'Bu' Yati

By Bre Redana

Bu Yati, my teacher. It seems that times have greatly changed. Yet in your presence, I am always a pupil. I stood gaping at her like a fool, trying with all my might to suppress the onrushing tears.

People might be bored each time they hear my story about my birthplace. Now, I have once again arrived in this small town of Central Java to convey a message from friends in Jakarta who plan to hold a reunion. At a meeting held in the home of the best achiever among us, it was decided that we would invite our elementary school teachers to come to Jakarta. Since a majority at the meeting were of the opinion that my job was the least busy, I was delegated to make the trip home to contact our former teachers.

The air in town felt the same. It was always cool in the middle of the day, never too hot. The school building looked different, although I immediately discovered that its layout pattern was the same as before. The present wall had replaced the former one which, in our school years, had been partially made of plaited bamboo. We used to peek through the bamboo slits into the activities of the neighboring classes. Not only had the bamboo wall been replaced, the building was also raised to second story heights.

Even though the main road in front of the school was considerably wider than before and traffic had increased, I immediately recognized the same kampong roads around the place which we used to roam and came in through the back door. I did not want to be conspicuous. I parked the car some distance from the school and walked the length of the unpaved road to the back part of the school.

The houses there still looked the same. There was the house of Endang, my fattest classmate. "Ah..,", I sighed deeply. His was a tragic fate. Thieves broke into his house and robbed him of his life along with his possessions, not long after he got married.

After so many years, I was sure that the teachers that I knew were no longer there. According to a friend at the Jakarta meeting, the school principal was no longer Pak Budi. The present one was even the second replacement after Pak Budi, whom we all respected and loved.

Among the teachers of our past, Bu Yati, a third grade teacher, was the youngest. I decided to meet Bu Yati. Aside from firmly believing that she was probably still around, she was the one I had been close to.

The back part of the school was still used by road vendors selling sweets and snacks. The difference was that in my days, the most popular food seller was Lik Tin (formally known as Maria Theodora Sutini), who used to sell lotek, cooked cassava and fried noodles packed in dried banana leaves. Today, the place was occupied by ice cream and hamburger vendors.

"Bu Yati?" exclaimed one of the vendors when I asked her if Bu Hayati was still teaching at the school. "Oh, yes. She teaches the third grade." She looked at her watch. "They are coming out any minute now. There is her classroom."

It was the same classroom I had once sat in, at one of the desks. Bu Yati used to be a clever storyteller. I wonder if she, this afternoon, after the class was over, would be able to hold the interest of the pupils and keep sleep at bay with tales such as Joko Tingkir, Joko Tarub, Anglingdarmo and Cindelaras.

We were dazed. Bu Yati was in the process of putting her things away when I appeared while the class had disassembled.

Had my eyesight changed? When I was one of her pupils, we thought of her as the most beautiful woman in school. I remembered that she always appeared tidy, her hair neatly combed. A coquettish smile would light up her face, and since she was not married at the time, we suspected that the bachelor teachers, who constantly milled around her, actually wanted to date her.

At the time, we thought that Pak Manto, the sixth grade teacher, was her boyfriend.

Now Bu Yati looked old and weary. No longer did she represent the vision of my childhood imagination. Or were my eyes, without me realizing it, conditioned to visions of fashionable Jakarta ladies? Her hair was graying. She looked tired, and her body had lost its graceful contours, that shapely figure I had kept alive in my memory. As far as we knew, Bu Yati never married.

It was her smile and the look of her eyes which had not changed. I should have gulped an ocean of peace, calm and quiet from the tales she told us once. She looked at me more closely, squinting her eyes in the effort.

"Who could you be?" she said, as if she spoke to herself while looking me over.

I stood there, my heart gushing profound respect. Then she called me by my childhood name, the name nobody used any longer.

"Yes Bu ... it's me," I said as I approached her and reached for her hand. She withdrew her hand when she noticed that I wanted to kiss it. She pulled me in her arms, embraced me, and stroked my head.

"Cah Bagus, you came! What did I dream last night?"

In front of her, I was once more the little boy of years ago.

The classroom, the blackboard, the cupboard in the corner, the miniature desks, much too small for my present size now. It was the place where I had learned a lot. My chest was rumbling, it was as if a whirlwind was spiraling me toward a rendezvous with the ghost of my childhood. A time which I longed to savor again.

"How long ago did you leave this school, Cah Bagus?"

"About 20 years ago, Bu."

"Where is your mother now? I'm sorry I could not come at the time you lost your brother. I was sick at the time," she went on to say.

I bowed my head. It had been so long, and yet she remembered. She still had regrets because she could not come.

How noble she was. And I? I had forgotten almost everything that happened here. Several teachers from the school had passed away and I did not know it. I got deeply embarrassed when I asked about Pak Budi, Pak Manto, Bu Darmi and Pak Ignatius, who were gone for some time now.

"I understand. You must have been very busy," she said.

No snide remarks were made, or anything of that nature. I understood everything that her generous heart stood for.

Deep within my heart I was ashamed of myself, I was also ashamed for my friends in Jakarta who wanted to hold a reunion and had sent me to her. A heated debate was held, even about the transportation costs of the teachers, whether they should take a bus, a train, or what? They said taking a plane would be too costly. Damn them!

I would certainly not have Bu Yati travel by bus, or sit for hours on end in a stuffy train wagon. Especially since she has to support herself with the help of a walking stick. I decided then to ask Bu Yati to come by plane. In Jakarta, she could choose to stay in a hotel of her choice, although I would be the happiest person if she would prefer to stay in my house.

"I fell from my bike two weeks ago. I'm lucky to be recuperating now. I have to walk a lot to get on my feet fast," she explained about her leg.

Because of her present condition, she was not certain about accepting our invitation. And that, in spite of all the pleas I made.

"It's also not the holiday season. I can't possibly leave my children. I'd only be worried..."

I fell silent. I was lost for words. It was the same quality of love she had bestowed on me long ago.

"But you must believe that even if I'm unable to make it, my prayers will always be with all of you. Each night, I try to remember all my pupils whom, I hope, will have become somebody. That would make me ultimately happy," she said.

All at once, I could sense the quiet nights steeped in prayers. I bowed my head again, and spotted her hands. I wanted very much to kiss them.

Before we parted that afternoon, she invited me to pray with her, to thank God for the meeting she said was very wonderful.

My eyes, closed in prayer, felt hot. I was moved by all the words she said in her prayer.

"Lord, how small am I," I said to myself.

I could only look at Bu Yati, who refused a lift to her place, just because she wanted to exercise her leg so she would be able to walk as usual. She invited me to her home that evening, if I had not left for Jakarta yet, she said.

Of course, I canceled the trip to Jakarta that afternoon. I stood in the schoolyard, now quiet and deserted. I did not feel at all like leaving. For it was here that I met my true self...

Translated by Claudine Frederik

Bre Redana was born in Salatiga, Central Java, on Nov. 27, 1957. He started writing short stories in the late 1980s and they have since appeared in several papers, mostly in Kompas.Part of his stories have been published in book form, titled Urban Sensation. He has been working for the Kompas daily since 1982, and is taking care of the features column. The short story Bu Yati, was first published in Kompas in 1994. It is among those printed in Laki-laki Yang Menikah Dengan Peri: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 1995 (A Man Who Marries A Fairy: An Anthology of Kompas Short Stories 1995). It is reprinted here by courtesy of Kompas.

Notes: Bu = Madame Pak = Sir Cah Bagus = Good Boy Lik = Auntie lotek = mixed vegetables with spicy peanut sauce