The ten-carriage Trans-Viet Train was so crowded that all the lengthwise wooden benches were full of passengers. The narrow aisles were almost fully occupied by items of all sorts, like sacks of packets of rice and noodles, pouches of candies and toys, and so forth and so on. Worse still, small vendors sold pancakes and bread, apples and oranges; and what’s more, a blind couple tried to elbow their way across the masses of odds and ends. 

The revving engine of the Honda getting closer with every moment startled me awake. It was just part of an unforgettable dream, I think. 

In the early morning of New Year’s Eve, when Teu passed by the local pagoda, he saw a monk drinking tea on an old wooden stool under an Indian almond tree in front of the sacred place. 

“Goodbye to you, my neighbours. I’m off now!” Though old Gian had repeated his farewell three times, he still couldn’t get in the car that was waiting for him with its engine running. 

Andras felt greatly worried during his stroll around Szent Istvan Hospital in the heart of District 9 by the Pest River. Throughout last night, he had been exhausted in the corridors of the emergency ward. An, his sweetheart, was being cared for by the best group of surgeons, led by the eminent Vietnamese-born Prof. Hoang Lam, her fellow countryman. 

The stately sunlight of winter only came at noon. It beamed on the rustling Nepalese alder trees. It shone on the hedges and skirts of girls and gently stroked the rice falling here and there on the desiccated terraces which only yielded crops once a year. 

My house was situated on the hillside, overlooking the Ma River. 

Every night, rain or shine, Sua went out to a gigantic block of stone under the coffee plum tree next to the Su Sung stream to fish and sleep. Yet for two days straight, he hadn’t shown up. Did Sua leave for another stream with more fish? Or was he bored with fishing? Sua’s fishing buddies had been asking each other such questions on their night shifts. 

The night before Hoai was thinking about getting a divorce, she was dreaming a queer dream. An image of a baby formed in her womb. But all her doubts had also grown bigger in that befuddled dream. 

A photograph. A bottle of medicine capsules. A tourist bag, Samsonite brand. A shirt and a trousers hanging in the sideboard. 

9:30 pm. The street, strewn with rustling dry yellow leaves coming down from the trees, was ready for a strong wind after this breeze in the small township of Phu Sa. 

While the masseuse’s deft hands caressed Duyen’s hair and face she, with her half-closed eyes, felt very comfortable thanks to the fragrant cosmetic products on them. 

“Mum…Mum, get up…get up! The flood is over,” urged Mrs Nghiep’s son. “Now I’m back here with you.” 

His name was Ananda, and Ananda means satisfaction and bliss.