Laluba (Part 2 of 2)<\/p>\n
Nukila Amal<\/p>\n
They've run short of men in the subdistrict. How strange; there
\nare not enough men in this world, a world of theirs.<\/p>\n
The night of departure of more men. It was already late, but
\nour village did not sleep. People packed for the trip. Women
\nhelped with anxious faces, children running around, supplies were
\nput in piles like harvests of clove and copra. I stood at the
\nbeach, watching.<\/p>\n
Not far from me, a group of elders was talking about
\ndismembered bodies, bodies thrown into the sea, about little
\nchildren who taken away ... Your father took me away from the
\ncrowd. We sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, looking up at the
\nsky studded with stars. Your father said many men were injured...<\/p>\n
The injured, the wounded, the dying. Here we are all dying, my
\nchild.<\/p>\n
Forgive me, Child. Memories come in flashes and I want to sink
\nthem all down to the bottom of the sea, to the deepest ocean,
\nuntil none is left to surface.<\/p>\n
What time is it? The sea has turned silvery gray. Only two or
\nthree stars are left, shades of orange and crimson on the
\nhorizon, promising the sun. I always love the morning and
\nafternoon sky. Sun, rising or sinking, the sky would look just
\nthe same, tinted with soft hues. Burnt orange. Rosy pink. Blue.
\nPale purple.<\/p>\n
Gray. We never know the beginning or the end of something.
\nTime left unresolved ... You will learn how enchanting mornings
\ncan be, my child.<\/p>\n
I dreamed of you nights ago, a drowned little fish, you didn't
\nswim up to the surface. You were blazing white, while the ocean
\nchanged colors from blue to red to green, showing you crystal
\nclear in its depth.<\/p>\n
Above you, there was a large fish about to eat a medium size
\nfish about to eat a small fish. The jaws of those fish were open
\nwide with sharp teeth. I remember telling your father about the
\ndream the next morning.<\/p>\n
Your father said something about our trip to the fish market
\nthe afternoon before, a million shapes and colors of fish must
\nhave flooded my mind, seeping into my dreams. Sitting on the
\nporch while sipping coffee, your father told stories about the
\nbeginning of life on the ocean bed, about animals whose ancestors
\nare simple sea creatures, about a fish that breastfeeds its baby,
\nblind fish, sea ghosts in an image of big-eyed octopus, chasms
\nand troughs in the deep sea...<\/p>\n
I imagine the abyss below, silently keeping the eternal dreams
\nof those archaic fish longing to crawl on the land. Do you dream?
\nDo you dream of reefs and abyss, of your mother, of human beings?
\nMaybe your dreams are without images, like the dreams of those
\nsmall blind fish found in the still water of caves, in the deep
\nabyss of the ocean or -- ... they are here ... at daybreak.
\nThey've come.<\/p>\n
Ah, you are kicking inside. Almost striking, I could feel your
\ntiny fists clenched in my belly. What do you worry about? Sssh,
\nssshhh... stay calm. It's just a bomb. Or hand grenade, maybe. Do
\nyou know that they could make a soundproof bomb using a coconut
\nshell?<\/p>\n
Without an ear-deafening loud explosion, just the sound of
\ncrackle in the shell. Then follow the cries and groans from
\nexploded skulls... Let us stand up. The mob, they are already at
\nthe edge of the village. Their shouts are so loud and rude. Don't
\nlisten to them, don't take their words to heart. They're used to
\nshouting at each other in the deep forest or amid the roaring
\nsea. Can you hear the voices?<\/p>\n
Such noise... battering the eardrums. Yet I could still hear
\nthe sea waves splashing, the cry of a bird from a tree somewhere.
\nOr is it the cry of a human being, I'm no longer sure. There's
\nsome strange smell stirring and clinging in the air, not the
\nfamiliar salty smell of the sea nor the smell of wet grass, but
\nmore like the stench of a slaughterhouse.<\/p>\n
Which way are you gazing? I can feel your vision transcending
\nmy skin. See how the coarse sand and the sea glisten like
\nsparkling diamonds. Dew on the tip of grass refracts light. The
\nsun has turned into a big crimson ball, silent, distant, from
\nthese clamorous happenings.<\/p>\n
How life holds one tightly in its gentle arms when death looms
\nnearby. I imagine you seeing the world for the first time.<\/p>\n
Will you be relieved to leave the darkness and arrive in this
\nbright colorful world? You will be like me now, seeing colors on
\ntheir sharpest nuances, amazed at the shocking beauty. Everything
\nradiates with life. See them with luminous eyes, be enchanted,
\nbe thrilled. My child, will you feel joy to see the world?<\/p>\n
Or are you gazing back, toward the lumbering crowd out there?
\nThey run and scatter and collide like live crabs trapped in wood
\ncrates, like fish struggling to get out of the net. Their eyes
\nare open wide, bloodshot red, like those of fish unsold for days.
\nBlack swirls of smoke cramming the air (I heard they never leave
\nanything out, nor anyone).<\/p>\n
Fire, flaming orange, flares up more than the sun... Flaming
\nhatred flares up more than compassion.<\/p>\n
Not the good, not the bad, but the clashed ones.<\/p>\n
Forgive them, Child. Those men just never know how it feels to
\ncarry life inside their bodies like a pregnant woman. They carry
\ndeath on their arms and fingers instead. Deadly weapons, clinking
\nand clashing noisily. ... yet all they are only victims, clashed
\nagainst each other. Maybe they do know that, half-know or don't
\nknow or don't want to know.<\/p>\n
But you have to know, Child. Because believing is never
\nenough, you could be deceived. In the end, helpless. Like me,
\nyou, them, Halmahera, Moluccas, all.<\/p>\n
An empty shell lies on the sand, as small as my thumb,
\ndeserted. I will hold it up before my belly so you can observe it
\nclosely. It once housed a little hermit crab. Such a beautiful
\nhome, delicate whorls spiraling to the pointed apex. Its soft
\norange color has faded from the washes of the salty water,
\nbleached, now dull white, opaque. The inhabitant must have
\ndeserted it a long time ago.<\/p>\n
Why did he leave? Maybe he felt too confined, the home no
\nlonger a protection, has lost its meaning as a dwelling. Why
\nstay? He decided to leave, maybe back to the sea. He crawled upon
\nthe sand, seaward... downward, finding another home in the ocean
\ndepths. Yes, why stay, my child? They would not allow us to stay
\nhere. This beautiful village, like any other place, was never
\nbuilt to last forever. Let us leave.<\/p>\n
To the sea. Only the sea liberates. All wanderings and
\nmeanderings of rivers end here. No origins nor traces nor colors.
\nAll are alike. Blue sea. Open wide. Calm. Here droplets of water
\nmingle and drift and break into waves, toward the seashore,
\nupward to the sky. Blue sky.<\/p>\n
...what was that? Something just flew over me and plunged into
\nthe water, not far from my arm. Let me find it...<\/p>\n
Ah, an arrow. Missed the target. Maybe the same thing is
\npiercing my shoulder. It doesn't really hurt, feels just like a
\npeck from cockatoo. We will pull it out... there's blood on the
\narrow's tip. Sharp red. Mine. Luckily the arrow didn't hit my
\nabdomen, you could get hurt in there.<\/p>\n
Child, turn around and take a look at him. The archer, he
\nstands up straight among blades of grass. He couldn't bring
\nhimself to take his bow up for another shoot, the bow is hanging
\ndown limply from his grip.<\/p>\n
Maybe because I am smiling at him. He looks tired and
\nhandsome, with the tartan shirt most teens wear nowadays. A mere
\nfew years of living have qualified him to feel the right and
\nobligation to finish us off, that youthful Izrail.<\/p>\n
I'll throw this arrow away. Do not cry, sweet child. You've
\ngrown now, almost eight months, be brave. Let's move on. The arms
\nof the sea are welcoming us, embracing up to my knees. I promise
\nthis will not hurt. Me, you, the young archer, all of us will die
\nanyway. It's only the matter of the way.<\/p>\n
One never knows the face of death appearing before one. I just
\ndon't want their evil hands to rip my stomach open and seize you
\naway from me, you, my beloved sanctity, never to be stained. You
\ncannot die that way, it would be too painful for you. I will save
\nyou.<\/p>\n
Beloved, pretty little fish in the sea of my womb, Laluba.
\nWith you, I am complete. I am everything I ever wanted to be:
\nchild, pupil, worker, wife, mother, woman, witness. Early doom,
\nmy baby, is your mind teeming with questions?<\/p>\n
Why are your breasts drenched in water, Mother, why do the
\nrose-apple blossoms in your hair drifts away in the waves, why
\nthe shell loosens from your clutch, why do you destroy me?<\/p>\n
Will you believe my answer, a reason of all reasons. Will you
\nhave faith in me?<\/p>\n
Because I love you. For eons of my living soul, never have I
\ndesired to kill this body, to last this once and too beautiful a
\nlife. Please allow me to save you, even though I must die.<\/p>\n
Is this enough, Child? Because of my love for you, larger than
\nmy love for life.<\/p>\n
... What I have witnessed along the way, I will witness in the
\ndepth.<\/p>\n
To You, to whom all prayers and questions are addressed, from
\nwretched souls on the verge of death on unkind nights, thousands
\nof broken murmurs and whispers floating skyward. Will another
\nprayer have meaning? Or will this one be another absurd attempt.
\nI'm tired of praying, those prayers were not even for me, but for
\nall the wretched ones.<\/p>\n
And for the ones who have faith in You but fail to keep the
\nsame faith for other human beings. This is my last prayer, a
\nprayer for all the unborn children...<\/p>\n
So silent. Warm. Sunshine seeps down here, crystal blue water.
\nBluer shades, sapphire blue, greyish. Turning dark gray,
\ngreenish, pure green. A school of little fish comes whirling
\nabout, they don't look perplexed. I see silhouettes, behind
\nthem... silhouettes, rising and floating.<\/p>\n
Men... Their faces pale, white, blue, purple. They are looking
\nat us, not blinking, not speaking, only their hair and fingers
\nand shirts are swirling...<\/p>\n
Ah, I could see your father. He is coming toward us, flying
\namong the men. See his hair, streaming like a horse's mane, his
\ntattered shirt swaying like anemones. He gazes at you with a
\nbeaming face and a smile as white as clouds -- he is smiling at
\nyou, who are still curling shyly in your dark sac.<\/p>\n
Take his hand, Child, his open palm is soft and white, holding
\nup a rose-apple for us. A ripe one. Take the fruit, it tastes
\nsweet and pink and fresh, mouth watering, taste it, swallow it
\ndeep, deeply...<\/p>\n
Originally published in Indonesian in Kalam cultural journal.<\/p>", "url": "https:\/\/jawawa.id\/newsitem\/laluba-part-2-of-2-1447893297", "image": "" }, "sponsor": "Okusi Associates", "sponsor_url": "https:\/\/okusiassociates.com" }