Prayer in Saigon, Vietnam

 

 

by Joey Bui

 At the entrance to Vinh Nghiem Temple in Saigon, you can buy wreaths of jasmine. My grandmother buys me a wreath every time we go together. We have been twice, once when I was six, and then when I was sixteen. The petals are twisted into thick bulbs, and the stalks are knotted end on end. When I wear it like a necklace, the last jasmine reaches my tummy. Women with wrinkly eyes and sundarkened skin sell it for 20,000 dong a wreath, which is a little less than a dollar. We don’t bargain because we are at temple.

The spiral stairways are narrow and painted red. As we climb up, the air is smooth and smoky with incense. My grandmother buys a handful of incense sticks for another 20,000 dong. She counts the sticks, deftly passing them from the bottom to the top of her palm and gives me fifteen.

We step into a circular room on the third level and through the smoke I can see walls of shelves in glossy red wood. Each has a name and a tattered photograph glued onto it. Some have wilted flowers tied around the knob, and some have fresh flowers. I linger behind to study the faces on these photographs.

An old man with dramatic cheekbones, a spiral goatee, and wet lips looks down at me. White creases run through his face and the skyblue background. His face is severe and frightening like a painted dragon. It is one of the oldest photographs on the high shelves and there are no flowers. I think about taking his photograph and putting it in my pocket.

I have so many stories to tell you, my child. But you are too distracted, I can see it in your eyes. You live so far from the land. The land used to be the whole of my life. I slept on the land, sewed the land, and ate from the land. When I was 18 and fell in love with Minh, I traced her path home from school through the land. I laid banana leaves where she left footprints in the dirt. Where is she now? Can you find her for me?

My grandmother calls for me and I move further inside. My grandfather’s shelf is at eye level, which makes it a more expensive shelf. She has tied fresh jasmine to his shelf and her incense sticks are glowing red at the tips. I dip mine into flame and hold the incense sticks between my palms. I look at my grandfather’s picture.

I only met you when you were a baby. But I do remember you. You were two inches taller than the other babies so I told them that you should be a model. You are not very tall anymore. You are not like my other children. You stand with such straightness in your back, you must have learnt that from the white people. What else have you learnt, all this time that you have been away?

I glance at my grandmother. Her head is bowed, lips moving soundlessly. She is chanting the prayer. Nam mo a di da phat, nam mo a di da phat. My mum has taught me the prayer, but I don’t know what it means.

I think of you, grandfather. I think of you. You look so much like my dad. I am back in Viet Nam today, and I like the strange smells. They are sharp like burnt wood but I still feel lost in them. I wonder about my grandmother and her sure, nimble fingers. I wonder about the man in that photograph, and what happens when somebody thinks of him.

It is a relaxing place because nobody feels anything.

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