Chapter 28 — Vegetarian Restaurant Behind the Temple Gate

Uncle Nhan Duc Phong was the one who proposed organizing a small meeting to celebrate the pagoda and restaurant being retained, right in the courtyard of Tinh Lien Pagoda, under the ancient Bodhi tree - no lurking activities like the Compassionate Rice Bowl Festival, no newspapers, no loudspeakers, just people in the neighborhood who signed together, cooked together, and stood firm together through nearly a year of anxiety. "We have to have a meal to celebrate ourselves. Why don't we just worry all the time and not have a day where we sit down and laugh together?" Uncle said to Yen Nhi when he stopped by the shop to discuss things, stroking his gray mustache, his voice still as bright as the days of canvassing for signatures around town.

The morning of the organization, the sky was clear, the wind was light, the temple yard was cleared in a large area under the shade of a Bodhi tree, sedge mats were spread out in rows, interspersed with simple but filling vegetarian dishes - sticky rice, mugwort mushroom soup, fried tofu with lemongrass, vegetarian grapefruit salad, and of course the indispensable longan lotus seed sweet soup. Yen Nhi, Mrs. Nu and Thien Tam came early in the morning to help with the arrangements, bustling laughter echoed throughout the yard, mixed with the chirping of birds on the shady Bodhi branches.

Mr. Lanh Van Dat arrived earlier than everyone else, not to eat first but to help set up tables and chairs, something he did with dedication that made Yen Nhi laugh when she saw him measuring and re-measuring the distance between the mats to "make it even and beautiful". When everything was in order, he did not sit at the table right away but stood looking at the children in the neighborhood running around the tree, some of them climbing up the roots of the Bodhi tree protruding from the ground, laughing loudly. He suddenly called out, his voice unusually warm: "Children, come here, I'll tell you a story, old and present, very interesting!"

The children flocked back, sitting around his feet, eyes sparkling, waiting. Yen Nhi stood nearby with a tray of food, and couldn't help but stop and listen. Mr. Dat talked about when he was young, about the big flood twenty-seven years ago that took away Yen Nhi's father, about how the whole town of Ben Truc supported each other through difficult years, about how this pagoda had stood there for many generations, witnessing how many generations grew up. His voice was low and melodious, sometimes stopping in a mysterious manner, making the children hold their breath in anticipation, and sometimes bursting into laughter when telling a witty part. A little girl about seven years old pulled his sleeve and asked: "Grandpa, do you remember all the old stories?" Mr. Dat smiled, his eyes narrowed kindly: "Remember, I'm old, I forget recent stories, I remember old stories. From now on, every free afternoon, you guys just come here, I'll tell you everything, until you all grow up and have children and grandchildren, then I'll stop."

Yen Nhi looked at that scene and felt an indescribable warmth. She remembered the image of him sitting quietly eating a bowl of mugwort mushroom soup every week, his distant eyes remembering his late wife, and now, looking at him sitting among the children, his bright voice telling stories, she realized that his loneliness had found a new way out - not forgetting his deceased wife, but learning to bring that love back to the little lives growing up around him. From that day on, every Tuesday and Friday afternoon, the temple yard was filled with the sound of children gathering to listen to Mr. Dat tell stories, and people began to call him by the affectionate name: "Mr. Dat tells stories".

Not far away, Ms. On Bich Ha was busy instructing three strange women how to properly cook longan lotus seed sweet soup. Her hands quickly peeled off the lotus shells, her mouth meticulously explaining how to simmer over low heat and add enough sugar. Yen Nhi came closer and realized that one of the three women was Ms. Hanh, whose daughter died in a traffic accident last year. The family lived more than ten kilometers from town but had heard about Quan An Tam through Che Hoai Nam's article.

"Miss Ha is so busy these days." Yen Nhi smiled, sat down next to her sister, and helped pick up a few longan stalks that still had their skins left. Ms. Bich Ha looked up, her face unusually radiant compared to her previous familiar silence. "Yes, since the Festival Day, I've been thinking and thinking and thinking. I realized that if I keep my pain to myself, it will only get worse. But if I take what I've learned - like how to make lotus seed sweet soup to soothe sad people that you taught me - and share it with others who are also in pain like me, then that pain suddenly becomes lighter, and I also feel like Bo is still living in a different way, through each person I can help."

She said, her voice was still steady but her eyes lit up with new vitality, that she had started organizing a small vegetarian cooking class every Sunday morning, right at her house, for families who had lost loved ones, especially mothers like her who had lost children. There is no charge, everyone just needs to bring ingredients to share, cook together, eat together, and tell stories about the deceased through each dish they loved during their lifetime. "Last week we cooked green bean porridge, Ms. Hanh's son's favorite dish when he was alive." She said, her eyes slightly wet. "She cried the whole time, but after crying, she said thank you. It's been a long time since I felt so light."

Yen Nhi held Bich Ha's hand and didn't say much, just letting the silence contain everything she wanted to express. She thought of her mother, of the small words in the margin of the recipe book from years ago — "cooking sweet soup for those who are sad, with a little less sugar" — and realized that spirit has now spread further than her mother ever imagined, through the hands of a woman who once thought she no longer had a reason to get up every morning.

In the middle of the session, a small wheelchair was carefully pushed out into the yard by Little Monk. On it was monk Thich Giac Vien, wearing a warm coat even though it was not cold, his face was thin but his smile was still gentle as always. The entire temple yard was silent for a moment, then everyone stood up and clasped their hands in reverence. The monk waved his hand to signal everyone to relax. Although his voice was weak, it was still loud enough for the whole yard to hear clearly.

"Today I am very happy, sitting here looking at my children, seeing my aunts and uncles gathered together like this." He spoke, his eyes passing over each familiar face - Yen Nhi, Mrs. Nu, Thien Tam, Mr. Dat, Bich Ha, Uncle Phong, and even Tue Thong standing humbly behind. "I practiced for nearly sixty years and learned many sutras and verses, but at this age, sitting here, I realized that Buddhism is not in books, not in solemn ceremonies. Buddhism is here." He pointed towards the vegetarian trays, towards the group of children laughing, towards the people who just now had tears in their eyes because they missed the deceased but were now starting to smile again. "Lying in a bowl of rice cooked with sincerity, in a hand holding another hand when weak, in a community that knows how to stand together when things go wrong."

He stopped, took a deep breath, then looked towards Yen Nhi, his voice was slow but full of affection. "Miss Xuan's daughter, you have done what your mother always wanted — not just keep the shop, but keep the spirit that makes the shop worth keeping. Thank you." Yen Nhi bowed her head, tears rolling down her eyes but still smiling, feeling like her mother, through the monk's words, was sending her the recognition she had been craving for two years.

The meeting lasted until late afternoon, with constant laughter echoing throughout the temple yard. Uncle Nhan Duc Phong sat among a group of middle-aged men, recounting every detail of the signature campaign with undisguised pride, occasionally pointing at Che Hoai Nam sitting next to him, smiling and saying: "Thanks to this guy writing a good article, otherwise we wouldn't have been able to win no matter how much we campaigned." Che Hoai Nam smiled gently, without leaving the small notebook, jotting down a few stories of the guests, hatching a new article, this time not to save the shop, but to tell a story that had a happy ending.

Thien Tam sat next to Yen Nhi throughout the session, occasionally reaching out to serve more food to the guests, occasionally glancing at her with gentle eyes that no longer hid, causing Mrs. Nu sitting opposite to have to pretend to cough to hide her smile. Venerable Tue Thong, even though he was busy welcoming a few guests from the Church, still took the time to sit down next to the monk, quietly listening to the teachings, occasionally nodding his head as if taking it to heart.

When sunset fell, the last sunlight of the day dyed the whole yard yellow, everyone leaned against each other, filling both their stomachs and hearts. Yen Nhi stood up and looked around the large yard - the children were still hanging around Mr. Dat listening to the unfinished story, Ms. Bich Ha was exchanging phone numbers with Ms. Hanh to schedule a cooking lesson for next week, the monk sat quietly in a wheelchair looking at the scene with a peaceful smile, and Thien Tam was standing next to her, shoulder to shoulder, not saying anything, just quietly enjoying this rare moment of peace.

She suddenly realized that each person in this yard carried their own wound - the one who lost his wife, the one who lost his child, the one who lost his father, the one who almost lost faith in the path he chose - but now, everyone has found a way to make those wounds no longer be a deep hole of division, but become a bridge, drawing everyone closer together, under the shade of the same ancient Bodhi tree, in the same temple yard that has stood firm through many ups and downs. The afternoon breeze blows through, carrying the faint scent of incense from the main hall, mixed with the smell of food still lingering on the nearly empty trays, creating a flavor that Yen Nhi knows she will remember forever, no matter where she goes or what she does, for the rest of her life.