“This way will get us to Lê Thánh Tôn faster.”
“But the map says this road is quicker.”
After a short debate, the driver still chose to follow the stubborn voice of the GPS, leading them through a winding path. A man of obstinacy, Tiên thought to herself.
The alley lay quiet in the morning stillness, though the clock had long struck past eight. Only a few figures wandered its narrow path – a stooped old man, faithful to his early ritual of incense and prayers, and two ragged souls gathering the empty beer bottles abandoned at the doorsteps of bars after a night of revelry by the so-called gods of pleasure. The fierce sunlight of Saigon could not pierce the damp, shadowed passageway. A plump, cunning rat emerged, its beady black eyes glinting with defiance, before it vanished nimbly into the gutter. Yet, when night fell, this very alley would turn into a place without passage, a road leading nowhere.
The man spoke as though Tiên were new to the city:
“How long have you been in Sài Gòn?”
“Since 2012.”
“So that’s ten years already. Quite a stretch, huh?” “You from Hanoi?”
“Yes, I come from Hanoi.”
“So… you bought a place yet?” “Cause, you know, every Hanoian I meet comes here, blink twice, and – house owner” “Condo or land, which one you got?”
The questions came fast, intrusive, and Tiên felt a prickle of annoyance.
“The real matter isn’t whether you own a house, but whether it’s truly yours. What’s the point of a deed if the property is mortgaged to the bank? I’d rather rent and keep my mind free than break my back under endless interest.”
“Like those flashy bosses who flaunt their cars – when in truth the cars are pledged assets. To me, possessions like that are nothing to be proud of.”
Yet in her heart, Tiên wanted to snap at him:
“What’s it to you if I don’t have a house? Yeah, I’ve been in Saigon ten years and still rent. Big deal! Does that make me a loser? Fine, then I’m a loser! I still have to rent, move around from one place to another. I’m not as brilliant as those ‘Hanoians’ you love bragging about. Who else do you wanna compare me to?. And you? Mr. Grab driver, acting like a real estate tycoon – how many villas do you own, huh?”
But before she could finish the storm of thoughts, his voice softened, almost like a confession:
“In this city, even thirty million a month can’t buy you a home, can it? Every day I toil like a beast, just enough to eat… I have a child with autism, too.”
And suddenly, the man who had just been an annoying busybody in Tiên’s eyes now appeared pitiably fragile.
Passing by the gleaming towers of luxury apartments, Tiên could not help but wonder: Among those thousands of home, when would there be one for me – and perhaps, one for him?
Tiên gaze drifted upward. A woman hung laundry along a balcony where pots of flowers leaned into the sun, flaunting their fragile colors. Tiên imagined a tender scene unfolding behind those walls: a family in warmth and harmony, children in bright uniforms embroidered with the name of an international school, backpacks bouncing as they ran and laughed. At dusk, grandparents would take them to the playground, guiding tiny hands up the slide. Her own parents would stroll along the serene bank of the Sài Gòn River at dawn, moving gently to morning exercises, lungs filled with the clean breath of daybreak, sometimes startled by the passing hush of a river cruise.
That imagined place brimmed with every convenience: a vast supermarket whose endless aisles dazzled the eyes, seafood and fruit heaped high, food of every kind waiting to be chosen. Tiên pictured herself there, cooking fiery meals for her beloved family, the fragrance filling a home that was truly theirs.
And there would be wine – yes, a few cherished bottles for evenings by the window. She would sip slowly, savoring a few pages of a book, while at her feet a small puppy curled into sleep, its breath warm against her skin.
A sudden blare of a horn pulled her back – daydream shattered. The towers receded behind her. The office loomed ahead. The parking lot was already overflowing. In her hand swung the sticky rice she had bought in haste, still warm with quail eggs untouched. Another day of weary routine awaited: modest pay, just enough to get by.
And somewhere deep inside, the question lingered like a splinter in her heart:
“When on earth will Tien ever get a place of her own?”
📍Saigon, August 1, 2025.
(Excerpt from the short story “When on earth will Tien ever get a place of her own?” in the Short Story Collection by Ha Kim)
