The Legend of the Star Apple

Split a ripe star apple open. The glossy purple skin parts, and a creamy white liquid wells up, thick and sweet, with a soft scent like warm milk. Take a spoonful and the flesh is cool and sweet and melts on the tongue. The fruit gets its Vietnamese name, vú sữa, from that very liquid. Behind the gentle name lies an old story that grandparents have told their grandchildren.

It is a folktale, a story told long ago and handed down, not something that happened on a particular date. People tell it to remind one another of something tender, about a mother's love and a child's heart.

The tale says that long ago, a little boy lived with his mother in a small house. There were only the two of them, so his mother loved him dearly and spoiled him. Perhaps because he was spoiled, he grew fond of play and mischief, and often would not listen.

One day he was playing, made some small mistake, and his mother reminded him with a few words. He did not like it. He sulked and fumed, then ran out of the house. He kept walking, far away, wandering from place to place until he forgot the way home.

At home, his mother waited. In the morning she went out to the doorstep to look. In the afternoon she went out to look again. She listened for the familiar footsteps, for the small figure who would run home and fling himself into her arms. Day after day she sat there, her eyes fixed on the road, her heart worn thin with longing.

The boy, meanwhile, was away from his mother, and no one looked after his meals or his sleep. One day he was both hungry and cold, and some older children picked on him. Then, huddled alone, he suddenly missed his mother terribly. He remembered the bowl of rice she served him, the hand that stroked his head, her voice calling him every evening. He burst into tears. Then he hurried to find the way back.

At the head of the lane, everything looked the same as before. The same roof, the same yard. But he called and called, and no one answered. The house was silent. His mother no longer sat on the familiar doorstep. He ran around searching, called until his voice went hoarse, but the loving figure was nowhere to be seen.

On the very spot where his mother used to sit watching for him, a green tree now stood, strange, unlike any tree he had ever seen. The boy threw his arms around the trunk and sobbed, calling for his mother through his tears. As if it heard its child, the tree began to tremble. Then, from high above, the branches slowly bent down and wrapped around him, soothing him softly, just like his mother's arms when she used to hold him close.

He looked up. One side of each leaf was glossy green, and the other side was a deep red, like his mother's eyes after so many days of crying for him. The trunk felt rough and gnarled under his hand, just like his mother's hands, which had worked so hard from early morning on. He pressed his cheek to the trunk and felt his heart grow warm, as if his mother were cradling him.

On the branches, round fruits swelled quickly, their skins smooth and taut, green and shining, and slowly ripening. One fruit fell gently into the boy's lap. He bit into it, but the first fruit was sour. He tried a second, and it was hard. At the third, he squeezed it softly until it gave, and the moment the skin split, a stream of white milk flowed out, sweet and fragrant and warm, just like his mother's milk long ago.

The old people say that the sweetness only came at the third taste. In the same way, a child must grow up before he can truly understand how deep his mother's love ran. The bitter skin at the start was the drops of sorrow his mother had quietly endured. And the sweet milk inside was a mother's love, always given entirely to her child, warm and kind to the very end.

From that day on, the people of the area treasured the strange tree. They took cuttings and planted seeds in many places, for their children and grandchildren to come. Because the liquid in the fruit was as white and sweet as a mother's milk, people named the tree vú sữa, a name full of affection that has stayed with it to this day.

The star apple is a real tree. In the south, it is grown in orchards across Tiền Giang and Bến Tre. The orchards reach as far as Cần Thơ, and each season the branches hang heavy with taut purple fruit. Cut open today, a ripe fruit still holds the same sweet white milk as long ago.