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In the middle of a summer when I am still a half-child, Mum tells me that this is the time of year when Bà Ngoại (my grandmother) always takes to praying loudly, eating little, turning up the volume on her taped Buddhist chants I ask why I never noticed You wouldn’t, Mum says She hides it from the children I ask what is wrong Without thinking, she replies, The ghosts are free When I ask what she means, Mum pauses, remembering that this is one fear she can choose to save me from She returns with one of her favourite warnings Don’t dig in too much — something she also says to stop me from scratching mosquito bites, or when I ask her to translate an old song she finds too sad   It is one of the rare times when Mum, Bà Ngoại and I are all together at Bà Ngoại’s house in Greater London, and Mum wants us to stay happy Bà Ngoại lives under a flight path, and so the distant howl of aeroplanes overlays every sound in the house — the recorded monk chants, the singing bowl Bà Ngoại taps after praying, her sudden giggles   Mum hands me a bowl of microwaved porridge and tells me to take it to Bà Ngoại She’ll eat if you’re the one to give it, she says And remember to speak to her gently   *   Mum lets go of the ghost story in fragments She finds a picture of a man in red robes standing on two lotuses, with a ball of yellow light behind his head In one hand, he holds a golden staff, and in the other, a big blue orb This is Địa Tạng Vương Bồ Tát, Mum says She pauses to find the right translation The Buddha of the underworld   Like many of the stories Mum tells me, it starts with a suffering woman This one had a son, Mục-kiền-liên — a young monk Unable to afford anything else, the woman made