Abus

By Bondan Winarno

If father hadn't forced me, I would never have studied the Koran under Abus. Never. Abus wasn't my teacher's real name. Everyone honored him with the Arabic title "Abu," but Father told me his real name was Bustomi. He himself called him Abu. Even my grandfather called him Abu. So, we children never called him anything else, either. People called him Abu Bus, from Abu Bustomi, to distinguish him from others with the title Abu. And that's how the venerable Mr. Bustomi ended up with the name Abus.

When I was only nine years old, Abus was already eighty-one. Nine times older than I was. Imagine! It wasn't surprising that he always treated me disparagingly. In his presence, I was always a bumbler. I could never hold my pen the right way when writing the Arabic alphabet. And I was even worse when I had to read from the Koran. Whatever I did, something would be wrong.

I didn't like Abus. Neither did any of my friends of my age. But no matter how hard we worked together, we could never do anything to him. Our parents would always side with Abus against us. In my own home town of Petakan, Abus was always right. If there was ever any trouble at the prayer-house, it had to be the fault of the children. No one would ever have blamed Abus. In short, Abus was the Ayatollah of Petakan.

Abus was thought to be the oldest person of sound mind in the village. To be sure, Mak Nung was older than he was but she passed her days without rising from her bed, which made her quite different from Abus.

Abus lived two lives. The first was in the prayer-house where he led the prayers and taught the Koran. Even though he had never in his life been married, people said that there was no better counselor around for giving advice to married couples who were going through difficult times. And maybe because of Abus' services, there were never any divorces in Petakan, only marriages.

His other life was as a bubur vendor, selling black-rice pudding. At three in the morning he was already up, preparing the coconut milk, dissolving the palm-sugar, and boiling up the sticky black rice, the green beans, and regular white rice in big pots. Then, after leading the morning prayer, he would set up his humble business on a low table in front of the prayer-house.

Maybe Abus had happened to read a book on sales techniques. When he was selling bubur, he always had a smile for everyone. His bubur, which was actually very good, sold well; his smile always enticed customers to purchase a second helping. In the prayer-house, however, the smile would disappear from his face. Every day, except during the fasting month of Ramadhan, Abus wore these two different faces.

I remember one time Abus belted me with his rattan stick Whack! Right across my spine, on the thirteenth vertebrae. I didn't cry, no way, I was ten years old at that time. But my pride was certainly hurt. I had thought that by my age, I wouldn't be treated like a little kid any more. And yet, Abus had beaten me. Even my own father didn't hit me anymore.

After that incident I thought for a long time about how to pay Abus back for my humiliation. Finally, I came up with an idea: Abus obsessed with his siawak. Do you know what a siawak is? You might be revolted if I tell you, but if I don't you won't understand how I planned to take my revenge. Anyway, a siawak is an Arabian tooth-brush, made from a short stick of wood with one of the ends crushed to form a kind of brush. Once, when Abus went on the pilgrimage, he saw that the Arabs always cleaned their teeth with such a brush before they performed their prayers. So he came to the conclusion that his prayers would be legitimate only if he first brushed his teeth with a siawak, too. You can imagine how bad it smelt after it had been used over and over again.

Abus never threw his brushes away. He had made the pilgrimage six times, and each time he had resumed with a new brush. Everyone in the village who went on the pilgrimage knew that the way to make Abus happy was to bring him back a new siawak. He kept all his brushes in one of the staves of bamboo that formed part of the wall of the prayer-house, near the spot where he led the daily prayers.

One night, after the evening prayer, I stole one of his brushes and took it back home with me. The next day, before leaving for morning prayer, I poured out a mound of chili powder and pepper, and rubbed the brush into the deadly pile. I was the first one to arrive at the prayer house and I put the spiked brush back in the place where Abus was most likely to reach for it.

By the time Abus came, another ten or so children were there, ready for the morning prayer. I tensed when I saw Abus choosing a brush but breathed with relief when he chose the one I had fixed for him. Unsuspecting, he began to clean his teeth. A moment later he frowned. His eyes bulged. And then he hurled the brush down onto the prayer-mat. As his mouth burned, his curses grew louder and louder.

I ran out helter-skelter with the other kids. There was no way that Abus, who was eighty-two at the time, could hope to catch us. We kids were out of control that morning. Everyone was frantically trying to guess who had doctored the brush but no one was admitting to it. I certainly wasn't going to. And there was nothing to be gained by casting suspicion on anyone else because most all of us had reason to bear a grudge against Abus.

Because of what had happened none of us had the courage to buy Abus' delicious bubur, and I went on to school with a very hungry stomach I kept myself going by putting some fried taro into my stomach at break time.

None of the kids went back to the prayer-house that day. Not for the afternoon prayer, not for the twilight prayer, and not for the evening prayer either.

When my father heard what had happened he asked me if it was I who had done such a wicked thing. Lucky for me my father was easily convinced that I hadn't. Father always preferred to be proud of me.

As it happened, a week passed, and still not a single child had found the courage to return to the prayer-house. My father tried coaxing me into going back, but I didn't want to at all.

"If I go by myself and the other kids aren't there, Abus will probably thrash the daylights out of me!"

My father tried to sway my opinion "At most he'll be angry for a while. You can put up with that. As an older man who deserves respect, he feels that you kids have played an unpleasant prank on him. You'll just have to get over it and face the consequences like a man!"

"But when Abus beats you he goes completely out of control," I protested. "If he tries to take a stick to my butt, he's just as likely to hit me in the eyes and blind me!"

Maybe the idea of me, his one and only male child, being blinded, gave my father cause for anxiety, for after that, he offered his services as a peace-maker. He urged all the children of Petakan to come and face Abus together in the prayer-house. And Abus couldn't be angry, because my father gave a very fine speech of apology on behalf of all the children. Abus accepted our apologies. Then, we, one by one, filed by to kiss his hand.

How were we to know that Abus' desire for revenge was greater than his sense of forgiveness? The next morning we gathered together, waiting for Abus to lead the morning prayer. All of us were there. It was only Abus who hadn't come. Suddenly, we heard He door of the prayer-house being shut from outside. And then, click!, it was locked as well. Abus had locked us into the prayer house. And he just left us there. That was his revenge.

Maybe I'm not the heroic type because I never did own up to doing what I had done with that siawak. When it came around to Idul Fitri and you're suppose to ask forgiveness for your wrong doings, I gave a lot of thought to owning up but, in the end, I didn't have the courage to say anything. I kept my secret to myself.

I already said that Abus had made the pilgrimage six times. That's right. Not that he was the richest man in the village. I mean, have you ever known a rich bubur vendor? But Abus was the most frugal man in the village and he saved all his money. His sarong was stitched and patched and he never ate meat, except maybe on Idul Fitri and Kenduri when it was given to him. He hid all the money he earned from selling bubur and the fees that were paid to him by his students in the bamboo joints of his house. And when the time came, he would split the bamboo open, and count his savings. He'd use this money to finance his pilgrimage and pay the Pilgrimage Fee.

And that's what he did when he turned eighty-three. I, of all people, helped him split the bamboo open and count his money. I was the best student of arithmetic in Petakan. And Abus knew that. I counted his money. He had more than enough for the pilgrimage fee.

"Praise be to Allah!" he shrieked, throwing his hands in the air. And then he began to cry.

The night before he left for the Holy Land, Abus suddenly asked that the tahlil, the last rites, be read for him. His request unnerved us.

"Just think of me as dead," he told us, "but read the tahlil for me." Abus had always said that he wanted to die in the Holy Land. Everyone had heard him say it. And now he was eighty-three years old, and going on the pilgrimage for the seventh time.

"I may never return," he said. The next morning the whole village fumed out to see him off at Poncol Station. And there we were, all of us taking leave of a man going off to die. Abus didn't cry, but there were many among us who did. When he was leaving, I almost ran to him to kiss his hand and- tell him that it had been I who had spiked his brush with pepper and chili Before he died, I thought, he should know my secret.

But then you have to remember I was only eleven years old, and in the end I didn't tell him anything and kept the secret to myself.

And Abus didn't come back. We all thought he had passed away in the Holy Land, just as he had wished. I began to regret that I had not asked him for his forgiveness and often, when I performed my prayers, I prayed that Abus was at peace by God's side and had forgotten my trespass against him.

Each year thereafter, whenever people from the village made the pilgrimage they were always told to find out what had happened to Abus. That if he had died, they were to pay their respects at his grave. But no one ever came back from the trip with news of him.

One day, when I was eighteen, which was about seven years after Abus' departure, an old man suddenly showed up at our village. He wore a black cloak and was very decrepit but looked a lot like Abus. Who was he? Everyone wanted to know. Was it Abus or, maybe, Abus' ghost?

The onlookers stood stiff and silent as the black-robed figure hobbled along the lane towards Abus' old house which was now being used by our new religious teacher.

My father was the first to have the courage to greet the ghost. "Assalamualaikum. Peace be with you!" my father said in greeting. "Are you Abu Bustomi?"

Everyone looked on nervously from a distance. The figure nodded its head slowly and my father kissed his hand. Abus pulled my father towards him and embraced him.

"Abus has returned! Abus has returned!" my father shouted. Now everyone approached, pushing one another forward to greet Abus and kiss his hand. Poor Abus, so old and feeble. Don't forget, he was ninety years old-was obviously touched.

He hadn't died. That meant I still had time to ask his forgiveness for the incident with the tooth-brush. Now, at eighteen, I had the courage to do it, even if it meant a beating.

Father invited Abus to stay at our house, and when Mother asked him what had made him come back to his birth-place, his eyes filled with tears.

"Your sayur lodeh and salted fish," he told my mother haltingly.

So Mother immediately set to preparing vegetables for sayur lodeh and frying up some salted fish. Our new religious teacher and several of the other elders were invited to lunch together with Abus. I wasn't going to be allowed to sit and eat with them, that was certain, but I stuck around to help Mother, scurrying beck and forth between the kitchen and the dining room.

Abus ate ravenously. His appetite was truly phenomenal. His forehead broke out in a sweat. Father put more rice and sayur lodeh on his plate and offered him more salted fish, which he accepted happily. The more he ate the more his forehead sweat. Everyone was happy to see him. He wasn't dead at all. On the contrary, he was here, beside us, with an astounding appetite.

When he finally finished eating Abus appeared quite breathless.

"Thank you, Icah. That was an outstanding meal," he praised my mother. "For seven years I've been longing for food like that."

Mother just nodded in response but I could see tears at the corners of her eyes.

Abus leaned against the wall while he fanned his face with a newspaper. He belched, then cried out "Praise be to God." For a moment he was silent but then cried out again: "God is great!" He then collapsed at my father's side. Father jumped forward, but Abus was already gone. Only his corpse remained, lifeless in my father's arms. Once again, I had missed the opportunity to ask him for his forgiveness. I stood in a daze as the rest of the people rushed around making arrangements for Abus' funeral. And finally, when his corpse was left alone for a moment on the mat still littered with dirty dishes, I knelt down and kissed his hands which had been entwined on top of his chest. I whispered into his ear, begging him to forgive me. I thought that maybe, just maybe he might still hear me. After all, his spirit could surely have not gone very far.

-- Translated by Tim Kortschak

The story is taken from Menagerie 3, printed here on the courtesy of The Lontar Foundation.