'Bu' Yati<\/p>\n
By Bre Redana<\/p>\n
Bu Yati, my teacher. It seems that times have greatly changed.
\nYet in your presence, I am always a pupil. I stood gaping at her
\nlike a fool, trying with all my might to suppress the onrushing
\ntears.<\/p>\n
People might be bored each time they hear my story about my
\nbirthplace. Now, I have once again arrived in this small town of
\nCentral Java to convey a message from friends in Jakarta who plan
\nto hold a reunion. At a meeting held in the home of the best
\nachiever among us, it was decided that we would invite our
\nelementary school teachers to come to Jakarta. Since a majority
\nat the meeting were of the opinion that my job was the least
\nbusy, I was delegated to make the trip home to contact our former
\nteachers.<\/p>\n
The air in town felt the same. It was always cool in the
\nmiddle of the day, never too hot. The school building looked
\ndifferent, although I immediately discovered that its layout
\npattern was the same as before. The present wall had replaced the
\nformer one which, in our school years, had been partially made of
\nplaited bamboo. We used to peek through the bamboo slits into the
\nactivities of the neighboring classes. Not only had the bamboo
\nwall been replaced, the building was also raised to second story
\nheights.<\/p>\n
Even though the main road in front of the school was
\nconsiderably wider than before and traffic had increased, I
\nimmediately recognized the same kampong roads around the place
\nwhich we used to roam and came in through the back door. I did
\nnot want to be conspicuous. I parked the car some distance from
\nthe school and walked the length of the unpaved road to the back
\npart of the school.<\/p>\n
The houses there still looked the same. There was the house of
\nEndang, my fattest classmate. \"Ah..,\", I sighed deeply. His was a
\ntragic fate. Thieves broke into his house and robbed him of his
\nlife along with his possessions, not long after he got married.<\/p>\n
After so many years, I was sure that the teachers that I knew
\nwere no longer there. According to a friend at the Jakarta
\nmeeting, the school principal was no longer Pak Budi. The present
\none was even the second replacement after Pak Budi, whom we all
\nrespected and loved.<\/p>\n
Among the teachers of our past, Bu Yati, a third grade
\nteacher, was the youngest. I decided to meet Bu Yati. Aside from
\nfirmly believing that she was probably still around, she was the
\none I had been close to.<\/p>\n
The back part of the school was still used by road vendors
\nselling sweets and snacks. The difference was that in my days,
\nthe most popular food seller was Lik Tin (formally known as Maria
\nTheodora Sutini), who used to sell lotek, cooked cassava and
\nfried noodles packed in dried banana leaves. Today, the place was
\noccupied by ice cream and hamburger vendors.<\/p>\n
\"Bu Yati?\" exclaimed one of the vendors when I asked her if Bu
\nHayati was still teaching at the school. \"Oh, yes. She teaches
\nthe third grade.\" She looked at her watch. \"They are coming out
\nany minute now. There is her classroom.\"<\/p>\n
It was the same classroom I had once sat in, at one of the
\ndesks. Bu Yati used to be a clever storyteller. I wonder if she,
\nthis afternoon, after the class was over, would be able to hold
\nthe interest of the pupils and keep sleep at bay with tales such
\nas Joko Tingkir, Joko Tarub, Anglingdarmo and Cindelaras.<\/p>\n
We were dazed. Bu Yati was in the process of putting her
\nthings away when I appeared while the class had disassembled.<\/p>\n
Had my eyesight changed? When I was one of her pupils, we
\nthought of her as the most beautiful woman in school. I
\nremembered that she always appeared tidy, her hair neatly combed.
\nA coquettish smile would light up her face, and since she was not
\nmarried at the time, we suspected that the bachelor teachers, who
\nconstantly milled around her, actually wanted to date her.<\/p>\n
At the time, we thought that Pak Manto, the sixth grade
\nteacher, was her boyfriend.<\/p>\n
Now Bu Yati looked old and weary. No longer did she represent
\nthe vision of my childhood imagination. Or were my eyes, without
\nme realizing it, conditioned to visions of fashionable Jakarta
\nladies? Her hair was graying. She looked tired, and her body had
\nlost its graceful contours, that shapely figure I had kept alive
\nin my memory. As far as we knew, Bu Yati never married.<\/p>\n
It was her smile and the look of her eyes which had not
\nchanged. I should have gulped an ocean of peace, calm and quiet
\nfrom the tales she told us once. She looked at me more closely,
\nsquinting her eyes in the effort.<\/p>\n
\"Who could you be?\" she said, as if she spoke to herself while
\nlooking me over.<\/p>\n
I stood there, my heart gushing profound respect. Then she
\ncalled me by my childhood name, the name nobody used any longer.<\/p>\n
\"Yes Bu ... it's me,\" I said as I approached her and reached
\nfor her hand. She withdrew her hand when she noticed that I
\nwanted to kiss it. She pulled me in her arms, embraced me, and
\nstroked my head.<\/p>\n
\"Cah Bagus, you came! What did I dream last night?\"<\/p>\n
In front of her, I was once more the little boy of years ago.<\/p>\n
The classroom, the blackboard, the cupboard in the corner, the
\nminiature desks, much too small for my present size now. It was
\nthe place where I had learned a lot. My chest was rumbling, it
\nwas as if a whirlwind was spiraling me toward a rendezvous with
\nthe ghost of my childhood. A time which I longed to savor again.<\/p>\n
\"How long ago did you leave this school, Cah Bagus?\"<\/p>\n
\"About 20 years ago, Bu.\"<\/p>\n
\"Where is your mother now? I'm sorry I could not come at the
\ntime you lost your brother. I was sick at the time,\" she went on
\nto say.<\/p>\n
I bowed my head. It had been so long, and yet she remembered.
\nShe still had regrets because she could not come.<\/p>\n
How noble she was. And I? I had forgotten almost everything
\nthat happened here. Several teachers from the school had passed
\naway and I did not know it. I got deeply embarrassed when I asked
\nabout Pak Budi, Pak Manto, Bu Darmi and Pak Ignatius, who were
\ngone for some time now.<\/p>\n
\"I understand. You must have been very busy,\" she said.<\/p>\n
No snide remarks were made, or anything of that nature. I
\nunderstood everything that her generous heart stood for.<\/p>\n
Deep within my heart I was ashamed of myself, I was also
\nashamed for my friends in Jakarta who wanted to hold a reunion
\nand had sent me to her. A heated debate was held, even about the
\ntransportation costs of the teachers, whether they should take a
\nbus, a train, or what? They said taking a plane would be too
\ncostly. Damn them!<\/p>\n
I would certainly not have Bu Yati travel by bus, or sit for
\nhours on end in a stuffy train wagon. Especially since she has to
\nsupport herself with the help of a walking stick. I decided then
\nto ask Bu Yati to come by plane. In Jakarta, she could choose to
\nstay in a hotel of her choice, although I would be the happiest
\nperson if she would prefer to stay in my house.<\/p>\n
\"I fell from my bike two weeks ago. I'm lucky to be
\nrecuperating now. I have to walk a lot to get on my feet fast,\"
\nshe explained about her leg.<\/p>\n
Because of her present condition, she was not certain about
\naccepting our invitation. And that, in spite of all the pleas I
\nmade.<\/p>\n
\"It's also not the holiday season. I can't possibly leave my
\nchildren. I'd only be worried...\"<\/p>\n
I fell silent. I was lost for words. It was the same quality
\nof love she had bestowed on me long ago.<\/p>\n
\"But you must believe that even if I'm unable to make it, my
\nprayers will always be with all of you. Each night, I try to
\nremember all my pupils whom, I hope, will have become somebody.
\nThat would make me ultimately happy,\" she said.<\/p>\n
All at once, I could sense the quiet nights steeped in
\nprayers. I bowed my head again, and spotted her hands. I wanted
\nvery much to kiss them.<\/p>\n
Before we parted that afternoon, she invited me to pray with
\nher, to thank God for the meeting she said was very wonderful.<\/p>\n
My eyes, closed in prayer, felt hot. I was moved by all the
\nwords she said in her prayer.<\/p>\n
\"Lord, how small am I,\" I said to myself.<\/p>\n
I could only look at Bu Yati, who refused a lift to her place,
\njust because she wanted to exercise her leg so she would be able
\nto walk as usual. She invited me to her home that evening, if I
\nhad not left for Jakarta yet, she said.<\/p>\n
Of course, I canceled the trip to Jakarta that afternoon. I
\nstood in the schoolyard, now quiet and deserted. I did not feel
\nat all like leaving. For it was here that I met my true self...<\/p>\n
Translated by Claudine Frederik<\/p>\n
Bre Redana was born in Salatiga, Central Java, on Nov. 27,
\n1957. He started writing short stories in the late 1980s and they
\nhave since appeared in several papers, mostly in Kompas.Part of
\nhis stories have been published in book form, titled Urban
\nSensation. He has been working for the Kompas daily since 1982,
\nand is taking care of the features column. The short story Bu
\nYati, was first published in Kompas in 1994. It is among those
\nprinted in Laki-laki Yang Menikah Dengan Peri: Cerpen Pilihan
\nKompas 1995 (A Man Who Marries A Fairy: An Anthology of Kompas
\nShort Stories 1995). It is reprinted here by courtesy of Kompas.<\/p>\n
Notes:
\n Bu = Madame
\n Pak = Sir
\n Cah Bagus = Good Boy
\n Lik = Auntie
\n lotek = mixed vegetables with spicy peanut sauce<\/p>",
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