Going to Market

Two empty bowls swinging from his hands, a little boy ran home in a hurry, out of breath. He tugged at the hem of his grandmother's shirt and looked up to ask a question that would make anyone laugh. His grandmother did not laugh just yet. She only stroked his head and waited to hear him out. This is a funny folk tale from Vietnam. To see why he ran home, we must go back to early that morning.

That morning, in the little kitchen, his grandmother was busy at the cupboard. The house had run out of tương, and out of mắm too, and lunch was near. Tương is a fermented soybean paste, eaten as a dipping sauce. Mắm is fish fermented with salt. She called her grandson and pressed two coins and two earthenware bowls into his hands. She spoke very clearly and slowly. "Go to the market and buy me one coin of tương and one coin of mắm. Have you got that?" The boy gave a loud yes, hugged the bowls to his chest and skipped off down the lane.

The road to the market ran along a hedge of bamboo. Early sunlight fell in dapples through the leaves, laying swaying spots of gold on the road. The wind blew, and the bamboo leaves rustled overhead. From far off came the sounds of the country market, people calling to each other and shoulder poles creaking. As he walked, the boy kept murmuring so he would not forget: one coin of tương, one coin of mắm. One coin of tương, one coin of mắm.

But close to the market gate, he suddenly stopped short. In his hands were two bowls exactly alike, and Grandma had not said which one was for which. What if each went into the wrong bowl? At that thought his feet spun around, and he raced home. He reached the yard panting, held up the two bowls and asked, "Grandma, which bowl is for tương, and which bowl is for mắm?"

His grandmother sat folding betel leaves to chew, and at that she burst out laughing. It was a gentle laugh, full of love for him, not a laugh that mocks. She said, "Oh, my little man, any bowl will do for the tương, and any bowl will do for the mắm." The boy nodded as though he understood, then hugged the bowls and ran off again. That was how careful he was, all for fear of getting Grandma's words wrong.

This time he made it right inside the market. And what a lively crowd it was. The mắm stalls stood in a row, with jars of thick brown mắm sending out a rich, salty smell. Right beside them were the tương stalls, crock after crock of golden tương with the soft scent of soybeans dried in the sun. The sellers called out warmly, and clear voices rang out all over the market. The boy stood in the middle of it all, round-eyed, looking at the mắm stalls, then at the tương stalls.

And right then, he gave another start. Grandma had handed him two coins exactly alike, but she had not said which coin was for mắm and which was for tương. Buying the wrong thing would mean trouble. So once again his feet spun around, and once again he raced home. Back in the yard, puffing hard, he held out the two coins and asked, "But Grandma, which coin is for mắm, and which coin is for tương?"

His grandmother put down her betel, pulled him into her arms and laughed until her whole body shook. She did not scold him with a single word. She only smoothed his hair and said gently, "My dear child, both coins are just the same. Either coin will buy mắm, and either coin will buy tương." The boy let out a happy "Ah!" Then he gathered up the bowls and coins and hurried back to the market.

But this third time, when he arrived all eager, the market had already broken up. By now it was well past noon. People had packed up, and nearly all had shouldered their loads and gone home. The mắm jars were covered, and the tương crocks were put away. On the empty ground there were only a few fallen leaves and some chickens pecking at stray grains of rice. The boy stood dazed in the empty market. His two bowls were still spotless, without a drop of mắm or a drop of tương.

Downcast, he trudged home with his empty bowls. He was afraid Grandma would be sad when he got back. Yet the moment she saw him in the lane, she ran out. She did not blame him at all. She just hugged him, laughed that same kind laugh again, and said, "Never mind, child. The market is over for today, so tomorrow the two of us will go early." That afternoon the family ate rice with boiled greens dipped in sesame salt. Still, grandmother and grandson were happy, giggling whenever they recalled that morning.

The next day, as soon as the sky grew light, Grandma took her grandson by the hand to the market. She did not let him go alone this time. She walked beside him and taught him a simple trick for remembering. She took his right hand and said, "This hand holds the bowl for mắm." Then she took his left hand and said, "This hand holds the bowl for tương. Mắm in the right hand, tương in the left. Remember that, and they will never get mixed up." The boy closed his eyes and repeated it, mắm in the right hand, tương in the left, until he knew it by heart.

At the market, Grandma stood back a little to let him do it alone. The boy went up to the mắm stall, held out the bowl in his right hand and bought exactly one coin of mắm. Then he went over to the tương stall, held out the bowl in his left hand and bought exactly one coin of tương. He did not run home even once. He turned to show Grandma. Both bowls were full now, one of salty mắm and one of golden tương, and nothing was mixed up at all.

Grandma clapped and praised him. The two of them walked home hand in hand along the bamboo road. The sunlight still fell in dapples through the leaves, as it had the day before, and the wind still sang in the bamboo. The only difference was that this time the two bowls were no longer empty. And the boy walked with a firm step, still murmuring the line Grandma had taught him: mắm in the right hand, tương in the left.