Creatures Behind Houses

By Pramoedya Ananta Toer

Through the screen of my house's porch a well is visible. No more than five meters from my porch. Surprising that the well is in front of my house, and only five meters away. Actually it's not in front of my house by design. The thing is that my house is located at the back of a line of row-houses. (My house is also a row-house!) It's from behind this screen that I observe the existence of a strange form of life -- the life of creatures behind houses.

And these creatures are the maids.

If maids in Chinese families eventually come to have clean faces and their features come to resemble those of Chinese, and if maids in European families grow to be careful and polite, it's rather different with the maids of Djakarta's prijaji. It's true that several months after they are imported from upcountry they too become clean and look like true city folk. But not long after that they become filthy once more. Not because these maids are necessarily slovenly, but because their masters have stopped spoiling them, and every conceivable task falls on their heads: cooking (this is certain), washing clothes (from the Master's underwear to diapers and shirts), putting the house in order, washing dishes, bathing and cleaning the behinds of the little masters -- who can't be treated roughly -- and before they realize that they haven't had their own afternoon baths, it's night.

Another day brings yet another opportunity to become filthy.

And if there is a moment free for washing their own underwear, a second later they're dangling from the clothesline, square in front of my house: filthy panties with yellowing hems. Sometimes they appear quite rotten, as if they might prove fertile if one planted them with four or so peanuts, or corn or perhaps soybeans. Not only because of their ammonia content, but also because the cloth itself seems as if it's become compost!

If you're reading this, you may suspect that I am launching a polemic. But such is not my intent. These are facts that are spread out clearly in front of my house, in my neighborhood, and perhaps in your own neighborhood, although they cannot be considered truths that stand alone.

Just look at that Miss Two! You yourself don't know her yet. You might also feel disgusted to meet her. But she has become a part of my world. These days no one can really remember her true name. It's not hard to discover why. She can't count to more than seven. The only number she really knows well is two. That's why her name changed to Miss Two. She's now thirteen years old. She began her life behind the house in front of mine at age six. During the whole year I lived in this house, she wore the same dress -- her mistress's discarded Pekalongan kain. The blessing of working at least twelve hours a day is this: to this day the number thirteen is an insoluble puzzle to her. Thirteen take away five is a hell complete with torturers and eternal fire.

Before I moved away from this house, I had the opportunity to witness how for three nights in a row she cried at the well. Soft and stifled sobs in a child's still-pure voice. I thought at first that she had been scolded by her mistress, but it turned out she was crying because she missed her parents. The only thing she could do was cry, because she knew she couldn't leave her duties. She works for nothing. She receives no salary. She usually gets just one meal a day. But at night, too, she sometimes gets some food, if there are scraps left over from the Master's dinner. That's Miss Two.

I've never said that all prijaji maids suffer a similar fate. At least in the case of the row-house over there, the maid, who was still a little girl, was sent to school every afternoon. She received no pay either, just twenty-five cents a day transportation money. But this little maid gradually became a full-figured virgin, and far too fond of reading. Without her realizing it, she was eventually seen as a prospective competitor by the lady of the house. And before this full-figured virgin could graduate from elementary school, she was kicked out.

Of course each person has his own reasons for protecting the integrity of his own environment -- that is, his circumstances -- even though these circumstances may not be pleasant, may not be of real benefit to him. Accordingly I have no right to make accusations. But fundamentally I am an accuser. That's why, in situations like this, I'll accuse. But perhaps the Master's reasons were right after all: one's level of schooling won't constitute any kind of social guarantee later on.

Perhaps it's fitting, too, that I tell you that my house belongs to a row-house with twenty-three doors -- twenty-three families! One could say that each residence has its own maid. And these prijaji from the sticks have often served as maids or houseboys before coming to the city. In these row-houses! To serve! In line with the teachings of the prijaji of antiquity: the lowly shall be exalted in the end. These backwoods prijaji coming to Djakarta have also served in their time. Their service has indeed brought them to a higher level: they have become city prijaji. But sometimes they forget their former servitude. As a result, in my area, one can often hear this hysterical screech:

"Next time, I'll take the iron to your belly!"

And screeches like these are caused by the maid's losing ten cents shopping money or not ironing clothes quickly enough, even though she knows Master has to leave immediately; or by Master's bicycle still being muddy (our row-house is not officially planned, and its streets are unpaved -- only occasionally, when the mud is deep, they're sprinkled with sawdust); or when the little Master hasn't yet had his behind wiped, and other small mistakes. To tell the truth, I couldn't help laughing to myself when I heard those hysterical shrieks. But after I realized how loudly these shrieks were uttered, and with such a serious expression, I became convinced that prijaji maids have been relegated to a special morality: the morality of the prijaji maid. Perhaps no one really understands what a prijaji maid's morality really is. And I guess I don't myself. Its image is dark and indistinct, like the outline of a chicken at dusk, when clouds bestride the earth. Shrieks like these almost always end by crowding the maid into a kitchen corner. And always her answer is the same.

"I bought an ice, Ma'am."

"Bought an ice! If you used your own ancestors' money ..."

Then there's the maid over there -- the maid whose master just married a virgin from his home town. And it was this virgin who brought the maid with her. Mrs. Newlywed sat every morning under a cherry tree and stayed there until her husband returned from the office, giving a masterly impression to all who passed in front of her that she had not been accustomed to working in her home town: a true prijaji. Not accustomed to working! In this age when work is sought from and by everyone! Prijaji morality again! Of course it's not my intention to stereotype. But I know only too well the life-style of the prijaji class before the war. And these days the Djakarta prijaji want to perpetuate this out-of- date morality. With more colors and rhythms, of course, in accordance with modernity.

And what prijaji is not out of date? Capable farmers have gained control of their harvests and increased their wealth. Merchants have buttressed their status and become the kings of every city. Workers have organized themselves. Only the prijaji have stagnated. With their ideal of idleness which refuses to rot away under pelting rain and scorching sun. And everyone knows the consequence: maids and houseboys are dealt a stroke of luck.

Actually, I've chattered on too long about matters not directly related to these creatures behind houses.

In our group, a group of row-house dwellers, there is a particular circumstance too tempting not to relate. Not that I want to expose other people's secrets! Between human beings, even between you and me, and around us, there are actually no secrets at all. So it's like this, in our group, our group of row-house dwellers, there is a certain maid. Brought in from the sticks, of course. There are many members in this Master's family. According to the dukun's advice, in order to have health and well-being in this world and the next, and in order that wealth might flow to the family for generations to come, several conditions had to be fulfilled. One of these conditions (in addition to those that profited the dukun in an indirect way) was: if the mistress cooked, she shouldn't cook more than two liters of rice. And since there were so many members in the family, the maid had to cook three times a day. I know the maid didn't understand her mistress's situation at all. This was the conclusion that I reached myself when I saw the mistress sneak out and bury a protective charm in front of her house, and hide others above the front, back, and kitchen doors.

After that, if one night a neighbor of mine had an attack of stomach flu and had to run to the common toilet, he would see a well, our well, still brightly lit by a lamp on the wall; the maid, deeply stooped, washing a seemingly endless pile of clothes. Until eleven o'clock, twelve, one, two, sometimes even three. Only then did the world of our neighborhood grow silent. Later, at five in the morning, that is, two hours later, these creatures behind houses began to emerge to go back to the well: to bathe, wash dishes or clothes, until nine o'clock.

* * *

What is the significance of the Revolution for these maids, the Revolution that has claimed thousands of victims from their families? From time to time this question flits through my head. And I can't answer it. Not because I am, as you know, no statesman or politician, but above all because this is a very complex matter, and besides, to a statesman, a matter of overwhelming insignificance. A friend once advised me: let's convert to Buddhism. That way we'll have a chance to live three or four lives. And in living these three or four lives we will certainly be able to observe what the scores of people who have been appointed minister of education, instruction, and culture are really worth.

Of course his suggestion was a very cynical and futile joke, but if we look at the indications, there is also some truth to it.

Once again I've strayed into religious and ministerial matters, while my intention was to tell about the creatures behind houses. Well, then, let me continue:

The maid I was telling about earlier eventually lost her appetite for food. When she was hungry, the rice wasn't yet cooked, or the rice was all gone, or work was still piling up, or one of her masters was pushing her to work faster. Hence her appetite vanished into the green sky. So it went on. And when at night an opportunity to eat presented itself, her body was so weary that her stomach, along with her large and small intestines, lost their proper power to contract. So she went to sleep before eating. Consequently, she went to work again before eating. Eventually, although she was not yet dead, a rift opened between her body and her soul. This may sound very strange. Nevertheless there is some truth to the matter, even if only a little. It's like this: her soul wandered about while her body washed, walked, ate, or slept. Without fail every week she was struck by disaster: slipped at the well, got a nail imbedded in her foot, had her arm burned by the iron, or was upended colliding with a bench; indeed once, while she was resting in a battered rattan chair, a bicycle fell on her, the chair knocked over a row of plates, and after that a 'stroke of luck' from her mistress fell on her head.

Inevitably these calamities reminded me of my teacher's lesson when I was still in primary school: body and mind must be united! Thoughts must be directed. If not, the spirit, led away by those stray thoughts, will wander, and then hole up somewhere. And this spirit will draw your body; and a collision will occur. That's calamity.

To be sure, that's just another theory about calamity.

Over time the maid's body became truly obese. I thought it was beri-beri, but because I've never been educated to become a doctor, it's not proper for me to embark on such speculation.

One day she fell for no reason, that is, after washing for four hours at the well. Then she blinked. Just blinked. This happened as twilight was about to fall. Only later, when night had come, did she whimper. And in the morning she was sent back to the sticks. At least our stifling scenery was diminished by one object.

It is not my intention to stress that a maid's life is always oppressive to the heart. A few among them are truly happy with their fate. With a laugh and a smile always ornamenting their lips, they earnestly defend their employers from people's talk. For this defense they certainly receive no bonus. Nor a raise in wages. One of them has served for eight years. She got a raise only once: three ringgit. Meanwhile the eight-year period glided along without incident: she had become an old maid. The longer she stayed the older she got. Without the love and affection of a young-man-of-her-dreams. Not only did dreams not become reality, they were extinguished entirely.

-- Djakarta, December 1955

Glossary: prijaji: Javanese nobility kain: Cloth dukun: Traditional healer

(Taken from Tales from Djakarta, Equinox Publishing, 2001).