Blood

By Putu Wijaya

While slicing onions, Mirah cut her finger. She cried out and popped her index finger into her mouth. But, startled, she pulled it out again. Her wet finger was pale. Blood was rushing into the cut and dripping down. Mirah was stunned: the blood was white.

In the tales of the shadow theater the only character with white blood was Prince Yudhistira, the eldest child of the Pandawa family and a hero with a pure heart. His blood was not only a symbol of his majesty but also a guarantee that he would enter heaven as soon as he died. Because he eschewed violence in all his actions and because he was always willing to make sacrifices for others, Yudhistira had been blessed with white blood.

But Mirah was not a wayang heroine. She lived in a large city in which the most important thing -- although many people did not agree with this -- was money, money, money.

Mirah didn't believe it. She looked away, trying to clear her head, but when she looked again, the blood on her index finger was still white, clear, fresh and fragrant. It had a healthy smell, like the smell of the earth during rain. Only its taste was bitter.

Mirah was confused. She felt neither headachy nor nauseous; in fact, she felt very good. Never before had anyone felt so refreshed while losing blood. This was like the Dracula film which she had seen not long ago.

Mirah held her finger to a cup to catch the blood. It flowed cheerfully and playfully down her finger. Like a child who had been kept inside too long, it burst from Mirah's finger and fell into the cup -- drip, drip, drip. Her index finger no longer felt like a part of her own hand. It had become part of Yudhistira's hand. Enveloped in wonder, Mirah prayed. She did not understand why she had been chosen for this miracle.

There are many people more learned than I, she thought. Some neighbors have BAs. Some are even lecturers. Why have I been chosen, she wondered. I, who only went to elementary school?

Mirah thought of her mother and father who had died long ago, murdered. And now here she was: the only person with white blood among millions and millions of people with red blood. What was this if not amazing? She would be famous. She would have lots of money. Because of this, she would be rich! She would move to a house of her own. She would no longer have to live in her aunt's house and be pushed around all her life.

Mirah could hardly breathe. She was happy. The cup was filling up. Quickly she looked for a glass. Suddenly her aunt came in. Startled, Mirah picked up the cup and drank up all her blood. Then she put her injured finger back into her mouth.

"What's the matter, Mirah? Why do you have your finger in your mouth?"

Mirah did not answer.

"Well, what's the matter?" her aunt asked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? But you're sucking your finger like an imbecile. Did you cut yourself?"

"No."

"Work a little faster. Just slicing those onions has taken you hours! Look at that room. Don't let the dirty clothes pile up like that!"

"I'll wash them later," Mirah told her aunt.

"There are two baskets full now, and how they smell! And when you're finished with the laundry, clean the store room. Did you hear me, Mirah?"

"Yes."

"After that you can take over for me in the shop. There's a club meeting at Mrs. Daniel's house."

Mirah nodded her assent.

She has been holding her index finger tightly, but as soon as her aunt left the kitchen, she stuck it into the cup again. The blood welled out again, slick and lively, white and clean like the sap of the frangipani tree. For the first time in her twenty years Mirah felt that life was good and worthwhile. Tears fell from her eyes, as the faces of her father and mother again floated hazily before her. How difficult it was to be alone in this hectic world. But now, because of her white blood everything was going to be different. Mirah smiled.

Cheerfully, nimbly, she walked on light steps to the well. She attacked her two baskets of laundry and took care of the washing in two hours, all the while singing pop songs. After that she invaded the storage room. Full of energy she went after the dirt; drenched in sweat, she made the storeroom shine.

The entire house was in an uproar. Her aunt and uncle were amazed. For twenty years they had thought of Mirah as a dark impenetrable hole. The orphaned girl had been like a mask, closed against the whole world. Only now, suddenly, Mirah had begun to show the emotions of a normal person.

"I like you this way. I hope you can stay like this," her aunt said, offering her a steamed dumpling.

Her uncle praised her: "You're grown up now, Mirah. Now you understand that to become somebody, you have to work hard. The harder you work, the better a person you will be. Life is difficult and if you don't work, you don't eat. It is a good thing, Mirah, that you are beginning to understand that we've been teaching you has been for the good of your own future."

Mirah was embarrassed; her aunt and uncle's praise made her proud. All she had ever heard before was that she was rotten. Her relationship with her adoptive parents had not been good. They had always treated her like some sort of alien. She had been trained to work hard and control her feelings to enable her to face a difficult future. As a result she had never felt part of the household, but only like some sort of hand-me-down.

But now all that had changed. She didn't care any more. It didn't matter if the others didn't think of her as a relative; it didn't matter that she was alone in the world. It didn't matter that her father and mother had turned to dust long ago and that they were still spoken of badly. She still had something to be proud of. She had something to believe in. And soon other people would know that, except for Yudhistira, she was the only person to have white blood. She smiled to herself.

Mirah kept on smiling through the evening.

That night, for the first time, she was invited to eat with the other members of the household. Her aunt and uncle looked at her again and again, amazed.

"It looks like you're beginning to show some understanding," her aunt said with apparent emotion.

Mirah lowered her head.

Her aunt went on. "And we're happy, too, Mirah, that you're beginning to realize how things are in life: That you've got to make an effort, to make something of your life."

Mirah only smiled, not wanting to explain just yet what had happened. She wanted to savor her happiness alone. Later, in front of the television she laughed at the antics of the Srimulat comedians. Her aunt leaned toward her and stroked her hair. "Praise God," she cried. "After all these years, you've finally grown up. You've changed! This is our reward for being patient," the woman said as she continued to stroke her niece's hair.

"You see now, don't you," her uncle continued, "that your aunt's harshness and her demands have really been due to her love and affection for you. Twenty years, your aunt has taken care of you, Mirah. For twenty years she was unable to touch your heart. It seemed to have turned to stone. Your aunt has tried her best to think of you as one of her own. But you've always resisted. You've been wild and stubborn, always blaming others. Thank God, everything has changed. It isn't too late, after all. We'll hold a selamatan tomorrow and have yellow rice to celebrate."

Mirah nodded.

Her aunt sobbed. "You finally realize that we love you," she whispered. "This means that goodness does have a use. Isn't it right what I said before? You can't stop loving someone; because love takes time. You have to practice to love and be loved. Everything needs patience. Especially love! But why has it taken so long? Why didn't you realize this a long time ago?"

Mirah said nothing. She carried the words of her aunt and uncle with her to her room. But after lying down for a while, she began to want to share her happiness. The truth which had only just forced its way out into the open, was thrashing about wanting to be made known to others, before it disappeared in a rush. "Oh, I hope that all this isn't just a dream!" she whispered to herself. "It's better to tell it now, before it is lost."

Not caring that it was already midnight, Mirah knocked on the door to her aunt's room. Her aunt and uncle rose at once to find out what she wanted.

Mirah didn't know how to start. Again and again she took a deep breath, but still she couldn't explain. Her throat seemed constricted. Her aunt patted her back and stroked her brow. Her uncle went to fetch some water. Mirah's step brothers and sisters were also awake and now watched from a distance.

"Drink this first."

Mirah drank the water her uncle had brought her.

"Are you sick?"

Mirah shook her head. She led her adoptive parents to the kitchen. She picked up the cup she had used to catch her blood. At last she was able to talk, but her voice sounded forced.

"When I was peeling onions this morning, I cut my finger." Mirah showed her aunt her left hand. "And I was shocked, because the blood that flowed from the cut in may finger was white. I caught it in this cup. My blood has always been red -- but now it's white! I couldn't believe it. So I cut my finger a little more, to make sure whether my blood was really white. Why is it white, and not red, like other people's? Here, see for yourself." Mirah held the cup out to her aunt. "Why is my blood white?"

Mirah's uncle and aunt stared at the cup and then at her bandaged index finger. The other children pressed around, hoping to see the white blood. Everyone seemed puzzled.

"So, I'm sorry," Mirah continued, "but because my hand is hurt, I won't be able to work in the kitchen tomorrow. And I won't be able to do laundry or clean the storeroom. I can only help with going to the market and with taking care of the shop. That's how it has to be," she said to her aunt. "After all, with this cut in my hand, how can I work with only one hand?"

Mirah put out her hand. Her aunt and uncle just stared at it until finally, it seemed they had grasped Mirah's message. They nodded, then sent Mirah back to her room.

"Sure, starting tomorrow you don't have to do the laundry," her aunt said coldly. "Iyem can do everything. You don't have to do laundry any more, and you don't have to sweep, either. Let Iyem do it all. You just go to the market and do the shopping and after that you can mind the shop."

Mirah thanked her aunt for her understanding and went to her room. Her adoptive parents remained standing in place, staring after her.

"She's not a little girl any longer," Mirah's uncle suggested, "And even though she hasn't had much of an education, she is a young woman now. Maybe she's embarrassed to be told to do the laundry and other rough work."

Mirah's aunt didn't answer. A sour look grew on her face and she began to groan as though she were about to die. In a panic her husband quickly fetched the mentholated balsam. He massaged her back with the balsam, then scraped her back with a coin until it was hot and covered with welts. The children, in their own room, stayed up whispering until dawn.

When Mirah went to the market the next day, almost everyone stared at her. The news of her white blood had already spread by word of mouth. Several people asked her about it straight out.

"Is it true, Mirah?"

Mirah nodded.

"Is it white?"

"Yes."

"Not red?"

"No, white."

"Why is it white?"

"I don't know."

"How do you know it's white?"

"I saw it myself."

"Are you kidding?"

Mirah smiled, which drove people to demand more answers. More and more of them gathered around. The security officer joined in the questioning. Then the police came too, thinking there was a riot. Worried and trying to avoid the commotion, Mirah hurried home.

But when she arrived at home, her aunt called her. "About your request last night..." the aunt began while trying to suppress her anger. "Don't get me wrong. Don't misunderstand but you can't go stirring up things left and right. If I've have always given you lots of work to do, it was to prepare you for life, to make you industrious, for your own future good. You know how to do laundry, how to wash floors, how to do housekeeping and kitchen chores. You can do any kind of work, now. And how did you get all these skills if not through practice? So don't think of this work as forced labor. It's an education, do you understand?"

Her uncle added: "We know what you're up to. But why do you have to make these insinuations? That's not good. Come out and tell us straight forward if something is wrong. If you don't like something, just say so, straight out. If you're tired, say so. Don't just keep quiet like an idiot. So, why all the hints all of a sudden? That's hard to accept. It's not good. After all, we've taken care of you for twenty years as though you were our own child. We didn't treat you any differently? The rest of the kids had to work, too. There's no one here who doesn't work. So why are you ridiculing us like this? As of now -- well, it's up to you. If you want to stay here, fine. If not, you can decide what you want. It's up to you. Your aunt and I have given up. We'll go along with whatever you want."

Mirah was growing confused.

Not long after, the security officer came to the house. He had been assigned to investigate further because the people at the market were in an uproar, saying that Mirah had white blood. "For our common peace of mind," he said politely, "I'd like you to come to the security post for a moment to clear things up."

At the security post Mirah was advised in earnest not to create any more unrest. "It's no good," the officer said with tremble in his voice. "It makes us all uneasy."

Mirah nodded, meek and afraid. She looked around nervously, seeking help. Why were these people so upset just because she had white blood? "What did I do wrong?" Mirah cried.

"Never mind that. Now, the important thing, the most important thing to remember, is not to do it again. Okay?"

"Alright."

"Well then, tell me again. What is it that you mustn't say?"

"I'm not to say that my blood is white. But my blood was white yesterday, I swear on my life!"

"There, you've done it again. Don't do that! You mustn't say that. Don't you understand?"

Mirah didn't understand but she nodded anyway.

"You are not to say that you have white blood. Do you understand?"

"I was slicing onions when I cut my hand. The color of my blood was white, not red. I swear. Really, Mr. Jeki."

"Shhh. Stop. Keep quiet!"

Mirah didn't dare speak again. She sat listening, without argument.

"Your blood is red. Everyone has red blood. Don't go stirring things up. Do you understand? Pretty soon someone else will come along and claim that his blood is red, white and blue. Then we'll have real trouble, won't we?"

"Yes, Mr. Jeki."

"Okay, you can go home now. But your blood is red, right?! Is it red or white?"

"It's red, Mr. Jeki."

"Good. You can go home now. Hmmm, now where's that piece of cake I was eating?"

The officer escorted Mirah home and explained, or suggested, to her aunt and uncle that they keep a closer watch on her.

As soon as the man had gone, Mirah's aunt continued the scolding: "Never before has this family had anything to do with the security officers, least not to the point where one has come here and question us. It's like we were thieves. This is too much, just too much. And all because of you and your nonsense, Mirah. If you just want to take it easy, if you don't want to work anymore, you don't have to go around saying that you have white blood and other such nonsense. Next thing it will be black."

"But it really was white, Aunt."

"Be quiet!"

"I swear it was white, really."

"Shut up!"

Mirah walked away towards her room.

Her aunt screamed furiously, "If you do anything like this again, we'll send you to an orphanage. Or you can go to the village to live with your grandmother."

In her room Mirah tried to think, but her head hurt. What had gone wrong? In the end all she could do was stare. She stroked her finger as she listened to her aunt's vicious barrage which continued until night. She was afraid to leave the house. She was even afraid to move and so she stayed, standing in place, staring at her finger.

Not until sometime in the middle of the night, after everything had quieted down, did Mirah finally dare to move. And when she did she felt as though she had crawled out from under the rubble of a collapsed house.

Despite the attack she found that she was at peace, that her inner sense of happiness had not faded. She stared at her finger once more, as though she were gazing at a mine of truth. Now she had a friend. She felt a kind of yearning, an overpowering longing take hold of her. She shuddered. Maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe it was only her own fantasy. But she couldn't hold back the feeling: her happiness grew stronger, more real as it unfolded in her heart. The more she thought about what she possessed, the more invulnerable she felt.

She looked for a knife. In the drawer of the table she found a razor blade. Closing her eyes, Mirah tried to cut her finger; but it was difficult to do intentionally. She tried several times but failed. The blade slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. Dazed, she quickly picket it up and in doing so she cut her hand again without meaning to.

Mirah hurried to get a glass to catch the blood. She prayed. "White, white, yes, Lord, let it be white," she whispered. It seemed forever before the blood began to ooze from the wound. Mirah stared at the cut. Once again she could not believe her eyes. She brought her hand close to the light bulb. Now she could see it clearly. The blood dripped into the glass -- drip, drip, drip -- and it was blue.

"Blue blood. No longer the blood of Yudhistira, but the blood of Prince Charles, the blood of kings, the blood of the aristocracy." Mirah whispered, with her eyes closed. "Not the blood of the common people at all."

She thought she could hear a Javanese song, the song of a gamelan orchestra from she knew not where, accompanying the dripping of her blood. She heard admiring voices. Her body was no longer the body she had always known. Under the covering of her simple clothes, she felt a soft body, a noble body. In her breast she felt the beating of her heart, and knew it was not the heart of an ordinary person. Not the heart of a laundry woman, a sweeper, or a cook. Not the heart of a floor washer who could say nothing but "yes, yes, yes". Her heart was of pure gold, a heart of courage, accustomed to adoration and to commanding other people.

As her blood dripped into the glass, Mirah slowly entered a world of her own. She became a queen. She became powerful. She was admired, honored, feared, respected and loved by everyone. Her body exuded fragrance. The blood that flowed through her body radiated a blue light which cleansed her surroundings. She brought forth light, making everything glitter and become safe and prosperous.

When she awoke the next day, Mirah was determined and resolute. No one else needed to know. It was enough to enjoy this happiness by herself. She took the shopping basket and went to her aunt.

"Hurry back and don't stop to chat," her aunt warned. "We're having a selamatan with yellow rice. The ceremony is for your own good, to keep you from being bothered by mischievous spirits."

Mirah nodded and immediately went on her way. But at the market everybody was already waiting for her. All of them: the meat seller, the vegetable seller, the ice seller, the meatball seller, the cigarette seller. All of them still wanted an explanation. Again she was mobbed with questions.

"I won't answer," Mirah whispered to herself. "I won't hear them. I won't talk to them."

But the more Mirah tried to avoid the people, the more they pressed for answers. They assaulted her with questions. Even one of the security officers assailed her. Finally Mirah plucked up the courage to speak.

"It's blue," she said.

The security officer was startled. "Blue, not white?"

"The day before yesterday it was white, but now it's blue," Mirah said proudly.

The people stared, open-mouthed. They gaped in disbelief. Faintly, from another part of the market, came the sound of a dangdut song sung by a roving singer. The crowd was dumbstruck and slowly began to move back, away from her. They couldn't comprehend the miracle. This was entirely strange. They looked at the orphaned girl with amazement.

Mirah felt touched by their display of emotion. She put down her shopping basket and hurried into the market, returning in no time from the direction of the meat seller. The people waited, wondering. Mirah's eyes gleamed with pride and happiness as she placed her left hand on top of the ice-storage container.

"See for yourselves, whether is it true or not?" Then, smiling proudly, she raised her right hand and swiftly brought down the axe. Crrruuunchhh!

Translated by Mildred L.E. Wagemann

Born in Tabanan, Bali, in 1944, Putu Wijaya is a journalist, writer and theater and film director. His short story Blood appears in Menagerie I and is printed here courtesy of The Lontar Foundation.