A Rp 50,000 banknote

By Chairil Gibran Ramadhan

I have looked at this Rp 50,000 banknote many times. I have studied both sides, carefully examining the letters, figures, pictures and safety lines. I have been doing this for three nights.

After coming home from selling noodles at the end of the road, parking my cart next to my rented house, taking a bath, performing the afternoon prayer and eating, I take the banknote from under the newspaper on which I place the raw noodles in my cart. I look at this banknote until my two children go to sleep and my wife too, although she always reminds me that God would exchange it for something more valuable.

I worked hard for the money. Twenty bowls of chicken noodles had to be sold to get it. This means I had to put into bowls 20 lumps of noodles that I cooked. Then I had to put 20 pinches of cooked mustard greens, 20 pinches of uncooked leek, 20 teaspoons of salt, 20 teaspoons of flavoring powder, 20 ladles of gravy, 60 spoons of chicken broth, 60 spoons of semur chicken, 60 white crispy chips, 60 spoons of sambal, 60 spoons of tomato sauce and 20 spoons of chili sauce.

Three days ago, a new customer paid for two bowls of noodles with Rp 50,000.

"Do you have anything smaller, Oom?" I asked, holding the money.

"Sorry, I have only these Rp 50,000 notes," he said. He took out his wallet and showed me its contents. "Look."

My eyes grew bigger and my mouth watered. There were a number of new and clean Rp 50,000 banknotes in the wallet.

"If you don't have the change, let me exchange it for you."

"Oh, I have the change. But then how can I give change to other customers?"

"I'll wait if you want to exchange it," he said again.

"No need, Oom. I'll do it later." I gave him two Rp 10,000 notes, four Rp 5,000 notes, four Rp 1,000 notes and two Rp 500 notes. "Here's your change, Oom."

The man counted the money, folded the notes and put them into the right-front pocket of his blue trousers. "Thanks, Bang. Your noodles are delicious."

I was flattered. "Please, drop by on your way home from the office. Hope to see you again. Don't forget to tell your friends to eat here."

"Of course, I'll tell them about your noodles." He walked toward his red sedan. He opened the door, got in, turned on the engine and the car sped away westward.

I was happy. I had a new customer. I hoped he would come to my cart regularly. He was a rich man. His face was uniquely urban. His skin was fair, his hair was looked after, his clothes were nice and the aroma of an expensive cologne emanated from his body. And his car, oh yes, it was a a luxury car of the latest model.

He was unlike me, my family, my parents, my parents-in-law, my neighbors, the people living in this kampung, most of my regular customers, the other noodle vendors who I stood in line with to buy supplies like uncooked noodles, chicken, chili sauce and tomato sauce, salt and spices, leeks and mustard greens. Their faces were those of villagers. Their skin was dark and their hair was not well kept. Their clothes were what they could grab to wear. Their bodies never smelled of perfume. They went everywhere by bus or on foot.

I had another customer to attend to. He was one of my regulars. A young man of 20, he had been buying my noodles since he was much younger. He worked in a hypermarket not far from our village. It had opened many months before. He said he worked as a shopping cart attendant, and I saw him there one Sunday when I went to the hypermarket to buy shoes for Reza, as a gift to celebrate his graduation to the fifth grade, and also for Ryan, who had graduated to the fourth grade.

Many people from my kampung worked at the hypermarket, it was so close the company didn't have to worry about employees being late for work, and the employees didn't have to worry about spending half of their salary on transportation.

Many people from the kampung also liked to shop there because it was air-conditioned and clean.

"You working the afternoon shift, Tur?"

"The morning shift, Bang Ed. I worked overtime today. It's Saturday and so crowded you can't even make your way through the market. But I thank God because I got lots of tips today. It's always like this on Saturday and Sunday, especially when people have just got paid."

He gave me two Rp 1,000 banknotes and a Rp 500 coin for his noodles.

"Do you have some change, Tur? So I can give change to customers. Here's a Rp 50,000."

"Sure." He opened his bag and pulled out a small pile of Rp 1,000 notes. "Already counted back at the hypermarket, Bang."

I took the money and gave him the banknote I had received from my new customer.

He took the note and rubbed it with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. He held it up and looked at it against the light. I did not know why.

"It's fake, Bang."

"Hah?!" My heart missed a beat. "Fake? Impossible, Tur! I got it from a rich person."

"To pay for the noodles?"

"Yes! It can't be fake."

"The rich always prey on the poor, Bang."

I felt weak all over.

"Do you remember his face?"

"Yes! But he only came here today. He was here just before you."

"If he comes again, give it back and ask for a real note."

I said nothing. I gave him back his Rp 1,000 notes and took back the Rp 50,000.

"You must be really careful now."

I could only look at the banknote.

Fake? Fake money?

***

I kept looking at the Rp 50,000 note. Front and back. I studied the letters, figures, pictures and safety lines. I have been doing this for seven days, after coming home from selling my chicken noodles.

Still, I couldn't believe I had received counterfeit money.

Fifteen years earlier, I worked in a factory. I was only there a year. I asked for a raise and the company decided to fire me instead. The factory owner told me to go find somewhere to work where they would pay a junior high school graduate like me a good salary. He said there were thousands of people who would willingly work at his factory for the salary he offered.

"I'd better quit. You pay people you can fool. I'll find a new job that pays more money for someone with my education. I'll find a new employer who does not exploit his workers," I told the factory owner that day. I was 19 years old.

I had been sure that he would agree to give me a Rp 7,500 a month raise, as this amount was nothing for him but for me the money was vital in keeping together the body and soul of my family. My father was a bajaj driver and he didn't make enough to feed himself, my mom, my four brothers and sisters and me.

I was wrong. My employer was too tightfisted. I looked for another job but nobody would pay somebody like me a good salary. So I decided to open my own business.

Why is it that rich people are wicked and are never satisfied? Why don't they ever stop exploiting poor people like me? Do they prey upon us because of our sheer ignorance? Do they prey upon us because we are weak and because in their eyes we are born to be exploited and preyed upon?

***

I looked at this Rp 50,000 note many times. Front and bank. I carefully observed its letters, figures, pictures and safety lines. I have been doing this for 11 days, after coming home from selling my chicken noodles.

Well, I worked hard for this money. I still can't believe I received a fake banknote.

For many days when I left home to sell my noodles, I put the money under the newspaper on which I put the uncooked noodles in my cart. I waited for the rich man to come again, but he never turned up. Six months passed since he bought my noodles.

Then one day I had a new customer, a woman. She gave me a Rp 100,000 banknote to pay for three bowls of noodles that she and two of her friends had.

"Anything smaller, Tante?"

"No, Bang. It's all I have." She opened her purse and showed me its contents. "Come on, have a look."

My eyes grew bigger and my mouth watered. Rp 100,000 banknotes. Clean and new.

"Please change it, Bang."

"No need. Take your money. You don't need to pay me."

"Is it really all right with you?"

"That's OK."

"Do you have Rp 7,500, Mel?"

Her friend shook her head. "I only have Rp 100,000 notes."

"You, Tris?"

Tris also shook her head. "I don't have any small change."

"It's all right, Tante. Take your money. I mean it."

The woman took her purse, opened it and put back the banknote. "Thanks. Your noodles are really delicious."

"You're welcome." I smiled. "Hope you come again. Don't forget to bring small change."

"I'll tell my friends at the office about your noodles." She went to her luxury car along with her two friends. She opened the door, got in and turned on the engine. The car sped away to the east.

That was the first time I made a donation to a rich person. It's much better than allowing the rich to suck my blood.

Bang : older brother (intimate); Oom : uncle; semur : meat cooked in soy sauce; bajaj : motorized three-wheeled pedicab; Tante : aunt

Translated by Lie Hua