fish to be eaten, so that all things dark would go with the old year and the new one would start in brightness. The thick, long-bodied fish was boiled in rice gruel with onions, ginger and a lot of pepper. The family assembled for dinner in the altar house. The men sat on chairs at tables, the women and children on wooden platforms. From the kitchen, steaming pots were brought up. We dipped spring onions, Chinese cabbage, celery and various fragrant herbs in the hot gruel. The fish, simply boiled, retained all its flavor. With the rice and vegetables, it made a complete meal, very good to have in the cold weather.
At midnight on New Year’s Eve, religious services were celebrated at several places to mark the transition from the old year to the new. It was traditional in our family to observe also, at that time, the custom of “the first caller.” That most important event usually took place, for other people, in the morning of the new year. In our case, however, it was just after midnight that the first caller came.
According to popular belief, the fortune of a household in any one year would depend on the first person to call on it at the New Year. But how to choose the right person, one who could bring good luck to your family
? One could pick someone rich, or in high office, or with a distinguished background, or just a good friend, but how could one be sure whether he had good luck or not? Furthermore, a person might have it one year, but another year, because the stars which governed his life were positioned differently, his luck might change completely. For the same reason, to be invited to be a first caller could be embarrassing. One was touched by the honor, yet the responsibility was overwhelming. What would that family think, if some misfortune befell them? Our own family, fortunately, had no need to ask anyone to “first call” at our ancestral home, for as a rule my grandmother herself was our first caller, and it had been like that every year for as long as I could remember. Our good or bad fortune thus depended only on ourselves. We did not owe thanks to anyone, nor could we blame anyone. How and when did that tradition of ours start? And why was it that the first caller was my grandmother and not my grandfather, the head of the family? I do not know the answers but wonder whether that was not a piece of advice given by an astrologer or a Chinese geomancer.
As midnight approached, we celebrated a service at our ancestors’ altar, then grandmother led a family delegation to the village’s Buddhist temple. The night was as black as ink. We followed one another, guiding ourselves by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp and taking care not to step outside the brick lane. The small temple was an island of light, overflowing with people. Grandmother made offerings to the altars and spent a long time praying. When she finished, it was midnight and the first day of the year had begun. Firstly, from somewhere in the village, a string of firecrackers exploded. Another explosion was heard, then another. The noise came from all the hamlets. Village guards at the gates beat their drums. After presenting our good wishes to the bonze, we returned home, bearing gifts of food and flower. The iron gates were closed and grandmother called out for someone to open them. My father, her eldest son, was waiting. He greeted her and invited her to be the first caller to tread on the soil of our ancestral compound. She obligingly accepted. The same ritual was followed each year. After her return, a service was held at a specially erected altar in our compound, in honor of the celestial envoys who were looking after the affairs of the earth. The envoys were believed to be replaced every year at Tet. The service was to farewell those who departed and to welcome their successors. After that service, everyone went immediately to bed, so as to be up early the next morning.
The first day of the year was one day when no one could linger in bed. A lazy start would augur badly for the whole year. Even as children, we would not wait to be woken up by our parents. After breakfast, we changed into new clothes. My great-grandmother and grandparents wore red brocade dresses. Other men and boys had blue ones. Women and girls came out of their room in beautiful long dresses of red or pink velvet. During the year, I usually wore western style clothes. Tet was the only time when I dressed in the national costume. I felt a bit strange and clumsy in white trousers and a blue brocade dress, with a black turban around my head, but soon got into the special mood of Tet. The ceremony in front of our ancestors’ altar began. My grandfather knelt down to invoke the spirits of our ancestors. He called upon them to protect the family and help its members in their endeavors during the new year. Four times he knelt down, touching the ground with his forehead. Then he bowed three times. Following him, my great-grandmother, then grandmother and the rest of the family performed the same rite. We did so at two places, the central altar for the Nguyen ancestors and the smaller altar for our maternal ancestors. Last to go in were the children and I well remember that it was an occasion for uncontrollable mirth. Our obeisance to our ancestors was interrupted by giggles, and we would be rolling on the mat instead of kneeling down. Such a thing never happened at services commemorating the death of an ancestor. No doubt the fun and excitement of Tet had something to do with it. Family elders looked on and laughed too. Normally, an irreverent attitude before the altar would be severely reprimanded, but this was the first day of the year. Parents abstained from scolding because to do so would bring bad luck both to them and the children. Any manifestation of temper had to be avoided on that auspicious day. After the religious ceremony, my great-grandmother and grandparents went to sit on the two carved wood settees in the middle of the altar house. There, they formally received the good wishes of family members and gave to each of them money wrapped in red paper.
This was called the ceremony of “welcoming another year of age.” The first to present them with good wishes was my father, the heir and head of the next generation. Then came the heir and head of the generation which followed his, my elder brother. Other members followed according to rank, my uncles, aunts, then us and younger cousins. We all had to say something, so each had prepared a little speech. According to an ancient tradition, we would have to kneel down twice before the oldest surviving member of the family, who was my great-grandmother, then nearing ninety. But she would not allow it and only accepted that we bowed to her. As a member of the fourth generation, I presented my good wishes to her, to my grandparents, to my parents, to my uncles and aunts. Each time I received some money wrapped in red paper. At the end of the round, my pockets were weighed down by coins, all brand new and shining. Drinks were served. We had champagne-imported French wines were much in fashion-in which we dipped finger biscuits. Even the ladies, who normally would not touch alcoholic beverages, would take a sip of champagne after much prompting. Red lacquered boxes were opened to show their attractive display of crystallized pineapple, cumquat, lotus seed, tomato, also sweet potato and marrow, all very sweet and in their bright colors of red, orange, cream and green. We ate the preserve to make the year itself bright and sweet. Also during Tet, Vietnamese very much liked to munch on watermelon seeds, grilled and dyed red, which we cracked open with our teeth. Following drinks, the family went out to the front yard to watch the display of firecrackers. Suspended high in long strings from the roof of the gate and the first floor of the new house, they made a deafening noise and filled the air with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. Soon, the yard was covered with shreds of red paper, omens of good luck and prosperity.
The firecracker display brought to an end the morning’s ceremonies and we settled down to playing cards, an activity inseparable from Tet. Young and old became absorbed in it. Gambling was normally forbidden in my family. My mother had always been very firm about this. Her own family had suffered from gambling addictions and we children were taught to eschew it. But Tet was an exception. We were free to play whatever card game we wanted. Mother herself, however, never touched a card. As a matter of fact, the only three people who did not sit down to play cards during Tet were my great-grandmother, grandmother and mother, the three eldest daughters-in-law of three generations in our family. Everyone else played. Our elders played a game called to torn, a precursor of today’s mahjong and more of an intellectual exercise than a mere game of chance. The rules were rigid and numerous, requiring complex calculations. Although quite young then, I already knew how to play it and was always happy to be asked to take the place of an elder who had to be absent for a while. Sometimes I “sat in” and played a few games, with grandfather among the other players. That was a thrill. Men prized themselves for being skilled at the game. To be referred to by other scholars as a high calibre to tom player was a mark of distinction, even a recognition of intellectual prowess. A group of to tom players-five people sitting in a circle on a wooden platform-usually produced a great deal of talk and laughter. Conversation among them often bubbled with wit.
Women and children played simpler games. My grandfather was a man of stern character and rather distant, but during Tet he shared a lot of fun with the family. At times, he even left his game of to torn to come and play cards with us. On one such occasion, we were playing the game of bat, which was based on the number ten. You won it if your cards added up to ten or were nearer to it than those of your competitors. If your total exceeded ten, you were out of the game. On the cards were pictures of people, ani
mals or flowers. We used to get a laugh out of giving the cards not their accepted names, but nicknames. One card in particular represented a woman with a plain and sad-looking face. We called it “Aunt of Don Thu.” That “aunt” was grandfather’s concubine and Don Thu the name of her village. Grandfather took her as his concubine with the full consent of his wife. “Aunt of Don Thu” lived in our Kim Bai home, but for one reason or another, the arrangement did not work. After a number of years, she left to return to her village. That happened not so long ago. We kept talking about her but of course not in my grandparents’ presence. That Tet, I was about twelve. We were playing a game of bat when grandfather joined our party. With him there, our card table became a center of attention and other people gathered around, giving advice to players, making jokes and chatting merrily. The card we called “Aunt of Don Thu” was the seven which, if you got it first round, was not a good sign because seven was probably not high enough to win you the game and yet, with a second card you were likely to exceed ten. I drew the seven and let escape from my mouth: “Tough luck, Aunt of Don Thu again!”, forgetting that grandfather was present. Fortunately, everyone burst out laughing and grandfather, in a generous mood, also laughed heartily.
A Vietnamese Family Chronicle Page 13