Vietnamese Gods: The Right

Vietnam was split in two after the War, The Right and The Left.

Few places are as unwelcoming as The Right, you thought.

The motorcycles and cars coughed fumes, disgusted by/angry at the air they themselves soiled, hacking and hawking to let out a non-existent phlegm. As the non-existent phlegm got bigger and the heat got worse, the coughed raised to a simultaneous roar, a battle cry of a thousand vehicles wanting to go to War with one another. Their spoils of war: nudging ahead two meters. Their sacrifice: a sky smudged, smeared, like a toddler left with watercolor.

“Father…” They would cry for help, calling for a God that had longed ignore prayers.

Then there was the noise. With a population of twenty million and a landmass of 2.061 square-kilometer, at any given space you could see everyone pressing against one another, skin-to-skin on the pavements, tire-to-tire on the streets. The people, deafen by the cars and bikes and their parents, can’t help themselves but scream at the top of their lungs when they are outside, a contest to see who can be the loudest for the privilege of being heard.

“Father!” The word had now turned into a curse. Love and hatred two sides of a coin. The people are angry not at themselves, never at themselves, but at others, at Him, at the failure of the government. There was always something else, someone else to blame.

There were 16 districts in The Right, 6 are named and the rests are numbered, but you have never been outside 5 (your home), 10 (your parents’), 3 and 1 (the centres). It wasn’t your fault. The proximity of everyone, and the loudness of everything: horns, shouts, curses, swears… confined citizens in one place. Trying to go anywhere between the thick layer of noise and heat and flesh is like wading through butter. It was difficult to even step out of the bed, your sweats gluing you to the sheets like pests on mousetraps.

“Father?” You called out in your room, mistaking a shadow for Him. Where has he gone? And you, along with the nation, sobbed.

And then there was the Robots. Poorly invested, poorly though-out machination freaks powered by greed, deployed around every corner of the city to extort the people of their hard-earned cash. You can try to stick to every possible rule in the book, but the one day you pass them by when they are hungry, you’ll find yourself with a fine slip that’s worth an average citizen’s monthly wage. If you’re rich, however, you can get away with murder.

Unwelcoming. Is that the right word, even? For ever since birth you had never quite found that point of entry into that force field of sound and men, and every time you try to breach it, to blend in, you ended up segmented, tear apart. You know you hate this place.

You envy those foreigners, for as long as they don’t overstay their welcome, they are let in with open arms, like a new animal to the zoo, they see the praise and awe of the people as genuine. Thus, they donned their Hawaii shirt and shorts and sunglasses, holding perfumed handkerchief against their noses, and bravely experience the exotic life. That naivete doesn’t last long for soon, they will find those who make the mistake of staying too long, their own people metamorphized by the atmosphere.

You rarely walk these streets nowadays, it’s not worth the risk. But the guy was well-respective among the forums, so you give it a shot. You were skewering some chilly mangoes - cut up, unripe, sour mangoes mixed with chilly oil and salt, listening on the people around. You’re a good listener, you must be as a storyteller. Their words of a young man carrying a coffin has caught your attention. It’s been a while since you have these types of street food, and surely your stomach won’t appreciate it, but that’s for the toilet to worry about. You lick your lips in anticipation of the next bite, and the gossip.

The patrons of the cafe were a mishmash crew, but two groups stood out: students and office workers. A row of clones in their office attires: buttoned up shirt and short, black skirt for the women, kaki pants for the men, leaning so close to their laptops you wonder they she actually see anything at all, but their hands were typing away. At the table across from them sits a group of three university students, who had “gone to the cafe to study and work on their deadlines,” code for “let’s do literally anything but for a few hours and go home.” Each one had a slight curl at the corners of their lips, as if in considering which juicy hearsay to share first.

“I ACTUALLY saved IT!” - The faux shock, the intonation. She would make great storyteller, this girls, if she can tone down the theatric just a little bit.

“You can’t see his face, tho. All pixelated.” - The second girl said.

“But it is him, yes?” - The third girl doubted.

“Who else could it be? You don’t see a lot of heroes and villains getting married, let alone having a dead spouse.”

“With that body, he doesn’t need a face.” - They giggled. Then the first girl started shushing them, her voice lowered to a whisper.

“That’s why I saved it. They said he would come. They said he has a whole team that would kidnap you if you keep the video. And pay you sooooo much to delete the video.”

The other girls gasped, a mix of awe and jealousy.

“I don’t need the money. But I heard he’s recently widowered.” - At this, all three of them laughed, and the silence was broken.

“But which one is he, you reckon? There are only three that fit all the descriptions.”

“Could it be The Great Hero of Wind, who can shoot the wings out of dragonflies with his eyes closed?”

“Or maybe The Nameless Hero. It would fit his secrecy.”

“Or perhaps The Practical One.” - Silence was back, and the utterance of that title seem to have turned the volume of the whole cafe down. What used to be a cacophony of chatter and bubbly giggles and rap-tap-tapping seem to have been hit with a flashbang. Maybe you were imagining things.

"The Practical One." - The girls were quieter than before, looking around, afraid to have been spotted. Their whisper now turned to lip-reading. You knew lip-reading.

“A demigod who walked both sides. He who sees all as tools and cast them aside when overworn or broken, as long as he gets his ways.”

“The Hero that walks between the boundary of Good and Evil.”

“The Hero whose achievement is only credited by others, never himself claimed.”

“The Hero that saves this country in the shadow.”

“They say he is the richest man in the world.”

“They say he had seen all 18 Gates of Hell and come back.”

“They say he as soon as you speak to him, you’re charmed for life.”

“And there’s the tales of him traversing the Sides like it was nothing, even got out of The Snake alive.”

“Some said he was even in the first War.”

“He’s an oldie then. That’s fine, I like my men a bit older.”

“He must be an acquaintance of Mr. Trọng. Or like a sidekick or something.”

And you listen, as they talk about the legend of Desmond Sullivan, exactly as Desmond Sullivan has wanted it.

This is the sixth episode of this novel. The fifth episode is here.

If you would like more information on Vietnamese Mythology, you’ve come to the right place.

Want to know how to pronounce the Vietnamese words in the post? I have a Glossary too (although it might take me quite a while to fully update it).