An Untitled Day
By Leo PN Landep
The sky was overcast. The attempt of the sun to shine from behind the grayish clouds was a meek one, as if too shy to shed its light upon the brownish murky waters below.
Laras tries a more comfortable sitting position.
She feels cramped all over, having squatted on the roof of her hut for the past ten hours.
The emotions within her are indescribable. More than poignant sadness. Even mixed with guilt.
Her sunken eyes, no longer able to shed tears, gaze wearily at the water that has swallowed her five-day-old son.
If only the water had been crystal clear and bluish, she mused, like off the island of Bali. Only then could she have probably relented. But she could only picture it in her mind, as it was only from Sri's gossip about her honeymoon.
Sri the backstabber. Her audacity in giggling about the private moments shared with a man who had been Laras' husband made her head throb.
"Why have I been spared? I don't have anyone to live for now that my husband is fooling around with his second wife," she thought to herself.
She shivers slightly, not because of the pounding rain and cold wind, but more an involuntary shudder of rage.
She raises her hands and bows her head down, as if in prayer.
She looks up, searching for the sun. But it is not there for her. It hides itself further behind the dark stormy clouds, as if unwilling to witness the upcoming occurrence.
She limply slides down. The muddy water, with its debris ... nay, the bluish clean waves gulp her down. The skies split apart. A thin golden line appears for a fraction of a second.
Lightning and deafening thunder then pierce the skies of Jakarta on this particular evening.
February 2, 2002 is the last birthday to be celebrated by Laras after her 22 years of existence on this godforsaken planet.
* * * *
He switches off the car engine. The identity card on the dashboard catches his eye. He looks with pride at his name printed underneath the "Yellow Bird." Name: Anwar.
Today is his first payday for a driver for one of the most reputable taxi companies in the capital. Putting on his raincoat, he rushes to the cashier's office in the heavy rain, which has been pouring incessantly for the past two days.
He quickly signs the receipt, slips the envelope with the "Rp 1.2 million" in the cashier's handwriting into his trouser pocket.
"This is your Rp 200,000 bonus. You've worked hard, son -- just be careful on your way home, there's flooding everywhere," the old cashier warns him smilingly.
"Thanks a lot. Today is the second birthday of my twins. The family's waiting. Got to go," he reaches for the door.
"Is that so? Here's another twenty thousand from me. Tell the boys it is from a distant grandfather."
"You're so kind. Thanks Grandpa. Bye, then."
He jumps on his bicycle, pedaling toward the slippery street. He can already imagine the look on his wife's face when he kisses her forehead and slips the envelope into her bra.
A small girl, on the side of the street, raises her bowl.
"Please, sir, I haven't eaten since this morning." He throws into it all the small change from his shirt pocket.
He keeps pedaling hard, speeding as fast as he can on the creaking, old two-wheeler left by his deceased father. He disregards the traffic lights, and makes a sharp turn to the left. From here, it is a downhill ride to the bridge.
Suddenly, he is blinded by the lightning hitting the asphalt mound in front of him. He tries both the hand brakes and the footbrakes, but to no avail. He is tossed from his vehicle by a sudden surging wave. The bicycle careens toward the floodwaters, which are rising by the second.
In a matter of moments, he is nose-deep in the water. Desperately, he moves his hands and legs, as he has never been much of a swimmer. He is simply unable to fight in his struggle against the raging torrent ...
* * * *
There is not even a clock on the damp walls, but the woman knows it is far later than the usual time her husband to come home. She can see the simply decorated cake she has prepared earlier for the twins' birthday standing slightly tilted on the crooked short table next to her.
The two white candles are still unlit. A newly purchased mini Qur'an lies beside the cake.
The girls seem to be slightly disturbed in their sleep on the mat on the floor. One of them suddenly screams: "Papa ... Papaaa ..." This is the second word in their vocabulary so far -- after "Mama."
She lies next to them, and hugs them both. "Shhhh, Papa is just a little late ... he'll be home soon. Mama is here ..."
Yes, Anwar is on his way home.
But to his eternal abode, which is not quite the right destination for the contents of his envelope.
* * * *
At the maximum, only two people out of the dozens of passengers on the bus are not laughing. Maybe one is deaf and the other is having a severe toothache. So, statistically, it can be safely said that The Joker is 99 percent successful in presenting his hilarious jokes.
Yes, that is his renowned nickname, "The Joker."
While others struggle in a cut-throat competition, selling music and a small number turn to poetry reading on the crowded means of transportation, this born marketeer has created a lucrative niche for himself as the only highly effective joke teller of the metropolis Jakarta.
His arrogance befits his talent as reflected by the triumphs on the buses that criss-cross the capital and you can often hear him shout at the top of his voice and laugh boisterously afterward.
"Listen to me ... listen to my jokes.," he said. "I'm a phenomenon. I'm the funniest Indonesian alive. Only the honorable members of DPR and MPR can be sometimes funnier. But theirs is black comedy resulting in tragedy. Mine is healthy for the soul."
And the passengers concur in their applause. One toothless grandmother growls: "It's the laughter of my life. I shouldn't laugh at others. It's a sin."
The street musicians and poets often deride him, when he gets so cocky as to spell out his dream of becoming the master comedian on television.
"One day soon, man, you'll be sitting on your ass and watching me on this screen," he often says to himself, pointing to a second-hand, black-and-white television set he puts in his barely furnished bedroom, as it is the only item of any value that he owns, along with a cracked mirror, a plaited mat, and a prayer mat.
But at this very moment, the skies are looking at him. The skies with dark, angry clouds. The skies that are disgorging rain at their fullest.
He has no audience before him, as he usually does on the swaying buses. Before him and below him is water: filthy brownish water as far as eyes can see. He feels as if he has been reduced to his lowest point.
Akin to an ill-fated bird, perched on the roof of a smallish hut that he managed to rent two months ago.
It is challenging though, as it hurts his pride now that he is unable to make his new "audience" laugh.
"Oh yes, I get it, I certainly can make them laugh. Why not? I can make the elements of nature laugh together with me," he mumbled.
He starts laughing, mixed with a cry of despair at first, then gradually becoming louder.
It was his boisterous laughter at his best. A long shrieking laughter, that accompanied the howling wind and the rumbling skies. An embittered laugh that was awaited by none other than the Angel of Death himself. And the response, not surprisingly, was instant.
* * * *
He looks at his watch. It's after midnight. He realizes that he is the only one working on the second floor of the office building. He switches off his computer.
The article's deadline has been met, and the only snag is the title. He may or may not change it first thing tomorrow.
Stacks of newspapers on his table scream headlines on the ongoing floods. The Link TV news caster is still giving some final dire details, mostly on the death toll -- with an inappropriate smile. He switches off the News N News radio transmission, which has been feeding off the tragedy for days.
Suddenly the lights go out, followed by a violent storm with thunder and lightning that pierces his ears and eyes.
The eerie sounds are strangely mixed with the beep on his cellular. He tries to steady himself, gropes for the gadget in his pocket. The SMS message reads: "Noah's Ark" but, weirdly, without any sender.